Cooking Experiments #1: Iced Coffee

As my weight and consequently my Weight Watcher's points for the day decrease, I've begun trying to find ways to make and enjoy tasty foods and beverages without wrecking my diet with a bunch of unnecessary fats and carbs. This... has been a process... and not always a successful one.

My latest experiment is pretty simple: iced coffee. Now, I like regular hot coffee just fine, but it's getting warmer outside and I still need caffeine. In fact, I need it more than ever since I'm trying to kick my Excedrin habit. I usually take one every day, instead of just when I have a migraine, because they're full of caffeine; I would just drink regular coffee instead, buuuut it makes me super sweaty. And you all know how much I hate to be sweaty. Well, if you didn't before, you do now. 

I didn't think it would be that tough to find a good recipe for homemade iced coffee, but there are a billion different recipes all over the Internetz. I've looked at some before that said you need to make ice cubes out of coffee. (Tried this once; super fail.) Or recipes calling for condensed milk, which sounds delicious, but zomg sugar.  

I like my coffee with milk and sugar, and a hint of flavor if I can get it. If you prefer your coffee plain, it's a simple matter for you. 

Plain Iced Coffee Recipe*

Make a double-strength pot of coffee (or however much desired). 

Chill or refrigerate, overnight if possible. 

Pour over ice when ready to drink. 

*If you want to add sugar, artificial sweetener, or powdered creamer, you need to add these things while the coffee is HOT. If you don't, the sugar/sweetener/powder will NOT dissolve. If you are using liquid sweetener, flavoring syrup, milk or liquid creamer, these can be added AFTER the coffee is cool. 

Anyway. This is how I made my personal blend.

P Dragon's Iced Coffee Recipe**

3 Tbsp of coffee, or 4 cups, i.e. the amount a lil Mr. Coffee will brew. (Yes, that's double-strength; I'm a lightweight.) 

8 tsp of fat-free/sugar-free powdered creamer, plain flavor. (total: 2 WW pts) 

2 tsp of Coffee Mate fat-free Chocolate creamer (total: 1 WW pts)

Brew coffee, add powdered creamer, refrigerate overnight. 

In the morning, add: 

ice and

4-5 tsp of sugar-free Torani syrup. This morning, Hazelnut.

Total WW points for this beast: 3 pts.

**I'm not entirely sure on these numbers, because maths was involved, but I'll be testing it again tomorrow. 

Annnnd there you have it. 

Seems simple, and yet.... I have completely fucked this up before, so here you are, to benefit from my previous failure. 

If you're interested in reading more about my previous cooking experiments, leave a comment and I'll do a post on those. Previous cooking experiments include: 

-Spaghetti squash

-Kale chips or How to Make Kale Not Taste Like Ass

-Lower fat muffins/cupcakes/cookies using applesauce instead of oil.

-Shirataki Noodles

-and probably others I've forgotten. 

Is Dick Organic? Because EAT ONE.

Organic food and items made by small companies with locally-sourced ingredients are trending hard in the Windy City right now, and probably elsewhere. People want to know where their food came from, they want to be assured there are no chemicals in it, they want to feel like smart conscientious consumers... Well, kids, you can't have your organic tomato and eat it, too. 

This whole organic locally-grown trend PISSES ME OFF. Why? Because most of the people who've gotten on board with this now think that going organic means they are less repugnant than the rest of the wretched fuckwits who make up the human race. And this post? Fueled by rage because of one such douchebag. 

Earlier today, I wrote an email to a nearby bar, a classy place with amazing food and a great beer selection--if you like beer. I do NOT like beer; I like gin. When I have been to this establishment, I've been informed that they have two kinds of gin, Death's Door and North Shore. The first time, I had my gin and tonics with Death's Door, and was quite appalled. The second time, I opted for North Shore, and it was even worse. Now, I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I know what good gin tastes like.  I was taught the ways of the gin by one of my best friends, and I know him to be a man of impeccable taste. So. Today, instead of knitting, because my hands are still fucked up, I wrote some complaining emails to various places, one of them being to this bar. I said that their gin was bad, and they should look into getting Hendrick's, Caorunn, Bombay Sapphire, or Tanqueray. (I'm indifferent toward Tanqueray, but a good bar should have it, dammit.) 

