I was sooooooo cool when I was younger.

“Mom, am I fat?”

“No…its just baby fat.”

It wasn’t.

I was fat. Not kind of fat. Not chunky. Not big-boned. And definitely not baby fat. Baby fat is allowed till the age of what? Five? I was at least 10 when I asked my mom this infamous question. And the truth is, I was fat. Like ate spoonfuls of sugar at one time, fat. Stole candy bars from the grocery store, fat. Fat fat. Scurrying barefoot on the kitchen countertops looking for the elusive sugar that my parents “continently misplaced” two weeks after I was discovered in a corner eating spoonfuls of sugar, fat. (Those bastards.)

Walking into the grocery store on that autumn afternoon just seemed like the right moment to ask. I probably was going to steal a Snickers bar anyways, and that should have been proof enough but I wanted to hear it verbally. I wanted the words to ring in my ears; I wanted them to sear the fat right off of my love handles.

However, my plan backfired:

“No…its just baby fat.”

Wait…what? My mom just lied! Straight to my face. Wasn’t my mom, if anyone, supposed to tell her child that while yes, they had a stellar personality and yes, they were super funny, that sadly they were fat and kind of going through an, um I don’t know, ugly…I mean, awkward stage? How could she? How could she just lie like that?!

I stood there, shocked, in the middle of the crosswalk in my bright orange leggings with the elastic band, (I couldn’t technically fit into jeans until I was 14), oversized black sweater splattered with bright orange pumpkins and candy corn (to divert ones eye from the fat, of course), and bright orange pumpkin bow placed strategically in the middle of my disproportionate head. Yeah, I was that kid.

My mouth opened, but there was no food to shove into the black hole. How do I argue that?

“Nuh uh!”

But wasn’t that what I wanted to hear? Didn’t I want to hear that yes, I wasn’t fat? That yes, it was okay to steal candy? Yes, Cheese Whiz was a valid form of calcium? And yes in actuality, it’s vegetables that fuck you up?

It was in this moment that I learned a valuable lesson: Moms lie. They really do. Years later (and pounds skinner) I confronted my mom about this pivotal question in my chubby childhood:

“Oh god, you were soooooo fat!”

“I knew it. You lied to me!”

“Technically, but you were always skinnier than your brother.”

Denial is a beautiful existence...

My roommate has vaguely mentioned that he thinks I may have a wee bit of a drinking problem…

“I just don’t see the need to constantly drink every night….”

Side note: I’ve had six beers while writing this post.

…He might be right.

I like to drink. Who doesn’t? (Uber self-righteous, right-winged religious folk that’s who…those fascist bastards…go drink a god damn beer, Jesus turned water into wine for Christ’s sakes!)

Any who.

It may have to do with the environment I was raised in, and not in a bad way at all.

I’m catholic, my family is catholic…that is definition of “we like our Jesus with a huge ass splash of Kahlua.”

I don’t find anything wrong with relaxing with a tall refreshing Budweiser after a long day of work. Especially when you work with kids.

It’s your American right to drink whenever the fuck you want. Remember prohibition? Exactly.

And if that means slamming back several strongly liquored mixed drinks at a fancy restaurant, then so be it. And the drinks were free that’s why I ordered so god damn many… I said to the three guys (one being my roommate) calling me an alcoholic.

Free. COME ON! When shit is free…you get that shit in triple. (The Jew inside of me was so proud that night.)

But in all honesty, I’ve never thought I had an issue with drinking…actually I’m quite good at it. So what if I buy cases in bulk? That’s just sensible shopping…old lady glaring at me in the grocery line. 

And hey you don’t me…maybe I’m throwing a huge ass party.

I’m not.

Ah yes, denial is a beautiful existence. 

alright...alright...alright...

Well kiddies, I've been getting a lot of requests for a new vlog so seeing as my last one was an epic failure... we are going to try a different route this time.

I'm letting YOU the reader of this epically awesome blog, ask me questions that I will then answer via the blog. You can ask me ANYTHING. You can ask me about my fat days (ermmm i mean years) weirdest experience in life...etc... and I have to answer truthfully. I may even have my roommate, Matt help with the answers in the vlog as well.

