Limp noodles
The Mister and I are . . . well, we're fat. And although we're trying to fix that, we're still fat. We know it. We embrace it. We live with it. We're fat, okay. Deal with it. We didn't just wake up one morning, and poof! Fat. No, we worked on it. We really did. And it was fun doing so, it was quite tasty, and now we're on the right track to reverse the fatness. And since he was told forced to live gluten-free, we have even more incentive to be healthy.
And to be healthy, we have to eat healthy. To eat healthy, I have to buy healthy. Do you realize (or have witnessed) the looks that a fat person gets when they enter a health food store? What about two fat people? I don't get stares and snickers when I enter the grocery, noooo. But a health food store? Psh, I'm looking for some goddamn brown rice pasta because I can't eat the regular fucking shit, so I'm forced to go into the fucktard-operated health food store.
And when I ask *politely* where I can find the rice flour, or more specifically the brown rice pasta, I'm asked, "Why?" Not, "Sure it's right over here." or "It's over there in aisle 2." Noooo, I get, "Why?" Fucking goddamn motherfucks.
I have to have a fucking reason? A motherfucking reason to buy pasta at that particular store? Because I can't fucking buy it at the grocery you stupid fucks, that's why. That's why I have to look at you and your perfectly tanned faces, with your perfectly perfect hair and perfectly toned bodies . . .
Hellls yes, I would much rather go to the grocery and be waited on by a glassy-eyed teenager that doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, but at least he won't be looking at me like I'm shit because he's a decent human being. He could really give two shits what I look like, he's just worried about whether or not I'll take my own groceries to my car *which I do*.. but alas, I can't shop at the grocery! Nooo, I have to look at you, the perfect asshole. Now give me my goddamn pasta and let me be on my way!
Fucking bastids.
