So I have to get all fit and whatnot. The problem is, there are seemingly only two ways to lose weight: exercise, or a healthy diet (or both). My diet's pretty healthy already (sans Granola bars), so we're good there.
But there is something you may not know about me, and it is this: I fucking hate exercise.
I would rather murder a drifter and be skinny for life than have to work out ever. Really. Well, okay, maybe not murder. But I would fuck that drifter UP.
I just can't stand it. I hate sweat. I hate smelling bad. I hate hair in my face. I hate sticky feet and tank-tops riding up and short shorts tangling up between my legs. I even hate the WORD. Exercise. It's so hard to type. I ALWAYS spell it wrong. It's completely illogical. It should be spelt excersise.
Anyways, as a consequence of this, I have never been much of a work-out-er. I figure, I walk a shit-ton all over school, and to the bus stop, and to my house, all while lugging like 20 pounds of bags (school bag, purse, lunch box, and sometimes my laptop). But apparently not. I got FAT over winter. YEAH. Fucking seasonal climates. You can get fat without even realizing it. Then the snow melts and you wear skimpier clothes and realize your stomach looks like a HIPPO'S and how incredibly screwed you are.
So I have to start working out. In the incredibly likely case that this shit will actually kill me, I present to you,
My Last Will and Testament
- Menzie is in charge of my Facebook account, including taking care of my Happy Aquarium fishies. This is under the condition that she never delete the following fish: Roger (goldfish), Omen (clown fish), and Phil (long skinny one).
- She also gets my books (except the sentimental childhood ones, see point #3), in the hopes that she further her chick lit education.
- My dearest mother gets all my childhood stuff, including the boxes stashed in my closet.
- My stationary and office supplies are to be buried in the crypt next to me, as is my makeup, earrings, and bags.
- I am to be buried in my jeans, Converse, and grey hoodie, under my turquoise comforter, surrounded by the strips of photo booth pictures that are stuck on my mirror.
- My alarm clock is to be smashed into pieces by my brother, a fellow sufferer of sleep deprivation. Burn the pieces and chuck the ashes in an ocean.
- My clothes, with the exception of those that apply to point #3, can go to any friend who wants them, and after that, to children in Bangladesh.
- All of my school papers are to be recycled and made in to other kid's school papers.
- My laptop, Flamingo; my printer, Louise; my camera, Jefferson; and my iPod, Carmella are to be left egg-friggin'-zactly where they are. Seriously. Hands off.
- My brother gets anything he wants, which won't be much, as do Kelshall, Mahabir, Feeney, Boccara, Armour, Wilkins, and Holder. [PS: these are friends from my last location. Get with it, reader.]
- My dad gets any pictures of me that are in my room. That'll stop his bitching.