I just got a rather supercilious reply from the bar owner which stated that I am the only person who ever said anything negative about their gin selection. In fact, Death's Door was a favorite of the gin-drinking visitors to said bar, and the other had been rated the same as Bombay Sapphire in some sort of tasting test. Mr. Man then proceeds to say that they've been phasing out liquors owned by big-name companies in favor of supporting smaller independent suppliers, and that he knew personally the people who made North Shore, which was made from organic ingredients and blah blah. Basically, a snobby email whose overall tone indicated that -I- must be some sort of uncultured plebeian for even suggesting that they stock such filthy gin. 

And that completely pissed me off, as you can tell. Really, I've had it up to my fucking eyebrows with people snobbishly saying that they prefer to use organic local blah blah shit, as though that makes them superior in some way. Guess what, IT DOES NOT. 

See, Mr. Bar Man, you run a BAR. That means you should be concerned about making sure that you have GOOD liquor at your bar. Just because a bunch of hipster douche bags who are accustomed to drinking Beefeater or Seagram's tell you that your bullshit gin tastes good, that doesn't mean shit. 

The whole deal reminds me a lot of the fairy-tale called The Emperor's New Clothes, because the thing is, NOTHING can possibly be organic ANYwhere. Think about it. All the pollution humankind has released into the air, earth, and water since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution--that shit went EVERYwhere. So, you can't say that this-or-that farm only grows "organic" produce just because they don't add chemicals of their own; the earth, the air, the rain are all adding chemicals to those foodstuffs. And you can buy all the over-priced low-quality veggies you want, but unless you're living in a tent in the forest, growing your own shit, not using electricity or anything that can't be made out of basic shit like the Native Americans did, you are no better than the rest of us. 

But, I feel like I'm dancing around the point. The point I wanted to make is this: organic locally-grown stuff is a nice idea; knowing all the facts about your food would be great.  However, this is the 21st century, and most of us (everyone reading this at least) live in the REAL world. You can grow your own tomatoes in your backyard--in fact, I recommend doing that--but they'll never really be organic because you just don't KNOW what the plant's roots sucked up out of the soil. You probably also don't know where the plant itself or the seeds even came from. The water you pour on your plants, where did that come from? What's been in there? YOU DON'T FUCKING KNOW AND YOU CAN'T. And paying twice the price for "organic" food (you don't know where THAT came from either) is so far removed from the naturalistic values you're espousing that you might as well be buying the chemically-treated stuff instead. 

Now, to bring it back to the gin. Mr. Bar Man seems to think that his gins made from "organic" ingredients by tiny companies thus make them better than the bigger-name gins.  However, it does NOT make them better. On the contrary, Death's Door and North Shore are still terrible examples of gin. Being distilled on the moral high ground doesn't change that.

And I'm not going to drink your shitty fucking gin and NOT tell you that you're naked. Because, Emperor, you're fucking naked, so pour out this swill and bring me some fucking Hendrick's already. 

Brief Intermission Due to Crippledness

Just typing up a note to let you know that there WILL be more posts, but right now I am unable to type for more than a few minutes at a time. 

For some reason (probably too much knitting on too tiny needles), I started experiencing a weird numbness in my right pinky finger. After feeling that for about three days... the left pinky followed. So I looked up "pinky finger numbness" and discovered that I probably have something called ulna neuropathy. It has something to do with the ulna nerve (the thing commonly known as a funny bone, which is not a bone). The nerve gets trapped somehow, causing numbness and discomfort to the fingers, hands, and forearms. This type of repetitive motion injury is generally brought on by holding your arms bent at the elbows for too long.  You know, kind of like you do while knitting, typing, etc. 

What this means is that I spent this whole day feeling a mixture of grumpy and depressed because I can't do the important shit I need to, like writing cover letters for job applications, or even the fun shit I'd rather be doing, like knitting or blogging. Even picking things up has caused me some difficulty. The best I can do is a bit of texting, because my thumbs have the most functionality of anything past my elbow. 

So, I'm pretty fucking bored, and you have to be too. I suppose I can try to teach myself to type and knit and write with my feet, because nothing bad could come from that idea. Well, until I succeed at feet-typing, or until my damn ulna nerves quit shitting the bed, I'm on hiatus here. Wish me luck, bitches. 

How to Find an Apartment*

*satisfaction is not guaranteed.

It's that time of year, chilluns: Moving Season! At least, it is here in the Windy City. It's the time of year when migrant scholars (i.e. people who came here for school) who have accomplished what they came here for ultimately decide to move away to warmer, colder, more rural, or more urban settings, as the case may be. My understanding is that most of them move back home to mooch off of their parents, but I digress.

