I’d like to start of today’s post with something that is completely unrelated to the post title. I was talking with JB when the conversation slowly drifted to my obsession with my body (or as he put it, my abuse of) and how difficult it is to find a middle between very skinny and very err, chubby.

“Don’t you want me to be pretty?”

“Of course I do, darling. It always feels nice to walk with a beautiful girl.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, your self-esteem goes up threefold, not to mention the envious looks of other men. We really are a competitive lot.”

“So it’s like carrying a Kelly or Birkin bag.”

“I’m assuming that’s one of those bags that cost more than an average man’s monthly pay.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then yes, it’s like carrying a bag.”

“So I’m your Birkin bag.”

“You can say that, yes.”

I’m not going to go into the feminism approach of “JB is a chauvinistic bastard who thinks women are handbags”, simply because I always had a feeling the majority of the fashion industry strictly caters to men in the sense that women buy the products to cater themselves to men. If men all said in unison that they can no longer view any female with a waistline of less than forty inches to be female or desirable, I have a feeling Lays and Nestle and Mars. Inc would suddenly see their stocks skyrocketing. SO yes! It’s the men’s fault that I can now fit into a size double 0 and can wear a size 0 jeans on top of another!

Anyway, then we moved onto American obesity (although British women’s average BMI is more than their American counterparts’… who would have guessed?) when Jack mentioned this monstrosity:

If you want to know, that is not some kind of a monstrosity from the planet Mars, but rather, it’s supposed to be edible. It’s called “Kentucky Double Down Sandwich”, and instead of a bun it utilizes two fried chicken patties in the place of bread. The calorie isn’t awful – 540kcal, which is around the same as a Big Mac – but still this looks dreadful. My guess is that it’s about the size of my hand, but fried chicken, cheese, bacon, and then fried chicken?! I might need angio after eating this thing that masquerades as food.

Then:

“It was greasy.”

“YOU ATE IT?!”

“Well, I had to! IM did too.”

JB and IM ate this work of art… I’m not entirely certain what possessed them, because I won’t go near this thing with a three foot pole. After a steady diet of raw vegetables for nearly two months, just looking at this thing gives me heartburns. What on earth has possessed KFC to create this nightmare-ish food? I know that they cater to young men (aka JB and IM) but let’s see… carb, fat, protein, more fat, fat, fat, protein. Which, by the way, no one in the 1st world country is lacking, certainly not here. This baffles me.

I also fail to see why JB had to eat it. But anyway…

IC has officially gone down the drain. Or more like a ditch. Or a toilet. Or one of those very unsavoury places that I sincerely hope I’ll never visit. Not only was he a borderline alcoholic last year AND had an emotionally unstable girlfriend (MORE than me, which is quite a feat), he’s been doing drugs. Since… oh, god knows when.

Now, I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I certainly do not do anything that is not condoned. I don’t have tattoos. Even in the eyes of the Mormon church there’s not much they can condemn about me. And then this news.

May I say that I feel it was perfectly natural for me to panic? And there he was, in Ghirardelli’s, calmly sipping chocolate milk shake and telling me this as if he was telling me that he got a new iPod. I did not go into a new bout of hysterics, but at that moment, our relationship – or what was left of it – was O.V.E.R.

I don’t consort with druggies, thanks very much.

Here are the comments from my friends about this incident:

IM: He’s a fucking seaweed. Leave him alone.

JB: Just leave him alone. You’d rather spend your time with more worthwhile friends, wouldn’t you?

RB: You can’t do anything for him but pray.

J: Il est un connard.

I understand that my controlling nature is a problem as well, but his lack thereof is another problem by itself. One thing is certain: he will make a wonderful addition to my novel. People really do love to see someone who has everything have a mighty downfall and end up with nothing. Schardenfrude, as Germans say.

Apparently in Britain they take the BP incident as the US bashing Britain. I fail to see how. I have no doubt that if the US spilled a million barrels of oil in Dover strait, they’d be all over the place trumpeting about how un-environmental the US is.

It’s rather infuriating. Hayward blurted out that he “wants his life back”… right. What about the lives of those who died? Or perhaps the LIVES OF THE PEOPLE WHO LOST THEIR JOBS BECAUSE OF THIS? Then some git commented on Reuters that “BP is a multinational company, why are the British the only ones getting beaten? ‘Tis unfair.” Umm, let me think… maybe it’s because BP is a British company. Hell, it even has BRITISH in its name. Or perhaps it now stands for “Barrels of Petroleum” [in the sea]?

Then: “Britain is a good friend of the US. Why is the US beating on its good friend?”

If you haven’t noticed, oh Britain, America befriends someone with MONEY. If Mexico suddenly became an economical superpower overnight, trust me, America would be sashaying over to Mexico in an instant. I’m not too certain what they are thinking.

I can say this: this is NOT America’s fault. This is NOT anyone’s fault but BP’s, since Deepwater Horizon was under BP’s control when it exploded into a fiery inferno. Not to mention they did not put necessary safety measures, despite several warnings from the US government.

Oh, and did I mention BP’s pipeline in Alaska rusting and causing severe trouble? I thought that kind of mishaps were too elementary to occur…