I have nothing to Offer but the haphazard that is my current state of mind

Week 2. Still Fat. No weight loss. But no weight gain. I guess that's good.

The week started much like every week, in tears on a scale in too small underwear and a bra that barely contained my tits. I checked and rechecked...no change...fuck you scale.

I prompted my weight loss with a hike with friends. Only because of my stationary lifestyle my ass and legs were on fire for the next three days. I walked like I had taken a few up places that God would not condone.

So we go to Monday. I measure and dissect everything I eat that day. I keep the food to a minimum and the water to a maximum. I'm pumped and excited for the work out that I am going to do when I get home.

Recently the babe and I purchased a smart TV...Samsung. These smart TV's...these things are beyond me. Many buttons, all these apps. It is important to note that I am technologically retarded. I still ask if we own a Blu Ray player...we own a PS3. So I create an account for the fitness app. I put in my stats...and do you know what the fucker tells me? I'm obese. Fuck you Samsung, you are obese. And although it caused another round of tears for the day, I decided to follow through with a work out.

I stand in my living room following the moves of "cardio kick butt" instructed by some asshole who has never measured their food. I am bouncing here and there all the while making my old house rattle, causing thee empty beer cans on the coffee table to make the sweet sound of embarrassment. I stopped at the ten minute mark, half of the 120 calories that I was projected to burn...so why the fuck am I not skinny yet? Just kidding. I know that answer. Kind of.

I feel that I should mention that I just watched a show called OZ. In this particular episode, Chris Meloni shows his very circumcised penis for a good ten seconds...that was a lot of Stabler dick.

I hope I didn't drive you away, or maybe I've attracted a new reader...

Self Editing

I promise to try and not make this a post about a new year resolution, in fact, lets just cut the bullshit and say this is not. End point.
Rather, this is the post, the new post of the new year. This is where I hang the metaphorical clothes in the front yard, air out the vulnerability, and display my personal shit like some Facebook status after a bottle of wine and rom-com. And then when I am done, I hope that you, the reader of this bitchy manifesto, will provide insight, feedback, criticism, or just some semblance of guidance.

The Big One
I've been living in this "glory days" fantasy where I reminisce about the time that my stomach was flat and my tits were huge. Well lets be fair, the tits are still huge but god damn the stomach, that fucking stomach is not by any means flat. And I consistently bitch about it as I stuff an oil riddled slice of pizza, washing it down with the tequila and extra salt. And then I have the fucking nerve to wonder why I don't look like Penelope Cruz. And mind you, I'm saying this as I plunge bacon popcorn down my throat.
The truth is that the "glory days" was this small window of the ages 18-19 when a bikini didn't get lost in the jelly that I now call my body. Two years max, and yet I look on them like it was over a decade of good memories. I've spent the better part of my twenties on fad diets, gall bladder restrictions, and just wishing I could look awesome. So I guess this is where I tell you something profound like, "I find myself happy with my weight" or "I am beautiful on the inside". The latter is true, but lets get this straight, I don't want to turn 29, 30 hating the mirror. And I don't want to constantly complain. So there we go...

Hemingway's muse
Fuck that, Hemingway was an over adjective user. I just want to write. I want to put my shit out there regardless of it being liked or appreciated. As long as the love of my life turns to me and says "I love it, well done mi vida" or my aunt proudly posts to her Facebook page, the rest  is just fluff. I enjoy this, I enjoy putting all of this on a blog, in a poem, to the first few pages of what will one day be a published book. I stopped the talking and I started the writing. And I am having a really good time.

Sensitivity
Ah yes, the one thing all who know me will wholeheartedly agree on, Vanessa is fucking sensitive. Could be good, could be bad. Mostly bad. I fucking cry all the time. ALL THE TIME. And believe me, its gotten a little better. This is me at my best. I am emotional and sensitive. And I am definitely working on it, because not everyone knows how to communicate, not everyone knows how they affect others, and not everything is a personal attack. It's just a comment, a look, its not necessarily about me. I had and will continue to knock down the ego.Good God I can be a pain in the ass.

That's where I will leave it for now. Its not a resolution for the new year, because these are lifetime changes I want, not some pseudo promise for the first three weeks of the year. They are goals, promises to my partner, my family, and my future.