Dear Thing That Makes Women Cringe
You sit there all high and mighty, silently praying I will come to you. How can I mess up her day today? You feel so powerful, so right. But are you right? And what constitutes right? When you fire off your number, is it supposed to define me? Fuck no. And fuck you.
You are a piece of metal and you are shit. Scales mean nothing. I spent way too much time fixating on the number you gave me in the past, and I just don't have time for it anymore. I caught myself stepping on you yesterday and actually getting upset with the number you spewed out. But why? I feel healthy (aside from the nighttime binge eating of chocolate chips) and I fit in my clothes...mostly, so why care that you called me 153 pounds? I am 153 pounds of fun, sass, love, and light. I will never fit into a size 3 jeans again like I did in middle school, and that's okay with me. You know why? Because if I actually could fit into a size 3, I would most likely be rocking those bad boys on the way to the hospital because I would be malnourished and probably borderline psychotic thinking about hot wings and Domino's Bread Bowls.
I made the choice to let you into my life a long time ago, and it was probably one of the worst decisions I have ever made. I was miserable and very mean to myself. Remember that day I was pulling at my tummy fat a little too roughly with tears running down my blubbering face? I stepped on you and cried harder. Well, I was also post postpartum with baby number one and I never should have made eye contact with you. You are a turd and a bully and pretty much worthless.
So guess what you little bitch? I'm going to sit over here eating microwaved White Castle cheeseburgers and drinking Cokes in front of Sex in the City reruns on E! and you know what you can do? You can lick the ketchup off my chin and get a life. **Drops mic**