22 1 / 2013

Partly as a joke and partly because it’s basically like eating two disgusting clouds worth of “whipped topping” (that someone told me includes ingredients like, “water, things you can’t pronounce, and condom lube”), at twenty calories a serving, I bought Cool Whip. This was a month ago, and the container will probably last me at least another few days as I can only tolerate about a teaspoon at a time, usually around 3am after I get back from whatever bar and usually while in all my clothing without putting my bag down yet, keys still in hand, as if I live in some third world country and this was a bad harvest season and I’m starving and I’ve been waiting for this moment for months instead of just the past three hours.
I was watching HBO’s Girls the other night, which is difficult enough for me. I relate too much to Hannah, what with her constant nagging about whether or not her newest boyfriend read her essay yet and how terrible most of her boyfriends are anyway. It’s a weird love/hate thing where I feel like I’m watching myself and I critique it harshly because of that, in a way I critique nothing else except my own work and my body.
And after all that, I just want to be Marnie.
This week, I watched the latest episode of Girls around 2am after a night out that ended not with a bang, but with a half hearted hug from me as my undate whimpered. I turned on the TiVo and five minutes in, decide I want to eat roughly twenty calories worth of something that tastes like chemical clouds, but dissolves like melting plastic and would probably absorb into my brain instead of my thighs. I go into my freezer and as I’m wont to do, grab a demitasse spoon and a teacup and take my allotted ration of cream flavored toxins back to my couch only to walk in and see Hannah on the TV eating Cool Whip straight from the container after she gets back home from seeing a Republican boy.
I believe my exact reaction to this was in this order:
1. Horror, because this was MY secret shame and Hannah was stealing it from me.
2. Justification; at least I put my Cool Whip in a cute cup. Like, as if in the hierarchy of pathetic shame spiral secrets, mine was a little less sad. I omitted to myself that this was actually the first time the Cool Whip made it to a serving dish of any kind. I feel it tastes best when I stand in front of the freezer eating it while thinking about how I shouldn’t be eating it.
3. Acceptance; I am not the beautiful and unique and quirky manic snowflake I so desperately want to believe I am.
4. To loudly announce, “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.”
Anyway, I’m switching to Reddi Whip.

Partly as a joke and partly because it’s basically like eating two disgusting clouds worth of “whipped topping” (that someone told me includes ingredients like, “water, things you can’t pronounce, and condom lube”), at twenty calories a serving, I bought Cool Whip. This was a month ago, and the container will probably last me at least another few days as I can only tolerate about a teaspoon at a time, usually around 3am after I get back from whatever bar and usually while in all my clothing without putting my bag down yet, keys still in hand, as if I live in some third world country and this was a bad harvest season and I’m starving and I’ve been waiting for this moment for months instead of just the past three hours.

I was watching HBO’s Girls the other night, which is difficult enough for me. I relate too much to Hannah, what with her constant nagging about whether or not her newest boyfriend read her essay yet and how terrible most of her boyfriends are anyway. It’s a weird love/hate thing where I feel like I’m watching myself and I critique it harshly because of that, in a way I critique nothing else except my own work and my body.

And after all that, I just want to be Marnie.

This week, I watched the latest episode of Girls around 2am after a night out that ended not with a bang, but with a half hearted hug from me as my undate whimpered. I turned on the TiVo and five minutes in, decide I want to eat roughly twenty calories worth of something that tastes like chemical clouds, but dissolves like melting plastic and would probably absorb into my brain instead of my thighs. I go into my freezer and as I’m wont to do, grab a demitasse spoon and a teacup and take my allotted ration of cream flavored toxins back to my couch only to walk in and see Hannah on the TV eating Cool Whip straight from the container after she gets back home from seeing a Republican boy.

I believe my exact reaction to this was in this order:

1. Horror, because this was MY secret shame and Hannah was stealing it from me.

2. Justification; at least I put my Cool Whip in a cute cup. Like, as if in the hierarchy of pathetic shame spiral secrets, mine was a little less sad. I omitted to myself that this was actually the first time the Cool Whip made it to a serving dish of any kind. I feel it tastes best when I stand in front of the freezer eating it while thinking about how I shouldn’t be eating it.

3. Acceptance; I am not the beautiful and unique and quirky manic snowflake I so desperately want to believe I am.

4. To loudly announce, “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.”

Anyway, I’m switching to Reddi Whip.

  1. chanelleiam said: correction: you ARE the beautiful and unique and quirky manic snowflake you so desperately want to believe you are. and then some. i fucking adore you. cool whip in a teacup and all.
  2. workingclassweirdo reblogged this from stefispice
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