Let’s get one thing straight. You suck.
There is nothing about you that I like, enjoy or value...
What I find particularly amazing is the fact that it doesn’t seem to matter whether I starve you or feed you, you do whatever the hell you feel like, with no regard for anything I’m trying to achieve in terms of your placement, shape, size or attitude.
Yeah, that’s right. You have a bad freaking attitude.
So I joined the gym. Oh yeah baby, I took my life in my hands and joined the chuffing Moss Side Leisure Centre in order to sweat you out, despite the proliferation of muscle-bound gang members with scary tattoos who use the weights room to settle scores with each other. But you jerks appear to be impervious to that too. And by ‘that’, I mean the cocktail of adrenaline (caused by fear of death by gang member) and an elevated heart rate for prolonged periods of time (caused by the hill program on the X-trainer) and presumably, you just sit back, sipping on mojitos while luxuriating somewhere in my inner thighs...
So thanks to you ignoring all my attempts to purge you, what I am currently faced with is constant gnawing hunger, tiredness from flogging myself on the treadmill and X-trainer every night after work and severe emotional trauma. Because instead of packing up your sun loungers and heading back to the beach house, you all seem to be involved in some kind of greasy fat cell orgy which is causing you to reproduce at a rate that makes most rabbit breeds sit up and say ‘respect innit’.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that medically speaking I do require some of you, keyword ‘some’, but I get the feeling you may have missed that memo... What I’m trying to say, is that when I find out which one of you jerks decided it was going to be ok for you to invite all your friends to party with you while I was sojourning in sunny England, there will be trouble.
Until such time as I receive a satisfactory response, I will continue to have fruit for breakfast, steamed cabbage and leek for lunch and a protein shake for dinner (unless I’m out at a restaurant in which case theses guidelines no longer apply).
To be perfectly frank, I don’t care if you think Nigella is a hotbox and I don’t care if you don’t enjoy English cooking, I WANT YOU OUT OF MY ASS...
Love Katie.
There is nothing about you that I like, enjoy or value...
What I find particularly amazing is the fact that it doesn’t seem to matter whether I starve you or feed you, you do whatever the hell you feel like, with no regard for anything I’m trying to achieve in terms of your placement, shape, size or attitude.
Yeah, that’s right. You have a bad freaking attitude.
So I joined the gym. Oh yeah baby, I took my life in my hands and joined the chuffing Moss Side Leisure Centre in order to sweat you out, despite the proliferation of muscle-bound gang members with scary tattoos who use the weights room to settle scores with each other. But you jerks appear to be impervious to that too. And by ‘that’, I mean the cocktail of adrenaline (caused by fear of death by gang member) and an elevated heart rate for prolonged periods of time (caused by the hill program on the X-trainer) and presumably, you just sit back, sipping on mojitos while luxuriating somewhere in my inner thighs...
So thanks to you ignoring all my attempts to purge you, what I am currently faced with is constant gnawing hunger, tiredness from flogging myself on the treadmill and X-trainer every night after work and severe emotional trauma. Because instead of packing up your sun loungers and heading back to the beach house, you all seem to be involved in some kind of greasy fat cell orgy which is causing you to reproduce at a rate that makes most rabbit breeds sit up and say ‘respect innit’.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that medically speaking I do require some of you, keyword ‘some’, but I get the feeling you may have missed that memo... What I’m trying to say, is that when I find out which one of you jerks decided it was going to be ok for you to invite all your friends to party with you while I was sojourning in sunny England, there will be trouble.
Until such time as I receive a satisfactory response, I will continue to have fruit for breakfast, steamed cabbage and leek for lunch and a protein shake for dinner (unless I’m out at a restaurant in which case theses guidelines no longer apply).
To be perfectly frank, I don’t care if you think Nigella is a hotbox and I don’t care if you don’t enjoy English cooking, I WANT YOU OUT OF MY ASS...
Love Katie.
1 comments:
Huzzah! I finally get to see Katie's previously cladestine writings. And it's off to a flying start. Good luck with your fat cells, deary. It only gets worse BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
Love Paddy
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