Listen, I understand that we have a tumultuous relationship. You bear a lot (*snort*) on a daily basis between my husband and I, but really. Come on, now. I've been trying. Walking five miles a day, five days a week for the past six weeks in the blazing heat, sweating more than any girl should have to is HARD. I deserve a little movement from you. Instead, all I get are smug looks and profane little clicks that land on the same bloody (horrifying) number every damn day. All I'm asking for is a couple of pounds. Five. We'll start with FIVE measly pounds. You can do that, can't you? Even the stubbornnest of my features, my thighs have moved a little, exchanging some of the chub for some more defined muscle, and my waist is slowly but surely disappearing where it knows it's not wanted.
So all I'm saying, Mr. Bathroom scale, is that it wouldn't kill you to ease up a little. I've stopped with all the butter. I quit using half and half in my coffee. I've cut WAY back on bread. In fact, if you don't start seeing things my way, I'm gonna chunk you out the upstairs window, and watch you fall to your twisted plastic, metal and springy guts death to the ground below.
And then I'll do the Evil Carrie laugh and inhale a creme brulee or something. Because being good reallllllllly sucks rocks.
You have three weeks, punk ass scale. Consider this your formal written warning.
Sincerely and with the utmost support (for now),
P.S. FUZE Slenderize Blueberry Raspberry drink at 20 calories, is pretty great.