*Originally Written March 29, 2008*
Today I ate. 
(Well, duh! I eat everyday.)
A lot.
Too much, in fact.
When I set out for Dillar’s restaurant tonight, I didn’t plan on ordering as much as I did. I was hungry, true, but this amount of food for one person is completely ridiculous. (Unless, of course, you’re Sally Struthers, in which case it would have just been a few bites from an appetizer.) I had a cup of baked French onion soup, a four-piece chicken strip appetizer, and a half-pound bacon cheeseburger with fries. And three sodas. (Although, I had only wanted two, but the waitress filled the glass a third time without my knowledge, as I was reading.)
I am now officially terrified and this is not an emotional state I am used to being in. I keep having flashbacks to certain scenes from the movie Alien. Also, I know you can get stretch marks on the outside of your stomach on the skin (as I have a shit load of them! Oh, yeah, I’m sexy.), and I am now debating the possibility of having stretch marks on my actual stomach.
I’m pretty sure I’m either going to have an Alien moment (which would save greatly on the stomach-pump fees), or I am going to give birth to the world’s biggest piece of shit. Either way, I’m not going to enjoy the pain. This is teaching me a lesson in using the phrase “Can I get a to-go box, please?”, instead of eating everything in sight, including the other patrons. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go eat a box of Ex-lax.
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