Well, despite yon grazeage, my equatorial belt has not reduced in line with the lack of consumption.
As before, one has to put this down to other slimming types who are telepathically teleporting their lard from themselves unto me, via the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter (and thus clearly precipitating a flexi-tangenital spatial interflux within the symbiotic parameters of existential functionalism).
Or something.
Well, I'm sick of their dietary displacement! In addition to the lack of Cake Pie, I may have to turn to the taking of tapewormy tablets without the wormy bit.
In other words, get the Adios effect!
However, a pill to thin me down is all well and good, but I'm a tad wary of them there side-FX.
A propensity to prance past postblokes in my pants*, and also to purchase a pair of pink sparkly sequinned hotpants with an intent to meet up with other pink sparkly sequinned hotpanted harlots at bus stops.
As if my current visual repulsion to all wasn't enough to scare a troll into fits, can you imagine me down The Whatacunt with preposterous hair, ludicrous shades, a Nephilim shirt and tightly fitting pink sparkly sequinned hotpants.
Although actually, they may match the purple flamey bits of me NudeCocks. Some gals have matching shoes and handbags, I have boots and hotpants.
Camel toe? Peter Griffin chin with a fibbed up Pinnochio, more like!
* NOT POSTBLOKES IN MY PANTS. ME, IN MY PANTS, DANCING AROUND ROYAL MAIL'S POOR DELIVERERS FROM EVIL.
