“Health”: This Is Why You’re Fat

Here’s my list of reasons, ranging from ‘The Truth’ to ‘Biatch, Please’:

-Seven months of sitting around with a broken/healing/cyber arm. The daily effort of being positive about that arm has been my undoing. Add boredom and loneliness to that effort and you have a formulaic cheeseburger ripe for overeating.

-I’m cleared for physical therapy, but not heavy exercise. The doc said I could walk or use a stationary bike, but what is that even? A bike that goes nowhere? And walking is a young person’s game, everyone knows that. I dream of being in a pool, but visualize a frog with one leg cut off swimming in tiny, ineffective circles while his asshole frog friends laugh at him in his ill-fitting bathing suit. Nope — not projecting at all.

-Grimm, and other one-word TV shows like Revenge! Deception! Scandal! Homeland! Castle! Smash! Vikings! Nashville! And my favorite, Californication! All that fornicating (and the intensely good writing) felt like six seasons of exercise to me. It’s embarrassing how much TV I watched in the past seven months, but also a little bit thrilling to feel like A Real American from Mississippi.

-Fast food and a gaping maw. The most gapingest of maws, really. Pretty sure fast food gives you cancer, if not physically, then morally. Great, now I have moral food cancer.

-Feelings: OM NOM-inally delicious! So many feelings, so little time to eat them. Hey wait, all I have is time. I’ll bet feelings go great with chocolate sauce and pork belly sandwiches.

-The internet. More specifically, This Is Why You’re Fat (dot com!), which is like a dating site for overweight carbs looking to meet bad news carbs from the wrong side of the tracks. And much like The Smoking Man from X-Files always made me want to smoke, This Is Why You’re Fat inspires me to eat terrible food wrapped in terrible food, rolled in bacon and covered in donuts.

-Everything that’s awful for me tastes fucking rad (see above). Better Cheddars and fried chicken? My affinity for them knows no diabetic bounds.

Habits, laziness. All my habits and laziness lead to Rome. And Rome burned, so there’s something to think about.

I’m 37 now. Leave me alone so I can slide into my blobby-ass forties with dignity, asshole.


Reasons, man. It always comes down to reasons. And who cares what they are, as long as you get over them?

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