Peace Out

Dear Larry,

What up, bastard? Just wanted to drop you a line to let you know that you’re outta here. I don’t need you. Yes you helped me gain weight, which was suuuper sweet of you, but in the end you really were just an eyesore and kind of a drag.

I am free!

I still have weight to gain, but I’ve shown my treatment team that I can drink the super thick up-chuck liquid Boost on my own, glug glug glug, which means that you are nothing but a tacky face accessory. And we all know that I am anything but tacky.

We kinda had a love/hate relationship, didn’t we? I mean, I hated you because you made people think I had Cancer and Chrone’s Disease, and you gave me rashies and sore noses, but really, you helped me too. You helped me gain that weight that I just couldn’t quite do on my own. And even though I hate humble pie, mostly because in my mind it tastes like Mince Meat Pie, and who wants to eat pie that has red meat in it?—but I ate the pie, yes I did; I didn’t yoink you out, and I let you do your job with the aid of God and my benzos. So, seven weeks later, I am xx lbs higher, very close to my goal weight, and grateful that I am here, and not here, back at square one. You did your job. And now it’s time for me to do mine: to maintain my weight, and then gain a little more, all while kicking ass, passing go, and collecting 200 dollars.

Go bother some other withering waif (creative alliteration – 2 points!) now. Me not be needin’ you.

Peace and calories,
Brie