Food NEVER Judged Me!

I realized last night while I should've been falling asleep that I understand Star Jones.  (Cue gasping audience!)  I mean, I don't understand being on The View or what she actually does for a living (I know she's a lawyer, but PLEASE) or why she married that obviously gay man, but the food thing...I got you babe.  This is because I'm on a slippery slope to becoming morbidly obese.  I must've eaten 1293081290321809312 calories this past month alone!  And that's not good.  I'm not really active.  Michael Fucking Pot Smoking Phelps would be fat on my diet.  And I'm convinced I gained weight.  Unless there is some immaculate conception going on (and it's have to be SUPER immaculate), and I'm about to give birth to maybe a 10-20 pound baby, I'm not happy.  No no.  I'm like that crazy fuck that was screaming to leave Britney alone except I'm yelling about me and I'm talking to fat.  

And it's true, okay, food never judged me.  It never said, "Bitch please, do you really need this much ice cream?  Who you trying to kid?  Your metabolism ain't that fast, child.  CHECK YO'SELF."  Food doesn't really speak to me at all.  It just kind of cries out:  EAT ME I'M DELICIOUSNESS INCARNATE!  And I obey.  It's an abusive relationship.  I just hope I'm strong enough to break free of it and have an amazing comeback that maybe involves some fuck-nasty wigs and my legs mysteriously never looking better.

You might be saying, what does love got to do, got to do with it?  But Tina was talking about sex, probs, not food.  Love has everything to do with food.  I'm not going to go all Oprah and say that food fills a void in my life where a significant other and a soul would reside.  Nuh uh.  I'm gonna break it down when I say that I love to eat.  I truly enjoy it.  It's one of the favorite parts of my daily routines, up there with showering and sleeping.  

I just don't know.  I only hope that one of my crazy friends that are becoming doctors will magically decide to be a plastic surgeon.  Because boyfriend's gonna need a tummy-tuck.  Pronto.  

Which brings me to my final point.  I don't understand why Star Jones lied about her gastric bypass.  WHATEVA.  You thin-ish, honey.  Who cares how you got there?  I mean, you did it without crack cocaine aka TrimSpa!  COUNT CHO BLESSINGS.  Now you're not even on that hot mess The View.  Elizabeth Hasselmotherfucker still is, for crying out loud.  Baby, food doesn't judge, but I do.