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I got invited to this beach trip two weekends from now by friends who party like Cory Kennedy and I’m damn excited since it’s been months since I last went out of town. At the same time I’m worried about being the fattest girl in the group by default because I eat real food for breakfast instead of taking a cocktail of pills, and spend my evenings sleeping instead of partying hardcore. This upcoming beach trip, compounded with the pressure to be cool and my plunging self-esteem, made me decide to become skinny like a scenester in two weeks. Unfortunately for me, I discovered over the weekend that I’m not cool enough to do drugs.

During the party I held at my house on Saturday, my friend Sammi and I had a conversation about mixing marijuana and booze. Since girls with pink mohawks make me want to impress them with my drug knowledge, I proudly proclaimed that you’re supposed to do pot after drinking. Apparently, it’s the other way around. Sammi laughed at me while I hung my head in shame, and we came to the conclusion that I’m not cool enough to do drugs. As if to rub salt into my wounded ego, Sammi made me install the nickname application on my Facebook page, where she gave me the nickname Lauren “Not Cool Enough” Dado. Yeah.

See her? What a fat fat fattie.

I’m so fixated on dropping ten pounds that instead of working, I’ve been spending the entire morning thinking of ways to be cokehead skinny without actually developing a coke habit. Here are the ideas that I’ve come up with so far:

Ditch your skinny friends. Hanging out with a bunch of fatties makes you the skinniest person in the group by default. Unfortunately I don’t have this option for the beach trip, so I’ll have to resort to other methods.

Go to the gym. Ideally I should be working out around three times a week, but I’m usually too tired after work to hit the gym. Well, that’s going to change now! I solemnly swear to go to the gym after work maybe four times a week until the beach, no matter how fucking exhausted I am.

Starvation. This idea was so obvious, it took me a while to realize this. During my morning cigarette break, my coworker was telling me about how he dropped 75 pounds in college by eating nothing but soup. I have no idea how much I weigh right now but my estimate is that I must be about a hundred pounds. If I follow my coworker’s strict diet regimen, I’ll weigh 25 pounds by the time I hit the beach. I think that’s just about right.

What works for Jeffree Star will work for me too!

Throw up after every meal. I hear that this is supposed to be some eating disorder called “bulimia” but if it works for models, it might just work for me too! Then again, I can’t force myself to vomit to save my life. The idea of sticking a finger down my throat is revolting, plus it’s a waste of perfectly good food. Let’s cross this item off the list and move on to the next one.

Wear loose clothing. Really loose tops automatically make me look ten pounds skinnier than I really am, but again I don’t have this option for the beach. Unless I do a fashion faux pas and go swimming in the ocean wearing a big t-shirt instead of a bikini. Which is not exactly an option since I’m going to be with very hip people, and I’m already uncool enough as it is.

If you can’t be cokehead skinny, you could just look like a cokehead, period. All you need is smeared red lipstick, lots of black liquid eyeliner, and mad Photoshop skillz. Perfect.

Pseudo-cokehead much?

I don’t understand why people make such a big deal out of periods and the disposable items that absorb menstrual blood. During lunch outside 7-11 with my friends at work (and by “lunch” I mean chocolate, milk tea, and a crapload of cigarettes), I remembered that I had gotten my period a few hours back and I was due for a napkin change.

“Oh yeah, I need to buy napkins!” I announced, because I like to bother my friends with mundane things about myself, like the need to refresh my stash of sanitary pads. They usually ignore me every time I do that but today, I elicited a reaction! Paeng, who was sitting next to me, slapped his forehead with his palm and went, “Putang ina namaaan.” (”Your mother is a whore namaaaan.”)

We tight, yo

“Bakit, anong masama sa napkins? Meron ako ngayon eh!” was my indignant reply. (”What’s wrong with buying napkins? I have my period today!”)

“Ano ba, nagbebenta ako nyan dati!” (”Ano ba, I used to sell that shit before!”)

I stared at him dumbfounded before bursting into a manic fit of shits and giggles. Paeng sputtered and exclaimed, “Mahirap ang buhay dati!” (”Hey, life was tough back then!”) then clarified that he dealt feminine products in their family sari-sari store. Not that it erased the image I had of him in my head, walking in between cars during traffic much like a street vendor. Except instead of cigarettes and candy he was peddling sanitary pads.

(This reminded me about another unusual job a friend used to have. A certain Man Blog editor, whose identity I shall hide under the name Bim, once had a fitness club gig that involved teaching old ladies how to do self-defense. Except he wasn’t the the self-defense instructor. Nope. He got to be the sleaze who played the role of purse snatcher and granny rapist. I LOLed for such a long time that Bim gave up trying to tell the rest of the story and stomped out for a smoke. Then I punched him in the gut and he lay crumpled on the floor for a good five minutes. I’m an awesome friend like that.)

Paeng then told me about how putting napkins on display is a great way to earn even more money, if you own the neighborhood sari-sari store. A girl would go up to the sari-sari store with her eyes on the napkins sitting on the shelf. Upon seeing Paeng, a guy, they’d stop and pretend to be distracted by the other merchandise. “Uhh…pabili ng softdrinks. At saka junk food. At saka candy. At saka yosi.” (”Uhh…I’d like to buy a Coke. And some chips. And some candy. And some cigs.”) And then after a pause, she’d say sheepishly, “Pabilinarinngnapkin.” (”Icanhasbuyanapkinkthxbai.”) After making Paeng wrap the napkins in newspaper, she’d get shifty-eyed and walk away quickly, as though she just bought a whole block of high-grade hash instead of absorbent polypropylene.

Inspired by this story, I decided to have a little fun and chase Paeng back to the office while waving my 7-11-bought pack of Kotex over my head. He ran as fast as his gout-ridden legs could carry him, screaming the entire time. Well, not really. He just kind of walked straight ahead, but not before throwing me a look that said “Stay the fuck away from me, woman!”

One of the things I don’t get about women is why they ask poor sari-sari store vendors like Paeng to wrap their purchased sanitary napkins with newspaper. It most certainly can’t be done for hygienic purposes, as napkins come covered in their own protective layer of paper. Is it because they’re embarrassed that they’re on their periods? But why? Care to enlighten me? Being on the rag is not exactly something I’d brag about, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to hide it from the world either.

I would, however, tell everyone I know about it. Just because I can.