The Broke Bitch Bootlegs #SelfCare, Pt 1

Working Title: The Vow — also a shitty-ass Nicholas Sparks-esque movie starring two really hot white people.

I can’t help but notice my diatribes getting longer and longer… but that might be because I’m getting more desperate. Is the URL available?*

So… I got a fucking hemorrhoid from squashing my fat ass on the toilet in the all-gender bathroom at work applying for jobs on my phone (plus Instagramming on all 4 of my accounts, plus stalking people on Facebook and Twitter for 20 minutes at a time). I wouldn’t even know what a hemorrhoid was were it not for the fact that I have two sisters who farted out children and are living to rue that decision (JK, I don’t know their lives but I suspect that they would much rather be barren, perpetually drunk and soulless like I am). Mercifully, my man and I are past the point of no return in our relationship. In fact, if anyone should be horrified, it’s me: he bought me store-brand ass-aloe for my butt-berry instead of that good-good Preparation H. *The disrespect.*

Well, clearly, there was no clearer sign from God that I needed to do something about my life.

I spent an entire therapy session being coached by my therapist about how to navigate the minefield that is my boss’s emotional landscape. My therapist basically told me, “I don’t give a shit about your boss’s feelings. She’s gonna cry anyway. I’m more interested in what will make you feel safe and come out on top in this conversation” (I’m paraphrasing). So, we twerked on that, and last Friday, I confronted her (my boss) in a meeting she scheduled where she wanted us to “speak our truths” after our major fundraising event the week prior, when she turned into the bride of Chucky and went ape-shit aggro on everyone for the dumbest shit.

So, I spoke my truth. I told her that she’s an abusive boss, and that I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while now. I think the only reason why I was successful in saying exactly what I’d wanted to tell her for so long—without mincing words but still being professional—was because I actually planned on resigning right then and there, committing career-suicide because I’d rather be funemployed than deal with her SAW-esque mind games. And I did make her cry. I knew this would happen, because, as we know, she always does this. I prepared for this. I researched this. But I still felt badly that an adult woman was sitting in front of me wiping away glassy tears as if she were window-wiping her face. It was like a stalemate. She watched me through her waterfalls as I cringed back at her. Finally, I broke. “I’M SORRY,” I said, like an asshole.

She’s committed to “changing her ways,” but I remain vigilant. Earlier that week, she threw me under the bus with our executive director, so I’m kinda like …


Regardless of the boomerang, karmic consequences of this conversation, which will surely bite me square in my ass at some point in the near future, I need to worry about me, and what I can control.

By now, as expected, my soul is as perforated as a screen door. We already know that I need a [preferably secular] intervention. We know that I should try to learn another way of healing other than drowning myself in copious bottom-shelf wines from the local bougie wine shop until the pain stops and I have no other choice but to face the next day once I eventually awake from my booze-coma.

[I mean, I’m not saying I’m an alcoholic, but what I am saying is, if we entered a second Prohibition era, I’m not above drinking my nail polish remover.]

Before anyone calls the suicide hotline, know that I’m handling it. I’ve scheduled a massage after work tomorrow, with the same beauty technician who waxes my hoo-ha and asks why I have stretch marks on my inner thighs (“Is it because you used to be fat?”). She’s petite and Chinese, so you know she ain’t playin. I’ll be fine.

Y’all remember Little Loca? She breezed through town last weekend, and, per usual, NYPD was busy, so she’s not an official sex offender yet, to their knowledge. She’s tiny these days, but because she does CrossFit (and—dead up—NEVER SHUTS UP about that shit), she can, like, benchpress multiple humans. Every time she comes into town these days I feel self-conscious that, while she’s graduating from an 8-pack to a 24-pack (or whateverthefuck), my muscles are over here slowly atrophying and my ass is deflating. You’d think that, if she was built like an extra in 300, she’d be able to start fighting her own battles, right? WRONG. I’m still over here imposing my pronounced stomach onto people to intimidate them into leaving her drunk ass alone.

When she’s sober, though, she makes a good point that, while I might be happily resigned to being a lazy, miserable fat fuck as a 20-something-year-old, with a vat of sass and plenty of elasticity left in my face, I might not feel that way in 15 years when gravity starts doing the damn thang and I start losing bone density by 5% every year thereafter. Plus, she reasons, better to take my frustration out at the gym (lolz) than having a disproportionate (and violent) response to someone commenting on, say, the quality of my PowerPoint…

I left my HR director dumbfounded today when I told her that I do not, in fact, eat KIND bars.

“I thought you were super into healthy eating?”
“No, you’re wrong. I don’t like healthy foods.”
“REALLY? That blows my mind a little bit.”
“No. I have 3,000-calories-per-serving Girl Scout cookies in my drawer.”

Spoiler alert: I don’t know the first thing about taking care of my physical self. I’m just over here sifting through Groupon deals for workouts that would help me look like Jessica Biel (Oh hell yea lipotropic injections for $26 … whatever those are!). Mm. Studio with carpet? No, no thanks. GUESS I CAN’T EXERCISE, THEN.

I honestly don’t know how people do it. One of my girlfriends, a beautiful, talented media-goddess, works from 7:30am to 5pm most days (at a job she hates), then goes to acting class and/or Rumble after work, doesn’t drink, eats right, and is a devout disciple of the K-Beauty 10-Step skin routine. So, she’s basically immortal.

MEANWHILE, Yours Truly over here is still lookin’ like Shrek, drained from sitting on my fat ass and getting emotionally abused all day, with a facial skin surface that recalls the jagged, arid expanse of Death Valley.

I went to Innisfree for the first time with her thinking that, even if I remain decidedly rotund, I might still become acne-free. That’s the lower-hanging fruit on the self-care tree, no?

Wrong. So wrong.

Like, wtf is a volcanic cluster?

As I write, with a mask of volcanic clay over my face, I can’t help but wonder: is this really volcanic clay, or am I smearing bat feces all over my face in the hopes that, when I rinse it off, I look like Gigi Hadid?

Can someone draw me a fucking map to well-being, please? The game is rigged, man. No one’s meant to be happy and healthy.

*I just checked. It’s not.


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