I’ve been a fat kid my whole life. I can’t recall a time where life didn’t revolve around delicious treats, chub rub, and shopping the “pretty plus” section of the JCPenney catalog. Weight has been a struggle ever since I woke up at 15 and realize holy fuck, I’m fat! Its amazing, really, that I survived those hyper-sensitive pre-teen years without realizing was a little cow I was. After becoming a mom three months before my 17th birthday, getting married, and having another baby, my body is quite the disaster. Prior to meeting my husband, I had been on a liquid diet known as drink your sorrows away because you are emotionally screwed and will die an old cat lady. Its a really effective diet if you can overlook the liver damage and possible social stigma. Anyway, by forgetting to eat because I was too busy downing the rum and Coke, I went from a fluffy 152 to 118. As a vertically challenged chick, that was pretty awesome. I was able to slip into a size 4/6 without issue.
Then I met Timmy (the husband). The bastard was always taking me out to nice restaurants, so I slowly added 22 pounds. Not a huge deal, as I was too sucked into the relationship to realize I had moved into a size 8. Damn those jeans with weight gain concealing Lycra blends. Naturally, I became pregnant, we got married, had a baby and BAM. I turned into a full blown sofa bison. Now, Timmy will be the first to admit that he can be a dick. To my surprise, he never has said a single thing about my weight. He always insists he finds me attractive and never asked me to shed a single pound. Sweet, but fuck that. I knew I was a grotesque pile of lard, complete with nacho cheese dripping from my chins and Dorito crumbs stuck to my tits. I had somehow packed on over 40 pounds over the years after Aiden was born, blossoming into a behemoth 218 pounds of beefy woman. I did half-assed diets, crash diets, fasts, and any other scheme I could find to lose weight. I would drop down to the 150′s and climb right back up. Why? Because I was a genius! I thought that, upon reaching my goal weight (or close to it), I could eat like a skinny bitch. You know the ones. They happily chow down on a burger and fries, wash it down with a Coke, then grab a gallon of ice cream for dessert. Guess what? Those bitches lie. I concluded that they 1. eat laxatives like candy, 2. purge religiously, or 3. obsessively workout. I’m guessing #3 is the winner. Screw that, I hate to sweat.
This brings us to the here and now. I’ve lost 18.2 pounds in the last three weeks. Yes, doing HCG. Yes, its batshit crazy. Yes, I am tired of eating the same damn things every day. But you know what? I’m wearing my badass big girl see through panties and will suck it up. I want to be a skinny bitch when I go home to Arkansas this summer. These milky white legs would like to walk to streets in some shorts and other cute clothes that don’t resemble a circus tent.