You Call Me Anorexic for Eating a Salad but I Can’t Call You a Fat Pig for Finishing That Pint of Häagen-Dazs


Since when did being healthy become a crime?

Like I’m sorry I don’t want to drop $20 on my next meal. Sorry that leafy greens sound better to me than a fat slice of dough that’s only going straight through my belly to permanently rest upon my thighs.

Sorry you feel worse about yourself sitting next to me while I make a good decision and you make a poor one. Sorry you feel like a fat pig.

Hey. Maybe you are one.

Sorry, honey, but it’s kind of the truth. You made your choice, now back off of mine.

You can indulge yourself all you want. Just know that we aren’t 18 anymore. That brownies à la mode isn’t going to magically disappear. If you eat that, it’s going to be much harder to get rid of than to swallow. Just remember that.

But, shit girl. I’m not calling you fat for ordering that. I very well could cause honestly what the fuck?? We aren’t even hungover—what are you doing?

So, no. I haven’t called you fat….yet. I wouldn’t do that. I know how sensitive you get when the truth is staring you straight in the face, but I’m about to if you once more say I’m anorexic for eating a salad.

No, bitch. I don’t have an eating disorder. Far from it. I’m eating just like you, aren’t I?

Except the difference between me and you is that the thing I’m consuming is a helluva lot better for me than yours is for you. This salad is going to give me much more energy, and it’s going to make my ass look damn fine in my jeans.

Sorry, no regrets here. Only an acute annoyance that you feel the need to belittle my good choices just to boost your self esteem.

News flash, honey. I have my body by eating right. It didn’t happen from PFM (Pure Fucking Magic.)

I worked for this. I earned this bode, and if you want to look like me, you’ll do the same and stop ordering the fat.

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