Out West for the End of the World
I'm back on the (Canadian) West Coast, in my natural habitat, and swinging my shit around like I own the place. Hello Vancouver! You're just as beachy, mountainy, and Lululemony as when I left you -- and excluding that last part, I still love all of you.
It's good to be home. In a few short days, I've already forgotten what is was like to be productive and I've made significant progress on my holiday weight gain. Just before sitting down to write this post I ate an entire baguette -- with a wheel of brie and fig jam. I'm fat and classy like that.
In my defense, my gluttony is practical as the end is nigh. According to the Mayan calendar, the world as we know it is ending tomorrow. Is anyone else even slightly concerned about this? I mean... what if? What if they were right and the world ends tomorrow?
I'm not going to be that asshat who mocks it only to be laughed at by historians in a new, rebuilt civilization, who study us in future universities, like we do now about the Ancient Greeks and their seemingly crazy medicinal practices like bloodletting and think, "if they only knew better!?"
bag: Sienna Ray
Have I lost my mind? Maybe. But maybe those future academics will look back kindly on this post as the paranoid ramblings of someone thought to be crazy but really, was right.
Regardless, I don't plan on ending with the rest of the world. I'm going to survive the end of the world with said holiday weight gain. No food on the planet? I've got fat stored up (heck, I might even have some muscle still from when I worked out in '09!) for days, or at least until the alien invasion when I'll have my chance to be taken as a pudgy human bride for the alien King.
The world turns into a cold, dark abyss? I've got enough padding to keep me warm, and enough cushion around my bod to keep me comfortable in the harshest environments.
Not enough energy to stay alive? Not a problem if you've been carbo-loading for days, which I have been, naturally.
The only thing I'm not prepared for is cannibalism. I won't eat you, but I'm worried I won't receive the same respect. I mean, my badonk is going to make a killer rump roast that could probably feed a family of 4 for at least a couple of days.
Just do me a favor and make a nice meal out of me. I really don't want to go out as someone's shitty sandwich.
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