I loathe times like these. Formal dinners, evening gala, the works. My only stash of decent-looking clothes are salvaged from my mum's wardrobe (and in dire circumstances, the stuff she meant to give away to the orphanage). Yes you heard me. 80% of the womanly pieces of cloth I paraded around in during my stint in KPMG actually belonged to my mum. And we donated them off the week after I quit. Good riddance. But now, I might just have to dig around for remnants because Boss doesn't quite approve of my meeting up with clients in my teeshirt-and-faded-jeans-do.
But that's besides the point. Main topic: I am fat. Obscene fat tub of lard. Since I don't have any formal do, I resorted to begging some off June because I've seen some of her pictures with them nice, sexy dresses and she assured me that even an ogress with my stature would be able to fit in those hot stuff. I can't. I feel and look as sexy as a beached bleached bloated whale. I hate myself. I want to cower in the corner of my room and stay there and watch dustballs form and lizards eat mosquitoes.
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