Sundays are generally my favorite day of the week. They are my "Jabba Day." My boyfriend Carl and I have fallen into a pattern that is slowly becoming a unspoken agreement. Monday through Friday I keep up with the majority of cooking, errand running and cleaning that need to be done so our house does not slowly collapse under the weight of its own filth. I do not mind doing this, as I tend to be a bit compulsive and anal about when and the manner in which things get done.
Ah, but Sunday. Sundays I tend to plop myself on the couch, eat as much bad food as possible, watch as much trashy television as I can stomach, and intermittently bellow for Carl to fetch me things. OK, so maybe instead of Han Solo it's hand lotion, or tea, or my computer charger, and instead of Salacious Crumb perching on my gluttonous mass, it's my cat Fatty curled up on the gray blanket I have draped over myself – but the resemblance is there if you squint. Carl is very obliging and caters to my every whim. Today he endured hours of Keeping up with the Kardashians, and is currently making me a homemade sausage pizza.
Sometimes I wonder if this is how Jabba started. I mean, he couldn't have always been such a lazy, gross, demanding blob, could he? He must have been young and somewhat spry at some point. Maybe he too had a mate who would occasionally let him get away with it for a day, and that turned into two days, then three, until he reached the state we first meet him at. Maybe it's my destiny. It doesn't sound so bad except I'm not sure I could pull off the five-chin look. Now if you'll excuse me I heard they have a metal bikini in a men's large on Amazon.