I am bloated. Big time. Somebody told me that your metabolism slows down every seven years, which, at 28, would mean that I've recently passed another seven year mark. Maybe that's why I feel fat. Either that or my devil-may-care diet or complete and utter disregard for exercise and/or activities that involve moving. Whatever it is, I'm not liking it. I feel like I'm full of jelly. I feel like I'm dangerously close to splitting my pants. Which pair of pants, you ask? All of them. Even the ones I haven't worn in weeks.

I even took one of those gas pills on Saturday, the gas pills that Jessie bought for Chris for his thirtieth birthday as a way of saying ha ha, you're old as sin and will soon have a need for these. The gas pill did nothing. As a sidenote, Jessie purchased a bottle of senior citizen vitamins for Chris (as part of that same joke) that I've also been diligently taking. Why let vitamins go to waste? Why should senior citizens have all of the nutrients and the rest of us, none?

Anyway, I'm sitting here right now with my pants unbuttoned while I stare at my computer monitor. It's quite a sight. Somebody peering in my windows might assume that I'm a pervert. But, no. It's not that. I'm just fat. And by fat, I mean bloated. Fat sounds permanent; bloated sounds temporary. Please, let this be temporary. I am not in a position to be financing a new wardrobe.