flat tire

Every time I look down at my *lap* [don’t know a better word . . .] I see my mom! I’m sitting here at the computer in my unders and my thighs are spread out on the chair like a 25-pound bag of lima beans. My stomach is resting on them with no apparent need to change anything. When I’m in the bathroom I have to leave the light off. I really can’t even look at myself right now.

And nothing seems to be changing.

Oh, wait. Where’s my bike?

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