Now I can't guarantee that I can answer every question (if I even get any questions)...but I will try my gosh darnedest hardest!

And if you all keep asking questions...I'll keep answering them in my blog...so start asking...I'm going to make a sandwich now...I expect to see 267 questions when I get back from my mayo comma...

which looks like this...

our neighbors hate us...

 No, like seriously…they do. I would hate us. I do hate us.

It’s not that we are bad neighbors…we recycle and shit…we are just weird.

So, for those of you that don’t know (or just skim my blog) I’m living in NYC with my best friend Matt.  We live in a pre-war building…so we are fucking on top of our neighbors.

The guy right next to us owns five cats…outside his door smells like cat piss…well cat piss and pot…so yeah… we’re that close.

So I think I can safely assume that if I can smell our neighbor’s cat (I pray to god that it’s cat)
piss…then the whole fucking building can hear our “fake” fighting.

Yeah, don’t ask. We legitimately fake fight, for no apparent reason at all.

“YOUR MOTHER IS A WHORE!”

“WELL IF SHE WASN’T WHORE…I WOULDN’T BE HERE!”

“I’M NOT SURE IF THAT’S SUCH A GOOD THING!”

…and then we laugh…but I don’t think our neighbors hear the laughing...

At this point I don’t even know what to do. All our neighbors are probably assuming that we are in a freakish abusive relationship.

And it’s not like I wanted to be friends with these people…I just don’t want the po po randomly showing up because of an anonymous domestic violence call.

…and I don’t want any random death threat notes left under our door telling us to stop watching so much fucking “Lost”….we (I) watch a lot of “Lost”… whatever, neighbors with terrible taste in television….you keep watching your early morning “Charmed” episodes, with the remnants of cat piss scattered throughout your apartment. You keep doing your thing…and we’ll keep doing ours.

Cause let’s be honest…this is New York, bitches. Things could be much worse.

God Bless America...

and mexi-mullets. 

This gem of a photo was taken at the Walmart next to the college I graduated from... and for obvious reasons I couldn't be more proud.

skinny bitches and hoes man...skinny bitches and hoes...

I hate it when I’m feeling really skinny and then I catch my thighs jiggling in the mirror, even though technically I wasn’t moving. At all.

I’m white, okay. White as one can be. A cracker. Caucasian some might say. I come from the land of Caucasia, where my fellow tribal members frolic to the barbaric beats of Michael Buble' and watch Gilmore Girls.

So of course I’m obsessed with my weight. I blame the cast of Friends; all those whores were skinny as fuck and still had man problems. Even Chandler had an eating disorder. Nothing says white quite like a grown man who vomits after he eats.

I wish I were black. Seriously, you guys embrace that shit. Fat ass? Aw helllllll no, that shit is juicy. Or more accurately, Jell-O. Watch that shit jiggle!

Remember back in the good ol’ days/Dark Ages/last night at McDonalds parking lot, when being obese was the cool thing to do?

It meant you had a shit ton of money and thus were allowed to shove food into your face until you’ve reached sexual repulsion…. I was born in the wrong century…

Now all obesity means is you probably like Dunkaroos way more than the average person… which, um who the fuck doesn’t?

Goddamn, Dunkaroos are awesome. Especially the chocolate ones. Hot damn it’s like sex in my mouth, that I can actually enjoy.

I think this world would be a better place if we all ate lard. I’m serious. Don’t you agree?

It would be just like this whole “I don’t see color” charade, except more realistic. We would only be able to see one shape. Huge.

We’d all win. We’d get to eat whatever we wanted, the naturally skinny bitches that we all hated in high school would probably be accidently eaten when the food supply runs out and sex would inevitably get better because we’d all be forced to actually try.

I think we all know why its called the Dark Ages, cause no bitch wanted to turn the lights on during sex. And honestly, my fat ass will be happy to make that sacrifice.

Do I look like a prostitute?!?

Do I look like a prostitute?

No seriously, do I?! Because I got asked to give some dude a blow job while walking through central park…in broad fucking daylight.

