emonome

I admit it. The mid-section of my bod now resembles that of Homer Simpsons’. I swear I didn’t eat too much of the toasty and delicious french toast bagel with cream cheese at Starbucks. Fuck it, I’m going there first thing in the morning.

Two days ago I had to run up two flights of stairs and escalators to catch the bus to work. Not recommended when your fat waves make surfers nostalgic.

Therefore, I’m officially a fat fuck! But something has changed. I no longer want to lose Michelin for the wrong reasons. Gotta look good and gotta look fine for the ladies…that’s so 2006.  I really let myself go this time.

The self consciousness: that’s gone. Sucking it in: don’t do it any more. I’ve never felt so comfortable with myself in my life. Maybe being a older and wiser fat fuck makes a difference.

If I have a heart attack and die tomorrow or the year after, who’s going to remember this blog? Who’s going to punish the kids for being extraordinarily cute? Who’s going to look into her eyes and say, “It was great growing old with you”? Mm…yes I do think about that stuff, once in a while.

A little exercise, a little diet is all that takes, they say. A little discipline. Healthy food costs only 10% more than the filth you buy at the market. But I know all that shit. Yet I can’t bring myself to give a shit most of the time.

Then again, the thought of having to go buy new sets of clothes - esp. pants - in this economy (my paycheck) is already making me think twice about my newfound self-image orgasms.

I guess this guts to go. Set sail baby.