Moving Season! The story of moving season can be adequately described by the first line of A Tale of Two Cities:  "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." to find an apartment, that is. There are lots of apartments up for rent (good), but the nice ones get snatched up quickly (bad). You can get a place in a nicer part of town (good), if you don't mind living in a matchbox (bad.)

Like with dating, finding an apartment requires certain compromises, then more compromises, and finally the loss of all standards as you scrabble to find the last goddamn viable option. However, like dating, there are certain requirements that cannot be compromised: item one, must have pulse; item two, must have preferred set of genitals; item three, must not be in a vegetative state, etc. It's a bit different for apartments, but you get the idea. You start out with your list of What I Want, and end up just trying to find What I Need. Here are my lists.

What I Want: 
-something above 750 sq feet (i.e. large enough to house my collection of books)
-a dishwasher
-central heat
-air-conditioning
-close proximity to public transit
-dog-friendly
-laundry on-site, although in-unit would be preferred.
-parking
-located in a specific neighborhood
-NOT next to a firehouse or the Metra track
-if above second floor, an elevator so that I don't have to carry the fat elderly Hogbeaste up the stairs.

What I Need: 
-dog-friendly
-located in *safe part* of a specific neighborhood
-close proximity to public transit
-not above second floor (Hogbeaste)

You see how the lists differ. To get everything I want, I'd have to make a shitload of money, and also maybe provide all the people in Hell with ice water, but I knew that. Some "wants" always get sacrified, especially after you've begun to peruse the apartment listings, which results in a gradual depletion of morale and desire to continue living. This is primarily because these ads are written in a roughly universal language of euphemisms:

• Cozy or Cute: so small it can only hold one person at a time, if that person assumes the fetal position. 
• Unique: something is seriously fucked up here, but you won't find out until it's too late.
• Vintage: really old, as in there may still be asbestos in the walls.
• Large or Spacious: you can put furniture in this place, but don't go crazy now.
• Rehabbed: freshly painted and has some new appliances, but grossly overpriced for the size and location to make up for the upgrades.
• Studio: You live in the same room as the refrigerator.
• One Bedroom: has an extra closet that will hopefully hold that bed you bought at Ikea
• Two Bedroom: has *two* extra closets that will hopefully each hold a bed.
• Den: Weird extra space that's big enough for a bookshelf but otherwise has no rational explanation for existing.
• Eat-In Kitchen: there's room for a chair. 
• Hardwood Floor: scratch it and you're fucked. Also, no carpet for you, peasant.
• Walkup: you're going up at least three flights of rickety winding stairs, maybe more.
• Street Parking: not on the same street as the apartment. 
• In-unit laundry: Add $200 to your rent. 
• Heat Included: apartment temperature averages 80 degrees even in January, just because. 
• Free Water: there's nothing else to offer, at least if you're in Chicago... Because EVERYONE gets free water, so this is NOT a viable selling point. 
• Pet friendly: smells like wet dog everywhere.

And if you come across a listing for an apartment with NO pictures, that is because it's most likely a shitwreck that's not worth seeing. 

So, having read this post, you should be ready to find an apartment. Not a good apartment, mind you; not an apartment you'll want to live in forever; but an apartment that will serve you for a year, at which point you'll start this whole brain-burning process over again. Oh, and have fun packing all your shit. There's more than you think, and you're going to need at least five more boxes than you have. Best of luck!

Fugly Is The New Black

I have a date tonight. (I'll pause here while you rejoice, dear peasants..... Okay.) But alas, I have nothing to wear. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing that is seasonally appropriate while also being somewhat flattering that actually fits me. Well, except for that sweet Ghostbusters t-shirt, but I'm saving that for a special occasion. So, having nothing to wear, and minimal time to acquire something suitable, I went to Target. (I also needed a gallon of milk.) 

The Target closest to my apartment is frequented by a range of consumers, although it seems to think that most of those are hipster types. While I would say that there is a larger percentage of said douchebags at this store than the other Target I like to shop at, I wouldn't say that above 20% are of the trendy persuasion. That said... I walked into the women's clothing section (my first mistake), and began to look around (second mistake).... And discovered to my unutterable horror that the 1980's have returned. And when I say "returned," I mean have literally been chewed up by the fashion machine and regurgitated into the vomitous shitwreck I was unfortunate enough to behold at Target. 

