Fatty Flashback: EatBeast Roommate Can't Get a Date Hello shitlords, shitladies, and four or five stupid fatties whose only exercise is downvoating my tales of your whale-relatives!  Nothing interesting to report today, because I've been out of the house basically from 10 AM on. As many of you know, I have an awesome boyfriend who's preparing to go on a study-abroad trip in April. I'm going to miss him a lot, because our dates consist of banging, exercising, and shitlording. He's basically the best, and he has good hair.  I am a romantic little shitlady. I think it's because I watched '500 Days of Summer' in the sixth grade and thought Summer was the biggest bitch known to man (I have different opinions now, but her bangs are still bomb as hell), or maybe it's because I read and reread the 'two minutes in the closet' scene from Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret. Thinking about my boyfriend today, as well as boyfriends previous, brought this cunning little flashback to my mind.  Before I met my boyfriend, a friend of mine convinced me to try Tinder and, because I live in a college town and not creepy-weird farm/meth town in Buttfuck, Nebrahoma, I assumed that the people I would eventually go on dates with would, in fact, be who they say they are. Our school, like many a college in America, is crawling with disgusting SJW pigmonster women, so I assumed I wouldn't have a ton of issues finding a few human-sized humans to talk to.  Sure enough, I meet this guy Jake a week or so later, after talking for a few days. Jake proposes we get coffee, and I was very pleased when he ordered a non-beetus drink. We shared a nice conversation about long-distance running before he noticed two reeee-reeee Rhondas walk in, complete with brightly dyed hair and visible armpit fur. He rolls his eyes in their general direction, and my heart skips a beat. A fellow shitlord, I think to myself.  Jake and I go out a few more times, but we decide to end it once term resumed, because he thought he'd be too busy for a girlfriend. That was all fine by me, so I went back home for the evening.  Tee Hee Tessie is still awake when I get home. It's eating a bag of those little greasy fried noodles that you put on top of Thai food, only instead of daintily sprinkling them on noodles, she's shoveling them into her maw.  I say, "Hey." Because I don't really want to talk to it, I hurry to the bathroom still wearing my high heels.  "Hey." It grumbles after me. "You're home early. Did Jake not want to go out anymore?"  WELL FUCK YOU, YOU DISTENDED CUNT FLAP. "Yeah, we called it off because he's going to be too busy."  "I mean, what do you expect when all they want you for is sex."  Every fiber of my healthily-underweight-completely-foreign-to-fatty being wanted to punch the bitch through a wall, but because I didn't feel like touching its greasy face or having to explain to my landlord why there's a hole in the wall three times the width of a normal human being, I showed restraint. I could've taken her bait, but then I would've said something truly TRIGGERING (which is actually a damn shame, could've gotten the mental hospital adventures spurred even earlier) and she probably would've just cried or something.  No. I didn't want fatty-tears. What I wanted was fatty-realization. (Which I understand is really fucking hard to get because their adipose makes them essentially mentally-handicapped, but I was looking fly as hell so I just went for it.) I said to her: "Maybe. But it's fun to have boys think you're cute and sexy. I wouldn't expect you to understand."  Tee Hee didn't say anything back. I went to the bathroom and took off my shoes and jacket. I put on my shitlady leggings and my shitlady bralette and walked out the door.  "Where're you going?" it mooed inquisitively.  "To Andrew's, upstairs. He just texted me, wanted to see if I wanted to watch a movie or something." (Author's note: Andrew is a fellow shitlord and very platonic friend. We learned early on that we could do some double-tagging triggering, and it's one of our favorite things to do!)  "Why're you going up there?"  "Because I'm wanted. It's a nice feeling."  I'll keep you guys posted. A day of silence on the fatty-front usually means a storm's a-brewin'.