we all think about it sometimes.

Wow, that was a pretty provocative title, unintentional of course. This is an excerpt from a rant on dieting I found in my vault tonight. Please disregard everything that follows, it was a moment of weakness from who knows when, it was just a rant. I do, however, have the same sentiments for gyms, models, and dieting. And it's my blog so I really don't care anyway. I think it's pretty funny.

I don't know why I feel the need to be a stick figure, but I'm going on a diet. [no, I'm not] Okay maybe I do know why, perhaps it's because every form of media bombards society with images of malnourished minors who are scantily clad in nothing but skin and hand bags, and know everything there is to know about seducing a man properly. Then, it is subconsciously drilled into our brains that every man who is straight would only be interested in said waifs in need of a sandwich. Not that I've ever been the kind of girl to conform, well, to pretty much anything, but I've been trained to believe that my chances of winning myself a hot, sexy, mormon boy with a strong testimony and a good sense of humor may significantly increase if the inches around my hips were to decrease. I'm not saying I need to lose a hundred pounds or anything, maybe just 20, okay that's probably too much, maybe 15, okay 12. I would be happy with 12 lbs.
I can't help it, when involved in the fashion industry you just happen to see so many worldly things, and sometimes those things are very appealing. Like being a desirable waif-like person. So it's a diet for me...[ I go on about a lot of nothing, but I'll just skip to my favorite part].
...like all those excessively tan women you see leaving the gym with all their makeup still intact and their designer spandex perfectly caressing their $100 an hour trainer sculpted bodies, a vitamin infused smoothie in one hand, and the keys to a glossy SUV in the other. Well, I would never wear makeup to the gym, and I don't really want to go tanning until I have skin cancer and premature aging, or ever for that matter. Actually, I don't want to go the gym at all, I don't like gym beef boys looking at me as I struggle with those straps and computerized contraptions with no makeup, bad hair, and definitely no spandex to speak of. It seems like I'm always the magnet for that guy, you know the one, in the sweaty tank top who you caught posing in different flex stances in front of the mirror. That guy always tries to "give me a hand" with those devilish weight machines. And it always seems to take at least three resounding no-thank-yous before they walk off shaking their heads, convinced I'm not getting that he was doing the ugly gym girl a favor by trying to make friends. I don't know who invented the tank top for men, but I'm definitely not a fan. Okay, maybe I don't really want to be that perfect girl leaving the gym, because she's not so perfect, and the gym sucks. But I'm going to eat salads and drink vitamin water and love it.

Yeah...I have an SUV. It's not real glossy though. I like me, even when I eat loads of cinnamon rolls.