Land-ho!

I leave for Chicago next week, for a week, and I have yet to fix my bastard dress for the wedding that is taking place on the second weekend of October.

I can't even begin to describe how much fucking anxiety that piece of shit is bringing me.
I talk to my friends, and they often worsen my panic.
Pacemaker: Oh damn... tube-tops... those suckers need to be tight to keep your girls up, but not out.
Lau: AnoMALIE, form experience, I tell you- secure those puppies... even if you can't breathe in the fucking dress!

Graaaaaaahrrrrggg!!
As if I want to walk around in a burlap sac. Correction: a cognac burlap sac.
Sure, it's my fault for not speaking up when the dumb cunt at David's Bridal suggested I get one size larger in order to accommodate my girls... but come on, it's me. I can't help but be a doormat. I'm a timid idiot like that. I assumed she was speaking to me from an expert's point of view.
People (including myself) weren't counting on a parasitic infection fucking me up for a month and actually making me drop some more weight. Now I swim in that goddamn awful dress.
Should I just get fatter and finally fit in that piece of shit?
No... 'cause I'll still have problems with it.

I'm 5'8"... not a spectacularly tall height, especially not in the U.S., so why the fuck is the stupid dress too short? Last time I checked, the standard used for dresses is that to accommodate 5'9" chicks. Shorties just get that shit trimmed... easy fix. But when the dress is too short, what do you do?
My feet stick out of the dress when I'm barefoot. There go my hopes for wearing heels... it appears I'll have to find some flashy sandals or some shit.

And one last thing: apparently, my torso's too long.
?
I always felt quite average in that aspect... although I never really stop and think about my torso beyond "Fuck... I wish I had a six-pack... I hate my gut!"
But I guess I should have been more mindful of it... since it appears to be on the long-ish side... when it's not too busy being cushioned in fat.
This fuck-up of a dress starts making room for my hips halfway down my waist. It looks like my freak of a waist is the mast and I'm about to set sail with the ugly cognac-colored burlap sac.

I don't know... maybe I'm overreacting.
Maybe my expectations for a $150 dress were too high.
Do you know what I can do with $150 (besides buy an ill-fitting dress that drives me crazy)?
I'm the chick who feels horrible for spending more than 10 bucks on a shirt.
Forty dollar jeans are NOT in my wardrobe (except for the two pairs my sister gave me). I spend $25 max on my jeans.
Shoes... well, I do splurge on shoes... but never anything over $100.
And handbags... my "handbags" are Roxy and Hurley brand. I can buy myself a lifetime's worth of bags for $150.
Far more entertaining, much more pleasing things can be acquired with $150.

I can't talk about this anymore, it makes me sick.
I'll keep pondering whether or not to get fatter to fill in that monstrous dress while in Chicago... while I'm stuffing my face with pizza... and churros... and pupusas... and hot dogs... and tortas... and tamales.
Oh... looks like I have a plan!
(NOT! But I'm so fucking angry, I probably could do it out of spite)