Fat

Every day there is more of me. Each and every day I am a walking and talking mess of salt and sugar digesting. I lay awake in bed, I feel heavier than everything in the room.

I feel hungry but I look down my torso and spy my man tits staring back up at me and I decide that I can probably handle skipping breakfast. I instantly want to put a shirt on. I instantly want to mask my 20% body fat with 100% cotton. I am so damn depressing. The really sad thing is that I saw this coming. I didn’t just wake up fat today. I didn’t wake up fat yesterday or the day before. This was a slow progression. I noticed my pant size going up, year after year. My cholesterol going up month after month. I noticed my self-esteem diminishing day after agonizing day. I felt my charm with the opposite sex slipping slowly. The really tragic thing is that even as I look down at my hideous body and all I can stand to think is “You are an ugly fat fuck”, I still crave food. I crave fatty food. Bacon and eggs. Steak and eggs. Sausage and eggs. Chicken fried steak and eggs. Eggs and eggs. God, I am sickening. Isn’t depression supposed to lessen your appetite?

I look over at the clock radio on my night stand and it’s a quarter past noon. I am contemplating going back to sleep. I figure the more I sleep the less I can eat. I don’t know but something has got to give. I can’t keep up this routine:

WAKE UP
BRUSH TEETH
EAT (BECAUSE I AM HUNGRY)
WATCH TV
SEE COMMERICAL FOR MCDONALDS
CRAVE MCDONALDS
GET DRESSED
DRIVE TO MCDONALDS
EAT MCDONALDS
MOVE ONE STEP CLOSER TO DEATH
DRIVE HOME
WATCH TV
WANDER AROUND THE HOUSE
DECIDE TO WRITE THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL
FIX A SNACK
TRY STARTING THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL
ABANDON NOTION TO WRITE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL
GET BORED
EAT DINNER
TURN INTO A FAT SLOB
UNDRESS
WATCH TV
EAT A MIDNIGHT SNACK
GET DEPRESSED
SLEEP
REPEAT

Of course, it always varies a little. Some days I say to myself, “I’ll go catch a movie” and yes, sir, I would like butter on my popcorn. Always. Some days I elect to read. Some times it is the great American screenplay or it’s learning how to paint instead of the novel. Some days I propose to start exercising. Some days I manage 10 push-ups, others I’ll do 20 jumping jacks. It isn’t always McDonalds. Sometimes it is Wendy’s or it’s Kentucky Fried Chicken. Or Jack in the Box. Sometimes I want to run for the border, sometimes I want it my way. Occasionally I will get a hankering for a meatball sub. Or it will dawn on me that I would kill for a large sausage pizza with breadsticks, handy ranch dipping sauce and a side of buffalo wings (mild). And washed down with a soda. Always washed down with a soda. But never diet. That shit causes cancer, you know. I swear that my piss is probably caffeinated by now. God, I am depressing. Book me a hospital room right now. Call the piano movers to move my coffin. Call me an ambulance, I am counting the days 'til my heart gives out. It is already broken so it’s only a matter of time now.