Molly McAleer

As a body snarker, I feel that it’s important I share my side.

Do you even know my last name? Now that I think of it, you don’t even know where I live because we always watch TV at your house and I always pick you up before we go out.

You get a phone call at midnight on a Wednesday. It’s your best friend. She’s sobbing. Her boyfriend of a year has ended their relationship because it just wasn’t working for him anymore.

What I’m getting at here is that we have to help each other because we’re in a particular bathroom situation as women.

“No. This is a boundary that benefits both of us because I won’t resent you and no one likes to be resented. God bless.”

I hope that the boyf likes what he sees; rough edges and all.

Lifting a car off a baby is good. Going back into a burning building over and over again to save people even though you are not a fireman is heaven.

Then he told me that I was now in possession of the sole copies of each of these items and that when I was done, I needed to get it back to him.

Sure, take my treasured DVD and never return it because you’re a flake. I find it very hard to say no.

I don’t care if this lady’s husband is as tech savvy as she claims, why wasn’t she properly monitoring his use of the iPad or whatever he was playing it on? That’s parenting 101 in 2014.

She held on to her townhouse for dear life claiming that her only comfort in life is that she owns property, her “nest egg.” Her nest egg doesn’t have hot water much of the time. She unclogs her toilets with her own two hands (which wouldn’t be such a sin if she wasn’t doing it in a FIVE STORY TOWNHOUSE ON THE UPPER EAST SIDE.)

I had a meltdown on Tuesday because I’m super fat. Okay, I’m not fat, but I definitely have put on over ten pounds in two months, which is 2008 Britney Spears out-of-control.