On the walk home with my groceries including my Entenmann’s cherry cheese danish that I totally planned to eat for dinner, a neighborhood drunk, sitting on the side of the historical house says, “I thought you was supposed to be losin’.” That son of a bitch! He sees me jogging all the time so I guess he felt like he was calling me on something. [Warning to men: “Female Problems” Alert] I have fibroids that make my stomach stick out at “certain times.” I was twisted with bags and wearing a tee-shirt so it was probably prominent. I don’t have a weight problem. I exercise regularly and generally eat quinoa, steamed vegetables every night – organic shit – that kind of thing. So what he said didn’t make me want to run home, get on the scale and throw my danish away – I’m too old for that shit now. My toothpick days are over, and it ain’t as bad as I would have imagined as a 25 year old neurotic who’d rather smoke than eat. I do know this rat bastard – he’s one of the neighborhood bums and drunks that I plan to write about. “How dare you?” I said lamely, and went home where I indulged in a scrumptious meal of Doritios, orange ginger cookies and my Entenmann’s cherry cheese danish. Suck my dick you greasy drunk bastard!
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