Hopping of the couch, I pad silently over to the kitchen in my socks and put the lid back on the sorbet. Slipping it back into the freezer, I glance over my shoulder at the wall of sliding glass and smirk at my reflection. I look like a hot mess—hair up in a tangled knot, smudged makeup. I’m wearing my rattiest cropped Ferrymen sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, and a pair of hot pink granny panties. I quickly toss my used spoon in the dishwasher, eager to hide any proof of eating my dessert before dinner…a dinner of greasy, fried hot wings and over salted potato fries. Yeah, my diet has
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