You have been on my mind a lot lately. And, there are a few things that I would like to get off my chest…
First, how dare you? Can’t you tell that I take careful precautions to avoid you? Do you have any regard for the fact that you’re not wanted? I don’t know one person who is glad to have you hanging around, oblivious creep.
I don’t appreciate your constant photobombs. They’re inappropriate and unwanted. Mind your own business, nutcase.
It seems that I can’t sit down without you peering out of the hemline of my shorts. Every. Damn. Time. Knock it off!
How would you like it if I made the back of your thighs look like a crisscut french fry? Yeah, that’s what I thought, ya bozo.
You made my booty looked like the moon’s surface in those awesome turquoise leggings! Thanks for nothing, sleezball.
You’re cramping my style. Take a hike, schmuck!
Get off my ass. Literally. Back off!
Why are you here? Do you run in my genes or did you think I would be a great host? Regardless, thanks for nothing.
Lastly, I feel like I aught to be ashamed of you. You make me feel less than. At times, you stand in the way of my confidence.
Well, screw you! You’re not going to stop me, jackass! I have tried to get rid of you since my teenage years, yet you linger. Maybe it’s time I accept it and move on. You’re like my annoying tendency to get motion sick at the smallest movement, or the marks on my hips that remind me of chubbier days, or the short postpartum hairs that curl up around my ears giving me a faint resemblance to some nymph in Lord of The Rings.
Maybe it just is what it is.
Maybe it’s not that big of a deal.
Maybe nobody cares but me.
Cellulite, I don’t know that I’ll ever get any closer to acceptance. But, in the meantime, it sure feels good to slap you around.
Until next time, slimeball.