Fat girl falls down steps, breaks ankle A while back I came across a very funny story about a fat girl's torment in a pure barre class next to her shitlady friend.  You can read my summary about this hilarious public disclosure of self-immolation, which she published back in July.  Well as it turns out later in September another hilarious story appears about how she is going to become a hot girl.  In this subsequent story she promises to herself and others that she will become hot and toned and start eating kale and working out all the time.  She wants to attend barre classes and does not want to lie on the floor like a beached whale, holding back tears, while the shitladies around her are building under-armour abs, buns of steel, and badass ninja arms.   What does progress look like after 6 months?  Even fatter.  What is the result of being fat?  You fall and break bones. I can't believe she would share these embarrassing stories.  Its almost unbelievable.  Apparently she has not forgone the pizzas and taken up kale.  She is not working out constantly.  She got drunk and her fat ass fell down stairs and broke an ankle.  Now she's going to get even fatter.  So much for becoming a hot girl.   When the cast is removed will she return to pure barre or attempt to exercise?  I would pay money for the privilege of taking her to a yoga class that i could instruct.  I think I would pay her like $200 or something reasonable on the condition that she must put her mat in the front row in front of the mirrors and she can't leave at any point during the class.  I could motivate her fat ass legit.  I would make her hold Warrior 2 until her batwing arms were quivering and then I would make her hold it even longer until they fell to her sides like useless jelly.  I'd make her squat deep until the cottage cheese on her fat ass was shaking and then I'd stick my own ass in front her to motivate the cow to go deeper.  I'd make her hold boat pose until her non-existent core strength succumbed to the weight of her udders and she collapsed on the floor like a beached whale, struggling to breathe under the weight of her non-water supported girth.  If she could muscle her fat face off the floor to look around the room, she would see she was all alone, surrounded by fierce bitches like me that have no pity for her.  She would hear their synchronized darth-vader ujayi breathing perfectly timed to the poses which are set to the sweet rhythm of Britney and Gaga.  At some point I think I could get her to cry.  Maybe she would write another story about it.