How Broke Bitches Get Fit Part Deux: Broke Bitch Thoughts

This might seem contrary to the centerpiece of this blog (being broke), especially since I take barre classes and they’re expensive as all hell, but there are a few ways to spin this:

–        I had to beg my father for the money to take this class, reasoning that it was actually an investment for him by ensuring that no one in his immediate gene pool is a lard ass.

–        There are many kinds of poverty, and, as I will soon demonstrate in this entry, I’m not only literally broke, I’m also piss-po’ in dignity, by virtue of publicizing these very non-PC thoughts.

 

These are not the thoughts that I have during the actual barre class – I don’t have any thoughts in barre except “AYYYAAAAAAAAAAA!!” and “FuckyouyoucrazybitchI’mfatIobviouslycan’tbendthatway!”

FAIL

No, Tuesday nights I have barre followed by a ‘roll & restore’ class, where 11 adult women take a foam roller and two tennis balls each and massage themselves … Yes, it is as awkward as it sounds, especially the part when we place the tennis balls hip-distance apart and sit on them so they dimple our asses like pin cushions (or circus-freakshow ass-piercings…whichever way your imagination leans).

So, what does a broke bitch think about while working out (when she actually has a moment to catch her breath)? Below are my existential reflections:

 

I have cute feet. Thank God. I hate feet. Hey, my legs are looking leaner in this mirror. Could I be getting the much-desired ‘dancers legs’? [Eyes make way up to stomach in mirror.] Oh, you’re still here, are you? [frown.] Is ‘pigeon’ a body type?

Does she (the instructor) ever get tired of saying the same shit over and over again? I couldn’t have a job like that or I’d bore my damn eyes out. I wish I had a job. Maybe I’ll work retail for the holiday season … Ugh, but the bitch I met today when I turned in an application was a complete idiot. How do you pass high school without knowing what the word ‘duration’ means? Bleak. But I love clothes. I need to clothe myself. I have no money. Ipso facto. Plus, I can get a good month and a half in before I start one of the internships I applied for in San Diego, starting in the spring (there were two that I interviewed for in the past week, both in San Diego). Ugh, I hope I get at least one of them. Thanksgiving’s a long time to wait. Hopefully I’ll have something to be thankful for…? But I fucked up on the one yesterday sooo badly. Frances, you can’t follow a company’s Pinterest account IF THEY DON’T HAVE ONE, YA DUMB BITCH. Eff. I’m gonna be unemployed for eternity. Maybe she (the interviewer) didn’t notice? Of course she did. I hate myself. 

I’m trying to repress my gag reflexes right now, given that the tennis balls I was using to roll out my feet are the same I’m using to massage my shoulders. BARF. I hate feet. I like mine, though. Jesus Christ, what the hell is that, a tumor?! Uhp! False alarm. Nothin’ but a fuck-ugly knot, right where I used to carry all my stress from uni[versity]. Ahh, uni…

college

 

 

I’M BROKE. I WANT TO BE UN-BROKE. FUCK MY LIFE.

6 days sober. Time for some wine when I get home (right after I eat my feelings). 

dat new diet

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