(no subject)

Nothing like a full-length dressing room mirror to really drive the point home that one is a fat bastard. Not an exaggeration, not some woman-hypercritical-of-minute-flaws sort of thing--fat fucking bastard. Huge. I know eating 'healthy' has always been sort of miserable and a failure for me, but hell, I've got to do something. At least quit with the eating when bored or to fix a mood thing--cut out the medicating with ice cream, that sort of stupidity. But something. Dear self: You know you are seriously disgusting, right? Right? Right.

Anyway. Off to get cats to the vet, local ren faire deal with Mom, Dave, and Shannon later.

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Dear Crystal-cat:
Thanks to you, I will never, ever, ever, ever feed any of you beasts before driving you to the vet ever again. I don't care how short the exam/vaccination/bloodwork is, you ain't getting jack until we get back. Be hungry, deal with it.

Just don't fuckin' barf in your cat carrier/on the carseat. Ever again. Kthx.

(And I loved it when the usual him came by, saw the cat carrier that was all damp from being washed in the sink and saw how I was leaning in the car with the carpet/upholstery cleaner and paper towels, then pokes his head out the door to the garage and asks, "Did something happen?" I allowed myself a brief daydream of punching him in the face.)