The Broke Bitch Bootlegs #SelfCare, Pt 2

Working title: The Emancipation of Fi-Fi

I haven’t written in a while for a potpourri of bullshit reasons: After spending a month of solid, good-ol’-college-try effort, I failed—for the second World Cup in a row—to publish a post fully dedicated to my favorite chronic ailment: ogling rippling torsos as they chase a ball around and call themselves patriots. But, like last time, I was in fact too busy watching the actual tournament to write anything. It was probably for the best, as it was last time—I’d rather not give the authorities the noose to hang me with. At least, not this early in the game (shutting down this blog when I become rich and famous is an unfortunate but necessary measure, soz). For an amuse bouche of what will never be, here’s the gif I would’ve used, for context:


Also, I went on vacation to Costa Rica for a week to cleanse my chi with cheap-ass cervezas and sangria from a can. There (of all places), I discovered Queer Eye, so now I spend about 30% of my waking hours stalking The Fab Five’s individual Instagram accounts and wishing I was a homosexual man with a stunning jawline and a particular keenness for bold prints, as opposed to what I actually am: a frumpy heterosexual bag-o’-bitch lusting after gay men as I shovel cheesy poofs into my face-hole. And then I came back to a shitstorm of horrible shit that was too much for me and my chopsticks to shovel out of. So. Here we are.

Anyway, here’s a quick update on how my self-care odyssey is going:


I recently had a teetotal vegan stay in my home for three days. After I got over the initial shock of her existence and stopped treating her unkindly for being different, I realized that I actually enjoy vegan restaurants (minus everyone who eats there). Seitan could actually not taste like cardboard, and because vegan food is vegan, it might as well be zero calories, because that’s how science works with all plant-based consumption (open a goddamn book if you don’t believe me). So for three days, I lived the blissed-out zen, all natural, grains-and-pulses-and-herbs lifestyle. Now I totally eat healthily and hydrate and buy only organic and fuel my body and mind with clean nutrients and shop with my reusable cloth shopping bags and avoid anything with high-fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated fats, or any ingredients I can’t pronounce and none of this is true.


Friday marked one year since we lost our person. To honor her memory, her friends and family organized a run—run a 5k, at any time throughout the day, anywhere in the world. Why? Because she was a runner. FUCKING WHY. HOW YOU GON’ PLAY ME LIKE DIS BBYGRL? You know I have weak ankles and respiratory issues!

Unless you live in the same square mile as an apex predator—like, I don’t know, a lion, an orca, a velociraptor—there is absolutely zero reason for you to take up running. For all you smartasses, big cats are prolific hunters and can run down practically anything on the planet; orcas, though sea creatures, can sure as shit run up on your game on the beach if you’re an asshole looking like a seal in the water or by the shoreline tanning your thiccness; and velociraptors—listen here, you stupid bitch. Gene splicing is real, and it’s happening, and humankind almost never learns its lesson. Hence why there are now a total of 5 Jurassic Park films recycling the exact same plot.

Running is the preferred exercise of sociopaths. Why else would citydwellers snort car exhaust and the many odors of hot garbage in the dead of a New York City summer? Sure, it’s inexpensive, but so is doing fat-girl sit-ups in the privacy and safety of your living room floor, away from the judgy eyes of your peers or the sneers of the hedge fund mogul’s stay-at-home wife, who works out five hours a day and drinks the rest of it (*the dream*).

There is nothing enjoyable about running, unless you’re a masochist. Do you like feeling your ankles splintering under the weight of your mass? Do you enjoy that sharp, paralyzing pain in your left shoulder blade as one of your weak-bitch muscles surely detaches from bone? Do you delight in the belly-flopping sound of your ham hocks thunderclapping against your spine? Not I, Sir. Not I.

I did it, though (eh). I took the day off work, walked the dog around the park, took a fat fucking nap, then met my friend in the afternoon to start our free week of yoga at a luxe studio in Chelsea. The class was described—and titled—as “mellow” (aka yoga for the geriatric and expecting mothers) so I thought it would be a great way to clear the mind before dying a shin-splinty death. WRONG. Not only was I sweating my dick off in there, I was fraying muscle fiber just to touch my toes or stretch into a split. Then we did this pose that makes you look like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant, and you had to circle your bent leg around forward for three breaths, backward for three breaths. Then, switch sides. “It’s so important to have healthy glutes!” the instructor exclaimed. Well then, my dog, whose bread and butter on our walks is marking his territory just as so, must have a rock-hard ass that I don’t know about under all that fluff. It was so hard, but I did it because Levi’s are not kind to flat-assed women with no thigh gap. Surely, this is how I die.

The fucking run itself wasn’t even a run. We—my friend whom I baited into volunteering to do this with me because everyone else doing the run happens to be a triathlete or whatever—got out at Barclays Center and essentially power-walked home — exactly 3.2 miles away. Halfway through, my hips felt like they were seizing, so I walked home with my legs like a pair of chopsticks that haven’t yet been broken apart from one another. Even while walking, sweat was still cascading down my face, so I looked like this when I got through my front door:


Then I walked the dog, ordered a party platter of sushi, and we drank boxed rosé and watched the first four hours of Return of the King. My person would’ve wanted this for me, I think.

I still hold out hope that one day I will miraculously fall in love with running and the fat cells will just slide off my body like butter around a pan. But, thus far, no such luck.


Sometimes I like doing the New York thing where I spend mad money and time and energy trying to look effortless. I’ve been half-assing that 10-step Korean skin care thing for about four months now, and it’s yielding half-assed results. I’ve also started “treating myself” to sheet masks and clay masks and scrubs almost every night before bed, because I don’t actually want to look as ratchet as I feel. Life in America ain’t so good right now, and it’s taking a toll on my face and hurting my chances of being in the next installment of Crazy Rich Asians.

BY THE WAY, I’M SO EXCITED ZOMG. Obviously, from the title of the film [adaptation of the book by the same name], I don’t expect to relate to the plot at all (AT ALL). And given that they happened to cast the most elite sexies that Hollywood could find of our brethren (see: Vanity Fair – are you fucking kidding me, Michelle Yeoh, you immortal goddess?!), I definitely feel like I look like a foot in comparison. No, I don’t expect this film to encapsulate the full spectrum of the Asian experience — but it’s probably going to capture (albeit loosely) the experience of the hottest and richest among us, so, I still kinda wanna know what that’s like. We’re all just so fucking thirsty for some representation—that isn’t the martial artist, the mathlete, the mail-order bride, or the server at the Chinese takeout jump with broken Engrish, or a combination of the aforementioned—that we will take it. We will take any and all of it. And we will aspire. Or, I will aspire. I’ll do better for you guys. I’ll put effort in. Not a lot though, because it’s still me. And I still look this:


But, like, I’m trying.

Also, deeply lamenting that the person who waxes my hoo-ha is the person who gives me a discounted sports massage once a month is the person who does my facials is the person who always takes a minute to lean over me and put her face a foot away from my inner thighs to examine the stretch marks there and ask me questions like, “Did you used to be fat? How much did you weigh?” That’s hard for anyone.

All in all, though, I’m thoroughly enjoying taking better care of myself. I have less homicidal thoughts, I feel marginally less gross, and I’d like to think that I snuff out the bullshit more quickly. Bad bitch in the making, right here.

My boss is way less crazy, by the way. Granted, she’s still crazy, but not next-level crazy anymore. Blessings.


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