Sabs' Crap-Comedy

Baby Fat

Hey there, blog, how’s it feel to be completely forgotten about lately? What’s it been? Like four months?

In the process of me entering “womanhood” (because “adulthood” just sounds boring at this point; I’m a woman and I NEED the world to hear my roar), I’ve gotten many a shit together. Not joking, I can actually function before 7am and I’m feeling so grown up that I can see menopause in the horizon. Hooray for incipient dryness! Yet, regardless of my massive amounts of productivity, which I display like a giant-ass billboard marketing some type of hot pink thong (? No wait! That’s just Kim Kardashian’s panty line creeping up on my instagram again!), I have yet to grow out of my baby-girl crushes.

My love life is very much like my face. At some point, everyone has told me that my cheeks are baby fat, and that they’d magically disappear. Well, guess what, Mom, I’m twenty-three and my face is still the size of the meteor that killed the fucking dinosaurs. I was also told that one day my crushes would like me back, but here I am, on the verge of my mid-twenties, and I’m still vandalizing my diary with fictitious narrations of what I can only dream of happening (emotionally available men exist, right?). The true question is, what the fuck do grown ups journal about? Their tax returns? (What in God’s name are tax returns?). Conclusion: my baby fat, at this point, is just fat.

The tradition in my family has been to battle unrequited love with revenge towards an entire sex. This has taken the form of an online dating account and an endless string of complaints against whomever has a penis. However, I have balls, man, but I’m not trying to tell the world that they’re bigger than Trump’s, I straight up walk down the streets in my robe and flash incoming men as they hurriedly make their way to their 9 to 5s. Creative Writing 101: Show, don’t tell.

So, what do I do? I date a string of men who will inevitably ghost me, and I lie to my OB-GYN about my insane sexual activity. “So, are you looking for birth control to, ahem, control your extremely solicited vagina?” “Psh, hell yeah, bitch! My vagina was Jimmy Page’s muse!” And by that I mean that, yes, my vagina is, in fact, a Stairway to Heaven, probably.

Even my grandmother is concerned at this point. She once, very gently, tried to inform me that my lack of “game” may be due to my unladylike strength. Well, Gladys, we can’t all have narrow hips and big breasts. How else are Victoria’s Secret models going to gain an actual self esteem? God is good to the beautiful, which is why the Kardashian’s have an on-call plastic surgeon. “Kylie, you have a pimple? Let’s get you a boob job!” This is why pornstars shouldn’t be given so much publicity. Boy, they just ran with that, didn’t they?

Clearly, I have some unresolved beef with the world’s tackiest reality TV family. I mean, even Snooki avoided teen pregnancy. Okay, I’m digressing, but, yes, we hate the Kardashians and the people who watch them. Request: Stop making these sneaky bitches rich! Kris Jenner is obviously satan’s incarnation! Goddamn it, Jesus Christ, why can’t you appear when we actually need you?!

Let’s move this train back on its track: Apparently, Seventeen and Teen Vogue both have tips on how to deal with heart doodling on school property. But all these little tricks to, well, trick your mind into being disgusted by Zac-Efron-looking men don’t work. I wish I had a magic wand to turn all attractive gay men into heterosexuals. No, I’m not a homophobe, I just wish gay men would love me like they love each other. I’ll take one for the team and buy myself a strap on, and then I’ll proceed to wave it around like I’m Cinderella’s fucking godmother. Turn a pumpkin into a carriage? Nah, bro, I can turn your sexuality into something wild. Don’t fuck with me, you bastards, I will make you sexuality attracted to your cats and laugh maniacally when your privates get scratched. JK, obviously I’d use the Omnipotent Sex Toy to make myself a lesbian, but that’s just wishful thinking.

So, what am I going to do about my crush? Other than, you know, cry myself to sleep in a fetal position when I realize masturbation is utterly lost on me. I kind of wish my Catholic high school gave us lessons on how to poke the proverbial bear; if they’re not going approve of premarital sex, they should at least teach us how to get off.

I don’t really know what I’m going to do. I don’t even know if I want to get rid of the crush. It does wonders for my writing, this sexual frustration. It’s not about losing the baby-fat, it’s about putting it on so that I don’t have to accept that I mildly freak out every time my foundation sets into my potential laugh lines. Unrequited love keeps me young and relatable, because no one really likes couples who post #relationshipgoals on their insta-pics. We’re all secretly rooting for you guys to break up; except you, Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds, you guys can stay together for the sole purpose of my entertainment.

Anyways, I’m going to continue to embrace my youth, deny the fact that I’m a millennial, and fantasize about Prince Charming turning into Prince Charming, while I contour my chubby cheeks. See? Girls can multitask! Cheers to the feminist in me!

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