Now, I must ask you, designers, fashionistas, and whoever the fuck decides what is trendy: Really? ....Really? REALLY?! 

This season's fashions are clearly designed to decrease female self-esteem more than ever before. Not only are the colors hideous (coral pink paired with neon yellow and aqua green, smeared together as if by an infant finger-painting), but the cut of the clothes are fucking appalling. Now, I'm not skinny, as you know. I'm working on it, but right now, I'm about a size 12/14, roughly average for the American woman, maybe a little extra. But the clothes I saw today would make even a titless size 0 anorexic look fat and frumpy. I found almost nothing remotely wearable, aside from a couple of basic tees, tanks, and cardigans: all standard classics. Everything else.... Well, here's a little catalogue: 

Ruffled mini-skirts that will barely cover the average-sized vagina; faded denim jeans, jackets, and etc in all colors; acid-wash denim, for fuck's sake; tank-strap shirt/dress things in old lady prints (navy blue with tiny coral flowers, etc) that gather at the waist leaving a fabric bulge around the middle; neon yellow everywhere, of the shade that has a slight tint of boogery green in it; lots of smeary-colored prints, flower prints, and faux-vintage crap; shirts cut straight from shoulder to below the ass (because no one has tits or anything...); shirts cut square to end just above the waist... 

Guh. It was a fucking trainwreck. And maybe I'm just getting old, or I have bad taste, but so be it. I just hope this retro 80's trend passes soon, before I end up strangling someone with a day-glo jean jacket. 

Wanted: Job Posting for Even-tempered or Pessimistic Office Assistant.

Right now, I'm at a very unpleasant junction in life. I am not only searching for a new apartment (more on that to come), but I'm trying to find a job. In this economy, that's basically the equivalent of trying to find buried treasure on the same beach as 20,000 other people who are also looking for treasure: not only are you going to be lucky if you find anything remotely resembling treasure (i.e. a living wage), but your odds are dramatically decreased by the vast number of fellow applicants. This means you need to dig as many holes as you can as quickly as you can, or rather, apply to as many jobs as possible, no matter how fucking ridiculous the ads are.

You've seen these ads, right? The job description is always the same: some soul-crushingly boring job with shitty hours (either too few, or full-time but your shift starts at 5:00 am/pm) for barely enough money to pay your rent, your loan payment, and leave you enough to buy a sufficient quantity of ramen to last you until next pay. Even better, to get one of these jobs, you need to be proficient in Microsoft All-The-Things, Mac or PC, speak and read fluent Mandarin, type 300 wpm, and have twelve years' worth of experience, but STILL be willing to take a soul-crushing job with shitty hours for meager wages. Oh, and you have to be "positive," too. 

Positive. Upbeat. Pleasant. Cheerful. Optimistic. 

I've seen all of these at one time or another while job-searching and each one that I see pisses me off yet more than the last one. Why, you ask? Because it's bigotry, that's why. Plain and simple bigotry. Yeah, I went there. 

Only optimists are allowed to have jobs now? No pessimists or laid-back people allowed. This bathroom is for optimists only! Pessimists, you have to use the bathroom down the hall with the glitchy fluorescent light bulbs and single-ply toilet paper. Optimists, welcome to the pissoir of your dreams! Enjoying those heated seats and complimentary ass-wipings?! 

Okay, it's not that bad. Yet. But really, think about it. Is it not possible for a pessimistic person to do just as good if not a better job than an optimist? I think so. Being a pessimist myself, I can verify that I am much more capable than almost all of the optimistic people I have ever worked with. Contrary to what people might think, we CAN keep our gloomy thoughts from interfering with our work. Can an optimist keep his or her happy thoughts from interfering? We don't know, because these people are encouraged to fling their good cheer in the faces of all and sundry, and no one says anything about it. How many pessimists are unemployed because of this disgusting intolerance? How many even-tempered types are getting food-stamps because the optimists have taken all the available jobs? 

The only person I've ever seen who truly understands that there is a place for pessimists in the working world is the legendary Ron Swanson. If I could be his office assistant, I would be the happiest Dragon in the world. Hang up on callers? Sure. Prevent people from making appointments? No problem. Repulse all comers? Done and done. Not only could I utilize my limited clerical skills, but I could also practice my unnerving stare. Too bad the Parks Department of Pawnee isn't hiring. Oh well. Back to Craigslist. 

