chilli cream

I don't know if it's a PMS-related erratic whim or pure, unadulterated idiotism, but I've signed up for a slimming programme using chilli. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid this is the last resort for me to transform into Dainty Dolphin from Beached Whale before the next seismic disaster hit. Actually this stems from KC's incessant nagging for me to be reedy enough for him to carry around, and as much as I get tremendously pissed from this obvious need for superficial perfection in one's significant other half found mainly in the male genes, I thought to myself "heck, end times are near and I simply HAVE to strut around looking babelicious in ultra-revealing slutty clothes before being swallowed by a giant wave or a giant mutated earthworm".

So I rubbed some chilli cream on the huge tub of lard that I used to recognise as a stomache this morning (preview of what to expect during my slimming sessions), and boy oh boy did it hurt. It fucking burned like Gollum's fairy leash. I was writhing and wailing in agony like a leech on a salt mountain, tempted to break the bathroom mirror and hack my skin off. I now fully comprehend the phrase "no pain, no gain". And this chilli cream thing had better work. Or else I swear I'll *censored for extreme gore and obscenity*

I will apply chilli cream again tomorrow. I must get use to it somehow. It's only fair to the beautician that her other customers and civilians within the mile's radius don't flee in terror when I go in for my session.

Anyone who has a better recommendation speak now or forever be silent, unless and until I come back as an obese vengeful apparition denied of a chance to wriggle into a bikini and walking the walk before Christ's second coming.