Thoughts While Evaluating My Thighs in Shorty-Shorts

Yeah these are a real smooth fit over the thighs.

This is the waist? Seriously?

Sweet muffin top, girl.

How do girls get these to button?

And there's a zipper. Like, a legit zipper.

Oh god, really?

Ugh.

Why did I even put these on?

I looked at them, knew they would be awful, yet I brought them to the fitting room anyway.

Why are my legs so pasty?

They're actually pasty. Like, if you held glue next to my legs, they would be the exact same shade. This is worse than pale.

Pale could be sexy.

But this is pasty.

Are those my stretch marks?

They look so angry.

Why are they angry?

I should be angry. They are making it impossible to compete with other women.

That's the point of clothes this small, right? Just to know you look better in them than other women? Even that size 2 who won't quit bragging about her charity walks?

Shut up bitch, no one's interested.

Do these effectively hide my thunder?

Try jogging in place.

Now try it and ignore the disturbing way your stomach jiggles.

That's not too bad.

What about from the side-OH GOD NO!

Fuck these shorts.

Stupid Writer's Block and Laundry Not Drying

I'm watching TV with mum and pretending to write while waiting for my laundry to be done. Everytime I have to do laundry I remember that we moved into the crappy apartment we're in because it had a washer and dryer hook-up. But then we never bought a washer and dryer, and so I still have to cart my laundry over to my parents once or twice a week if I want clean underwear. It's cheaper than going to a laundry mat.
I've been having really awesome writer's block lately (please mind the sarcasm) so it's been a pretty down time around the tiny apartment I call hell. I work short shifts a few days a week making chump change and they're early shifts. Jeremy works during the day, and the shift changes occassionally but his latest shift is only till ten at night. I generally work from five or six until ten or eleven. Even if he's on the first shift he still doesn't get home until 4:30-5. That leaves me five hours, roughly, of sitting at home and talking to myself because I have no friends and no life. It's also winter and ridiculous out, oh and fuel costs an arm and a leg (rough estimate) so I have nothing to do and nowhere to go.
Seems like a great time to write and be productive and finish at least one freaking story and see if some crap sci-fi mag is interested. Instead I re-watch Arrested Development (God knows it's not a waste of time, that show is amazing) and pretend to write.
I actually get out some source material, I grab some notebooks with half-finished sentences, etc. but to no avail. I just end up reciting the episodes practically verbatim and feeling very very very sad about my life.
Or writing a blog post.