Won't you (NOT) be my Neighbor?

I do not understand why some people find quiet to be so disconcerting. I love a quiet place. It's one of the things I love about my current living situation, at least when there aren't a million sirens going on outside AND a Metra train passing by. (I swear, some part of Chicago is always burning.) I know, that doesn't sound very quiet, does it? I suppose I should clarify: I enjoy the quiet of an atmosphere without any other living people. The sounds of traffic, the Hogbeaste lying on the floor at my feet snoring like a lumberjack, even the occasional Metra train--these are just background sounds, white noise, and do not bother me.

What bothers me is being able to hear my neighbors. 

Now, things here aren't nearly as bad as they were at my old place, where the dogs outnumbered the humans, the humans were all idiots, and the floor in my apartment was the ceiling of my downstairs neighbor's. Ugh. Compared to that place, this apartment is as quiet as a tomb. But I do still hear my neighbors sometimes, and over the last 10 or so months, I've come to be disturbed not by the noise, but by the nature of the sounds themselves. 

No, they don't make sex noises. Everyone asks that first, which, what does that say about us as a society? o_O But no. Honestly, sex noises would be less disturbing. Grosser, but less disturbing. 

The sounds I hear remind me more of an episode of American Horror Story. If you are unfamiliar with this reference, that means the noises are spooky and weird. 

Sometimes I hear the laughter of teenage girls. 

Sometimes, the pacing of someone in high-heels as s/he walks back and forth across the hardwood floor. 

Every night, the sound of something heavy being dropped on the floor in the same place. 

And sometimes... A sound like moaning. Always twice: Uuaghh. Uuaghh. Softly, so that I have to strain to hear it. I've yet to identify what could be making this noise. I've decided it's either an old dog, an old decrepit human, or a mentally-disabled human.

The scenario in my mind plays out thusly: we have a working-class single mom, tired, impatient, and a little neglectful... Two teenage daughters who are too cool for skool, and definitely too cool to live in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with their mother and.... the mysterious groaner. Generally I consider the groaner to be a handicapped, wheelchair-ridden brother who can't really communicate... Or an ancient feeble grandmother whose quiet pleas go ignored. Really, I prefer not to think about it.

Until Tuesday.
I hear someone pounding on the neighbor's door. At least, I think it's the neighbor's door--I get up to check anyway, barking Hogbeaste waddling along behind me. After a few more minutes of knocking, there is a pause, and the knocker starts on MY door.  I immediately think Oh, shit.... But I open the door. Outside is a decently good looking, fairly well-dressed man.

This man informs me that he is an investigator, and begins to question me about the neighbors. Do I know them? (No.) How many people have I seen going in/out of there? (Three or four.) Do I hear anything? (....Sometimes..) And so on.

Because, darling readers, apparently... My neighbors are squatting in the condo next door.  Apparently So-and-so's son's girlfriend still had a key, so they just use it to hang out and whatnot, without paying.  He was knocking on their door, trying to get them to open up, but they were too clever for that, and they wouldn't. Bastards. He gave me his number, told me to let him know if I hear them over there.

Well, he came again yesterday evening after I sent him a text, and didn't find them, although we are both pretty sure that at least the two girls (girlfriend and her friend) were in there at the time. He taped a bunch of noticed onto their door in just such a way that they would have to destroy some of them and thus indicate their presence. After returning from my date late last night, I noticed that they had in fact ripped down most of the tape and fliers, and sneered a bit. Fuckwads.

So, things are still unresolved. I still hear the wonky noises.... But not for much longer. Eat that, squatter fucks. 

OkCupid Adventures: How to Completely Repulse Anyone

Normally when I have a particularly unpleasant experience on OkCupid.com, I end up making a rule. (For more about this, see my previous post regarding trannies.)

However, there are no rules that can cover the most recent weirdness.

OkCupid, like other dating sites, tries to match you up with people that you will get along with, the keyword there being *tries*.  Because it does try... But it's only an algorithm, and thus cannot process some of the most basic signs which indicate to you that your so-called potential match could be a transvestite serial killer.

Sometimes, your match's username is a good indication of mental instability. Case in point: while trolling the latest selection of people OkCupid had chosen for me, I came across the user I will call black_cold_hate. As bad of a name as that clearly is, it's not actually the REAL name of this user. To avoid naming him directly, I've replaced each word with one *opposite* the original. Example: Red spoon would become blue fork. Now. Do that with black_cold_hate.

