How Broke Bitches Get Fit

… Well, I haven’t quite figured that part out yet. Aside from poverty?

One of my many concubines–girlfriends who have, through the years, turned into my wives, best beezies, or otherwise down-ass-putas–told me last night that the reason why I can’t get rid of the spare tire around my waist is because I drink too much. Pfft. That is RIDICULOUS.

Ok, maybe she has a point there, so I’m going to host an experiment.

I believe that job hunting requires considerable ‘fitness’, and since my only claim to athleticism is my ability to pump out bespoke cover letters like a conveyer belt for processed mystery meat (that and chasing down hot athletes with the speed of a sexually-mature adult male wolverine), I feel that, by all rights, I should be an all-star by now.

You know how hip-hop artists always talk about hard work, working out, and work in general? Well, I think there’s something there. I belong to hip hop, ok, even though I have no talent whatsoever (but then again neither does Miley Cyrus and she’s still twerkin’ her chicken butt), so what I glean from this observation is that if I can’t get a job, I should work on my fi’ness and be what I should’ve been all along: a hip-hop music video ho. Work hard, work out, and eventually, something’s gotta give. Either way I wanna be Cristal-poppin’ by next year. SO, my experiment is thus: see how long I can hold out widdout dat alky-hol and keep that booty poppin’ in my barre classes until I look like a trapstar or until I find employment. Maybe I won’t give up alcohol till then, but … A for Effort.

 

^^ I just wanna be THIS bitch. Work, work, work, work, workin’ on my shiiiiit.

Erika, I bet you weren’t expecting me to come to this conclusion.

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