the Body

I'm in shape. Round is a shape.

My body is a temple. It's just an ancient, crumbling temple buried under layers of *snacks and regret.*dust.*chocolate.*

I have a body of an athlete. Unfortunately, it's a sumo wrestler.

I'm not overweight; I'm *undertall.*cuddly.*the right size for cartoon cat.*

My body is a journal in a way. It's like what sailors used to do, where every tattoo meant something, a specific time in your life when you make a mark on yourself, whether you do it yourself with a knife or with a professional tattoo artist.

I've been on a diet for two weeks and all I've lost is *fourteen days.*one pound.*the will to live.*

My face looks like a wedding cake left out in the rain.

I don't exercise. If God wanted me to bend over, he'd have put diamonds on the floor.

The verandah over the toy shop. Australian term for a beer belly.

Be true to your teeth or they'll *be false to you.*fall out.*rot.*

If I had the use of my body I would throw it *out of the window.*a party.*a bone.*

I'm the female equivalent of a counterfeit $20 bill. Half of what you see is a pretty good reproduction, the rest is a fraud."

Imprisoned in every fat man a thin one is wildly signalling to be let out.

He's so small, he's the only man I know who *has turn-ups on his underpants.*wears children's clothes.*pays half a bus fee.*

My lord, we make use of you, not for your bad legs, but for your good head.

Oh, how I regret not having worn *a bikini*less*a hat* for the entire year I was twenty-six.

My body, on the move, resembles in sight and sound nothing so much as a bin-liner full of yoghurt.