Birthday Calories Don't Count and I Can't

I don't know if y'all knew this, but it was my birthday this weekend. JUST IN CASE I didn't post enough birthday-related pictures on Instagram last week, I'm letting you all know that it was, in fact, MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY.


Everyone knows that with birthdays come a lot of calories — that is unless you're a psychotic, type A control freak who enjoys denying themselves day-in and day-out, and has somehow convinced herself that she doesn't deserve to "cheat" on her own birthday. This is the type of future mom who will cheerfully feed her kids broccoli lemon cookies and truly believe that an apple is dessert. For that, I award you no points and may God have mercy on your soul.

But back to what I was saying: I ate a lot over the weekend. Like, an embarrassingly disgusting amount of what the #fitspo culture would label "cheat" food, but what I label "OMGIALMOSTFORGOTWHATFATANDDELICIOUSNESSTASTESLIKE" food. I inhaled so much garbage this past Friday through Sunday, that I felt the need to document it somewhere as a reminder to myself to never forget. So.

I can't...

that on Friday, I consumed: 1 sour cream cinnamon crueler, half of a strawberry-iced donut, 1/4 of a chocolate cake donut, 2 mini chicken biscuits from Chick-Fil-A, a frozen, flavorless Evol meal for lunch in an effort to punish myself, a sizeable piece of homemade rum cake, a funfetti cupcake, and a Negro Modelo — all within my 8-hour work day. But wait! There's more. That Friday night, I ingested a glass of champagne, a frozen margarita made with Everclear, a not-all-close-to-portion-size serving of chips and salsa which wasn't enough so flour tortillas with butter and salsa were also a part of that equation, fajitas with a deliberately ordered side of shredded cheese, a vodka cranberry, and two beers. Are you laughing yet? Because I am.

I can't...

that on Saturday, I consumed: a skinny vanilla Flat White (also my nickname in college), an undetermined amount of mimosas, a small handful of nachos, two double-shelled breakfast tacos, a mini vanilla cupcake, two beers, probably 5? vodka cranberries, some french fries, a couple bites of someone else's fried chicken, 1 hot wing someone else wasn't going to eat, some of the working parts of a cheese/meat board that actually tasted like ass but that I ate anyway because I was starving, and — to top it all off — mac and cheese with slices of hanger steak cut up into it. 

I can't...

that on Sunday, the last day of my birthday weekend extravaganza, I consumed: not 1 but 2 bagels (1 garlic, 1/2 of an everything and 1/2 of another garlic), a generous amount of hummus and dipping crackers, an ahi tuna burger that sounds healthy but probably isn't at all, a fingerful or two of fries, and (drum roll please) an adult milkshake called "The Lebowski." Yes, its contents are that of Kaluha and ice cream, and I'm unashamed to say I drank that shit like water.

And then had the farts.

And then was like, "All right. That's that. Birthday weekend eating is OVA." But fuck if it didn't all taste like heaven in my mouth and feel like pregnancy with twins in my stomach.

Take this post as a reminder to spoil your cravings rotten on your birthday. After all, you only birthday once a year (YOBOAY), so you might as well let your diet go balls to the wall since you have the perfect scapegoat for it. AMIRIGHT? 

If nothing else, I hope this recap of my past weekend's diet made you feel even a little better about your own. Whatevs. We're still hot, guys.



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