Grasso Gatta

         That's italian for "fat cat", (or at least according to google translator). I speak for both Fibby and myself when I say that we've put on a few. I owe it all to the delicious food at Mellow Mushroom... and Fibby could do without having access to both her kitten chow and Brodi's dry food bowl.. as well as the surplus of treats my mother gives her in addition to the ones I give her on a regular basis (not to mention a spoonful of wet food here and there). I recently started getting into running to try and keep off the weight, which I knew was coming because italian food is my favorite. My hobby died very quickly. I only ran three times before I couldn't do it to myself anymore. Walking up the stairs like a gimp at mellow mushroom every night after my runs is what got me. Not only was it excruciatingly painful, but also excruciatingly embarrassing. I'm ashamed though that I gave up so quickly because now I desperately need a new workout regimen ASAP before I start resembling Peter Griffin in a g-string.

and that is not fat with a "ph"

        In Fibby's case, she might not be so unfortunate to be a little on the obese side if it weren't for the the ridiculously unproportional size of her head compared to her body. It's like somebody photoshopped my cat in real life.

I at least hope this woman's head was photoshopped.

        Her gut is already hanging out of her new dress that I got her THE OTHER DAY. She is of course, still beautiful and adorable to me but as her mother I can' t help but notice the effects of her eating habits.. so I've just been trying to hardcore intensively play with her (which is basically just batting a shoe string around for an hour). As for me, I suppose I'll try to either work on my diet or perhaps pick running back up... even if it makes me feel like I should just rip my lungs out and beat them against the ground right then and there. 

this expresses the way I feel about running perfectly.. and the love doesn't come in until I'm walking inbetween intervals of death. 

       I honestly don't believe that anyone genuinely likes running. It's all a big lie. Deep down everyone is thinking "Why the hell am I torturing myself?" with every pace. There is just no way. I recall pondering what I would do if I had to face the ultimatum of running for an hour, an HOUR, to save my first born child's life or something... which now that I think about it an hour of pain is nothing compared to something so important but as I was running my 2 minute intervals I thought the agony would strike me dead before it mattered anyway. 

I'm typically the kind of person that completely overreacts in times of suffering though