Dear Diary:
Saturday morning, during our walk, sissy asked if I wanted to go to the gym with her that afternoon. It was the first time she’d asked me to do something with her since the dishwasher broke, and she asked for my help in washing them. (“Help me with the fucking dishes, piggy,” if memory serves.)
“Sure,” I said, sounding WAY too eager.
What the hell was I doing? I didn’t want to go to the gym with sissy. That sounded horrible.
I spent the rest of our walk wondering WTF was wrong with me. Was I so desperate for sissy’s approval that a modicum of kindness was all it took for me to forgive and forget? To abandon my handiwork and become her simp again?
Maybe that was for the best. Despite my best efforts, sissy was slimming down. Sure, I was slowing her progress with my Starbucks rewards and cheat-day treats, but just like me with my walks, sissy was getting regimented with her gym visits. Not only did I have to deal with her renewed dedication, but now she had Dr. Chen and, apparently, my own psyche in her corner. It was too much to fight against.
If you can’t beat them, join them, right?
Right on cue, a dude we passed on the sidewalk turned his head and checked out sissy’s ass. It still quivered quite a bit in her Lululemon leggings, but it was getting back to a hypnotic “look at me” wiggle rather than an out-of-control, Jello-in-an-earthquake jiggle.
Fine. I would go to the gym with sissy. I would play the role of the “fat friend” while she picked up boys. I would even carry her gym bag if she wanted me to.
Before I could go full simp-sister mode, however, something arrived in the mail that derailed our afternoon workout plans:
A letter revoking sissy’s athletic scholarship.
--Jessie