My ass is made of cookies� and ice cream� and candy bars� and potato chips� and anything from McDonald's. Cut a slit in my thigh, and I bet junk food would come spilling out. I could be marketed as a vending machine. If only�

I've done nothing but gain weight since vacation. I have diligently put every pound back on that I managed to lose. I don't know that for certain. I don't dare step on my piece of shit scale to find out, but I can tell. My jeans scream it at me. The water level in the bathtub subtly reminds me. My lungs also don't fail to let me know as I huff and puff up the stairs to the kids' school every day. And if I had an inkling of doubt, there's always the permanent waistband mark I currently sport around my belly. There is no question at all that I've porked it up this summer.

I've known it all along too. I worked so hard to get rid of the weight, and then I defiantly find it again as I eat "last" ice cream treat after "last" ice cream treat. I sporadically work out, thinking somehow my whole attitude will change in that little hour, knowing in my heart it won't. It won't change because I've embraced this attitude and refuse to let it go.

I go through this every so often. I get rebellious. I get angry. I feel wronged by every woman that eats whatever she wants or forgets to eat or wouldn't miss a day of working out. I hate food manufacturers. I despise fast food companies. Fashion designers and clothing stores can bite me. I say, "Screw the world!" and it ends up screwing me. Hard.