My favorite part of this whole situation was I had just come from an interview… I was in a fucking pencil skirt, for Christ’s sake!

His asking price, you ask? Ninety-one dollars.

….you couldn’t scrounge up nine more dollars to make it an even hundred, eh big spender?

And lets not forget that I this occurred in broad daylight…so dude, what exactly was your plan here?
Hide behind some random bush? Unless this begins with dinner and a movie…I don’t really see this going anywhere.

Side note: I’m about to get a frantic call from my mother after she reads this post in in five…four…three…two…

Oh hey mom. Oh yeah? You read my latest post? Don’t worry…it’s New York…weirder shit has happened…remember when I told you about that dude who threw up next to me on the subway before an interview? Shit, I didn’t tell you about that? Well this dude threw up next to me on the subway before an interview. I swear to God something similar happened to Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City…or maybe it was Charlotte…mkay…love you too, mom.

Any who, I totally saw this dude check me out too, before this exchanging of words occurred, and I was all like “Score Natalie…You are looking good today”….in my head.

And then I cussed him out. Homie don’t play that game.

Don’t fuck with this bitch when she is wearing a pencil skirt.

“Maybe it was your hair,” said one of my good friends, Caitlin. “You have really big hair.”

I do have really big hair.

“Or maybe it’s cause you wear eye-liner on your bottom lids…. I read this article that said only prostitues wear eye liner on their bottom lids.”

Duly noted.

“But I had my ray-bans on…”

“Must have been your hair then.”

God damn you, hair, with your luscious curls straight out of an 80’s music video…stop clogging up the fucking bathtub.

I stormed into my apartment repeatedly screaming… “Do I look like a fucking prostitute!?”  My roommate, Matt, then proceeds to hug me and in his best Kermit the Frog voice, joke, “Whose my little prostitute?”

And then, Matt, my voice of reason goes, “Oh come on…you know this shit is gold for your blog.”

And so it was, Matthew…so it was.

“Just don’t tell your mom, I said you should have taken the offer to help pay for rent….she’ll hate me forever.”

Duly noted.

Whatever...fuck you...this shit is awesome.

I’m a slut for ice cream. Jesus Christ, am I ever. 

Well… more accurately, I’m a prostitute for ice cream.

Seriously, if someone tried to barter sex with ice cream…I’d hesitate. There would be no “what the fuck” exclamation or some immediate look of disgust and/or constipation. More of a “this guy gets me”/ “did I just meet my soul mate” look.

It’s sad really. I’d have sex in exchange for some Tasti-D Lite. To be quite honest, Tasti-Delight is legal tender in my fantasy world, as it should be in everyone’s fantasy world.

And if you don’t know what Tasti-D Lite is, get the fuck out of my face, get on Google maps, find the nearest one, buy a pint, come back to my face, spoon feed me the whole pint, and then we’ll have sex.

I may be a little gassy though…. Dairy products always seem to make me gassy…

Like I’ve said before (and if you haven’t already noticed) my life is pathetic/sick/mildly entertaining for anyone how is not me.

My top favorite places in NYC are Tasti-D Lite, Yogurtland, Serendipity, (terrible movie, fucking awesome ice-cream) and McDonalds. I don’t care if there are McDonalds everywhere in the fucking world; their ice cream is like fucking crack. And for that I will always be indebted to Ronald McDonald, you brilliant, brilliant clown you.

I have an addiction. Seriously. I have to eat it everyday or I go ape-shit.

Ever see the movie Requiem for a Dream? That’s my life in a nutshell. And by Requiem for a Dream I mean Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. And by Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles I mean, The Apple Dumpling Gang. But I think you get the similarities.

But I may have/probably/most definitely woken up half-naked in a pool of my own vomit before…and by before I mean yesterday.

I wish we could do more things with ice cream really. I wish we could snort it, inject it into our veins, use it as shampoo/body wash/lotion.

I’m pretty sure ice cream is the elixir of life. I’m also pretty sure a pint of Ben and Jerry’s would end the war on terror.

What if bullets were made out of ice cream?! Dear god, why hasn’t anyone thought of this before.

And, I think I just figured out how I’m going to get rich, bitches.