Listen. I know. It’s been a Lionel’s age since I’ve barked at you. But you know what? There’s a reason for that. And it’s not something I particularly want to discuss, but since nobody will leave me alone, here it is:
I got fat.
Like, my-harness-pinches-rolls-of-torso-blubber-off-my-ribs fat. I guess that’s why J started making me wear this Hannibal Lecter face dealy on walks. But it’s not like that thing’s ideal, because it makes the sniffing of sidewalk garbage and scent juice nearly impossible.
If I had a choice, I’d wear the tummy-pinchy harness. It may not be flattering, but at least it lets me ram my snout in the leavings of my peers.
I don’t know. Winter’s a difficult season. My birthday’s coming up in February. The 18th. I’ll be SEVEN EFFING YEARS OLD (or “1″ in your human years). So depressing. I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything important. I haven’t traveled. I haven’t fallen in love. I haven’t even humped a random saucy bitch in the T-Bell; and I mean, pretty much everybody has done that.
What the fuck am I doing with my life.
I’m a fat, 6 1/2-year-old virgin who wears a vinyl face mask in public.
Who wants to read a blog about that?
