The fattest runner you know.

Fuck it, I'm eating a cookie.

I've been eyeballing those motherfuckers all day.

This morning I ran 4 miles.

In 36 minutes.

Now why on earth would I wake up at 5:25 in the crack-ass-of-god-damn, to pound my brittle, unlubricated knee joints into pavement, salivate like an overweight french mastiff and sweat through TWO sport bras all just to throw it away on a cookie?! (Ahem, 2 now.)

Because I'm STARVING.

Because I ate a salad and a tuna pack for lunch.

Because I'm sick and tired of being cushy.

Because my belly chub mocks me.

And reminds me of all the nights spent smoking pot and getting Wendy's at 2am.

I may have a chubby belly, but damn it, it's years worth of being surrounded by wonderful friends who share my love for food, beer and coming home smelling like bong water.

And damn it, those are fond motherfuckinmemories.

I think instead of insisting that my belly fat relocate, I'm just going to scrapbook the shit out of my stomach.