2002-05-16

wicked pissa

Blah. I'd like to see if I can actually write an entry that isn't so blatantly wrist-to-forehead. I mean, if I look at this in the simplest terms, I'm mortified by the fact that I spend so much time obsessing about it. My body is not able to process alcohol. Therefore, I cannot drink it anymore. Period. It's not like I'm missing limbs or have been struck deaf and blind. I've got it pretty fucking good compared to a lot of people.

I think the self-pity comes from the fact that I actually have to be vigilant about something, and also from the knowledge that it's a process. I'm an impatient little spore by nature: I want the red party shoes, I want my thighs to stop rubbing together, and I want these things RIGHT NOW.

Anyway.

I bought this swell t-shirt the other day. It has the quintessential New England affirmation emblazoned across the front in big, red letters: WICKED PISSA. I love this shirt and everything it stands for, because dollars to donuts, "wicked pissa" does more for my self-esteem than looking in the mirror and telling myself that I'm a child of the universe or some such dreck.

The only problem with the shirt is that it's tailored for either that 5.2% of the female population that balks at the idea of a square meal, or a twelve-year-old boy. Yes, chickens, I'm talking about that friggin' scourge of the fashion industry: the "tiny tee." Wearing the shirt in public requires that I 1) wear some kind of long-sleeved garment over it, as my upper arms resemble hoagie rolls; and 2) engage in a ritual known in my inner circle of pals as the "Quad Check." You know, boob spillover. Any woman with over a C-cup knows what I'm talking about. Like you've got an extra pair of tits just poking out over the top of your bra. Paula, Shari and I do this all the time: "Yo, quad check?" "Naw, you're good." "'Kay. Cool. Thanks."

Shut up, it's female bonding.

lisamcc at 10:29 a.m.

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