Did you do it?

Yes. That is his actual username, I shit you not.
So, needless to say, after I saw that, I asked myself what the hell he must've been thinking when he chose that. Suddenly, all those guys with "taco" in their username didn't look so bad.

Well, I then click away to another page... Only to see that black_cold_hate has actually sent me a message. Huh. Warily, I read the message. It does not sound psychotic, so I go check out his profile. The profile also does not read as psychotic.  I think about replying, especially since he has asked me to please answer one way or another, whether interested or not.  I haven't decided which answer to give, so I don't answer right then.

Typically, I make it a rule not to answer these emails right away. I like to sit on them for a day or so, and think about it, consider what I'm going to say, and why I'm replying: am I interested? Am I desperate? Or am I just bored? And only then do I reply.

But, black_cold_hate did not even allow me two minutes of time to contemplate his message... Because just as I clicked to another page, he messaged me AGAIN.... To say he'd seen me check out his profile, and wondered what I would say. Because... That doesn't come off as totally creepy and/or desperate at all--oh, no wait, yes it does. I narrowed my eyes at the screen... and resumed my internets business.

Skip to the next day. I return to OkCupid, still pondering how to answer this dude. I hang around on the site long enough to read a message from someone else, see who has recently visited my profile, and leave again. Upon leaving, I pop to my Gmail inbox... And guess what? User black_cold_hate has sent me ANOTHER message. To apologize for the weird IM he sent me, during the 2.4 minutes I was online... An IM which I didn't know about, because I must've just signed off as he sent it.

So. Four messages, in two days. In somewhat stalkery fashion... With a username like black_cold_hate... And we only match 72%. For me to ignore the rest of that, we'd have to match 97%.

I have not messaged him back yet to tell him to fuck off, but... I am going to, simply because he asked me to let him know either way, and I'm not a total bitch. (86%)

Anyway, the lesson to be learned her, chilluns, is that like your thong, it's tacky to let your desperation hang out where everyone can see.

Although, let's be honest, with that username, he's already set himself up for creepy.

Misconceptions About Being Thin, Part 1.

I'll preface this with some background just in case, by some bizarre twist of the Google lords, you don't already know me in person. I've been following Weight Watchers since January 2012. I started out at around... 237 lbs (that's about 17 stone, if you're British); now I'm hovering around 170 lbs (12.2 stone). So, I've lost about 67 lbs altogether at this point. And as this is the thinnest I can ever remember being since the age of 12, it's pretty fucking awesome. 

Since losing weight, I've experienced all kinds of lovely things that someone who has always been in relatively good shape probably wouldn't notice.... Like when I discovered that collarbones are not just a mythical body part, but that I actually have some. (I still marvel at them in the mirror sometimes, like I think they might've disappeared since the last time I looked or something.) 

Most recently, I had to buy a belt, not just for the sake of fashion, but actually to hold my pants up! Thin people reading this are probably like 'Uh.... duh?' But, having always had more than enough stomach chub to hold up the pants of TWO people, I was inordinately proud of myself... Like a small child who has just gone poo-poo in the big potty for the first time. "MOMMY, I BOUGHT A BELT! :B "

But there are some down sides. Exercise still sucks. I suppose I thought at some point, after losing weight, it would become something easy and enjoyable, the way thin people make it look on TV.... And that is very much not the case. Those thin TV people are fucking liars, because it still sucks. If anyone tells you otherwise, they are either lying to fuck with you, or you're talking to a replicant. 

What's worse though is this: you can't spot train. Meaning that I can lift weights until I'm blue in the face, but that under-arm flab is still going to be there. Yeah, it'll be sloshing around over a bundle of hard-ass muscle, but... The sloshing really kind of kills the effect, y'know? 

So, I find myself here: flollumping along on the elliptical machine, grimacing as I wheeze for breath, the sweat drizzling down the back of my head (of all the fucking places) and from my armpits... And there sits the fat, clinging to my stomach like a koala*, refusing to budge no matter how much I flollump or how many goddamn apples I eat instead of cookies. 

Sigh. I miss you, cookies. 

*Note that I am not in any way glamorizing my fat by comparing it to a koala; koalas, albeit adorable, are actually vicious little bastards who would cut you as soon as look at you.