Shrunken head, shrunken brain, not so shrunken arse

I came upon this relic of my past life today, rummaging through the wardrobe. Never a wise move, is it. But you see, that's where he hides the money.

Can you see that? No, not the mummified (dried avocado, craft lovers) head. That's purely decorative. A treat for ploughing through a post about cellulite and self-loathing, if you will. Apparently, once upon a time, I had a twenty four inch waist. Shit! I should have had myself cryogenically preserved at that magical brief moment!

Look, my thigh was only the size of three tubes of cellulite cream!

My waist was the size of a two headed snake/rhino/tiger beast (I am guessing this is not how Victoria Beckham measure her waist is it, but again, I don't want to bore you unduly)!

I am allowed to tell you this, obnoxiously, because now, it's more like this.

Of course, being a masochist I thought I would see how far up my legs I could get them. Let's just say, closer to feet than waist by some considerable way.

This should come with an uplifting moral, shouldn't it. About how now I am happy and contented and full of love for my womanly curves. The fuck it should. It was GREAT being cadaverously thin. I loved it. Admittedly, it came as a side effect of being certifiably gibberingly crazy, and that in turn required group therapy and almost nothing could ever be worth group therapy (more on this later, I think). Nope. If you wanted uplifting you came to the wrong blog.

Honestly, I don't know. Clearly this 'sane' business is immeasurably better in almost every way.

But thin was nice. I miss you, thin. Can't I have both? Dammit.