2008-06-24 - 11:52 a.m.
You're too fat.
Look. You're too fat.
Not pudgey. Not sausagey. Not chunky. Not "curvy". Not "athletic". Not "volumptuous". Not "thick". Not roll-y poll-y shaped. Not juicy. Not jiggy. Not Jack-N-The-Box fed. Not average. Not Samoan. Not sassy. Not black. Not large-n-in-charge.
Not lucious. Not low center of gravity. Not kind. Not big-hearted. Not smart. Not intelligent. Not sophisticated. Not educated. Not sexy. Not sultry. Not anybody's loss. Not my problem. Not my character. Not my shallowness. Not my small penis. Not my mommy issues. Not your thyroid gland. Not the fabric. Not the dress. Not the color. Not the day. Not the month. Not discrimination. Not misogyny. Not maturity. Not society. Not your personality. Not your identity. Not your activity. Not working on it. Not waiting for it. Not losing it. Not denying it.
You're too fucking fat.
It will not work out.
Ever.
Never ever. Ever.... Ever.
I see your fat ankles, your fat belly, your fat wrists, your fat chubby chipmunk face, your fat wide ass, your fat dimpled cottage cheese thighs, your fat over-stuffed sausage fingers, your fat beady little chinese eyes, your fat head, and my dick doesn't want to wage war with your vagina. It wants to surrender and run away.
Wow, you have miles and miles of accomplishments on your dating resume: Capt. of the fast food team. Graduated from Harvard with a degree in biochemistry. Own seventeen fortune 500 catfood companies. Donate to charities and orphanages. Volunteer for breast cancer awareness week. Enjoy vineyards and wineries. Bake, cook, sew, farm, fly, camp, hike, fish, hunt, sing, teach, dance (ballroom & swing). You're diversified and focused. Accomplished and philanthropic. Gentle and ambitious.
But you're fucking fat.
And I'm a guy.
And mixing oil and water in a bowl designed by NASA, with a golden spoon built by BMW still won't align the planets in your favor. In order for me to love you, my dick must be able to get hard. In order for my dick to get hard, your body must not look like a well tailored, poshly groomed pile of mashed potatoes. You are a big fucking mass of mayo, starbucks lattes, diplomas, french toast, manners, magazines, butter, sugar, cereal, salami, mac & cheese, talk shows, hand bags, Fritos bags, red licorice ropes, Skittles, malls, muffins, movies, clubs, bars, desserts, designer chocolates, Oreos, cheese enchiladas, hash browns, Hot Pockets, mini pizzas, pastas, pushup bras, pastels, pastries, foundation, feng shui, and a stew of food additives. When I look at you, I compare you to cracks in the sidewalk. Holes in donuts. Spaces between couch cushions. Fucking a roll of toilet paper would be more sexually appealing than mounting your beefy ass.
Consider this a deal breaker. I don't want to hear about how much you contribute, how far you've come, how high you hope to push the glass ceiling.
I just want to know if you're 120lbs. or less.
Because if my dick can't get hard straddling your Nabisco-sculpted anatomy, you can forget about holding hands in public.
You ham sandwich fuck.
