You know that feeling when you’re on a diet so you can fit in a fucking dress for a wedding where your ex-boyfriend is a groomsman and you’re really feeling great about yourself and then you get drunk at the bachelorette party and come-to at 4:00am slumped in a booth at IHOP with semen on your thigh and your mouth full of pancakes, only to stumble back to your hotel room, shower, and somehow defy the laws of physics by squeezing into that fucking dress and even more miraculously turning the head of that ex-boyfriend who asks you to dance and whispers in your ear that he didn’t know what he’s been missing right before you spontaneously cut a rancid, maple-scented shart that ruins the fucking dress and makes him see you for the disgusting little weirdo you really are, leaving you standing there alone wondering why you do these things to yourself?
It’s a little like that.