First off, let's address your asscrazy tactic of slowly increasing from a weight of zero and flashing escalatingly high numbers until I cry and cut myself. Is this fucking necessary? With every flutter of "97.9 LBS," my heart swells with delight that my diet of Cherry Garcia and Tillamook Extra Sharp has burned the subcutaneous fat from my body--only to be ripped out and defacated on by YOU, Bathroom Scale! Must you illustrate my failure in pounds to the second decimal? You really have to remind me that I weigh .07 pounds more than I did yesterday?! Did your mother never tell you that she loved you, or do you just have no soul?
Secondly, if I shift my weight and/or place my foot .05 inches to the left (see, Bathroom Scale, I can play the decimal game too!), I gain 9 and a half pounds. This is not possible, and you should study the laws of nature.
Sometimes, Bathroom Scale, you feel compelled to leave me with one word. One cold, erroneously capitalized word: "ErrOr." Are you pontificating on my failure as a human being, or simply displeased with the swift nature of my ability to step from Floor to You? Either way, I want to spit on you.
And lastly, Bathroom Scale: Why must you judge me?? That Snickers Ice Cream Bar was not going to eat itself!! It was desperately crying out from the freezer for me to devour it, and I did the only decent, God-fearing thing I could think of--and that was ripping off it's stiffling, oppresive wrapper with my teeth and swallowing it whole in a fit of glee. You check your attitude at the door, you smug son of a bitch.
Okay, Bathroom Scale, I suppose this is a little formal given the fact that I am about to smash your face with my blowdryer and stomp on you until my feet bleed. Have fun at the Gates of Hell, and tell Satan thank you for giving me The Maury Povich Show.
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