I Would Never CHOOSE Vegetables Over A Burrito


Ever read a do-it-yourself exercise/eat right/this-will-change-your-fucking-life-and-you’ll-live-to-be-180 article or book?

They always say that vegetables, micro-nutrients, juicing, fruits…whatever the fuck you want to call them…are key. Right, because cavemen ate them in times of gathering, only hunted when they were forced to, primitive nature…paleo…and I almost just threw up re-reading this shit.

Sure, I don’t doubt that’s how things went down before the amazingness that is cheese was invented, but that’s not where my taste-buds have progressed to now is it? Oh, and as an FYI, I’m writing this at a Starbucks right by my local gym and I just overheard some girl insisting to her friend, “No! I really DO like kale!” Quit lying, bitch.

Let me break it down for the disillusioned women who have trained themselves to accept flavorless cardboard as food, the trendiest diet book as gospel, and the latest exercise fad as her one-way ticket to happiness; and for every man who has had to suffer through dinner while a woman munches on her salad and gives wistful eyes at his bacon cheeseburger.

If women could, we’d eat just like men, and not give a fuck about it. For real; if I was able to eat whatever the hell I wanted and not care how I looked or felt—if my metabolism was at super-speed and my hips weren’t designed to carry an additional 40 pounds once I’m knocked up—I’d fucking eat everything, and as much of it as possible.

If I could, I’d make a fatty-pie that had the following ingredients: Pasta, hamburgers, and sushi. French Fries covered in ranch. Cheesecake. Oh god, I’d fucking eat an entire strawberry cheesecake and not feel a damn thing if I could. Then maybe three chipotle burritos, topped off with an enormous vat of gravy. Yeah…I’d do it.

So here’s the thing. I’m not really super fat, or anything like that. Actually, I get called hot more often than I don’t. I’m also not super-healthy, either. Sure, I make it to the gym about 4 times a week, try to take the stairs as often as possible and eat a pretty balanced meal plan provided nothing special is going on (what up three extra pounds from the Superbowl party?).

I’m writing this because I’m balls-deep in my New Years resolution to get my college body back, and it’s proving to be harder than I thought. And I’m pissed. I’m pissed because I let myself go. I’m pissed because the world says, “Healthy is the new skinny.” Is that right? Because the last time I checked, I’m still seeing size 0 models on every advertisement I see.

I’m pissed that the health industry is a bunch of lying liars that lie, and for once I just want someone to write an actual diet and exercise book that’s called, “Food that sucks and exercises that make you want to throw-up, but hey…stick with it every day and in like 6 months you might start to see some changes.”

And I want you all to stop saying that jicama and sprig mixed with a balsamic vinaigrette is an actual meal.

God, I’d kill for some fucking nachos.

Anyway, it’s time to hit the gym. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be the girl on the elliptical machine with the food network on, licking the screen.