Thursday, November 19, 2009

The Love of My Life

My stomach – I thought it had given out so I started driving and stopped at the first deli I saw. I’d forgotten how good the Italian Sub was: all that Genoa salami, capicola, smoked ham and provolone cheese, piled high and soaked in dressing. When the scale says I’m three pounds heavier than I was last week, I won’t mind lying to my Weight Watchers group.

“Must be water weight. I’ll just have to cut back on my sodium intake.”

The problem is, health is such a vague notion to me. Like “the truth” or “illegal” or “catfood,” I can’t take it seriously. When asked why he wrote, Shakespeare once said, “The comfort of thine confines is too glorious a paradise to waste.” Why go out searching for entertainment when you have a refined list of adventures on your plasma TV? If I want to be all out of breath, I can go watch the TV upstairs. That’s eighteen steps of pure adrenaline, mind you. It’s not that I don’t want to exercise; my concern for my health simply doesn’t outweigh my laziness.

Deli meats are the loves of my life, and I won’t be kept from them. I love the way my shirt smells after I leave a $5.99 All-You-Can-Eat Chinese buffet. I love when the crumbs gather on my gut, providing something to nibble on while I finish whatever gameshow I happen to be watching at the time. Invariably The Price Is Right (only the ones with Bob Barker) or Jeopardy. I’m a zookeeper’s dream because, guess what, I don’t feed the animals. Those fries are too good to waste on some stupid llama.

I'm from America, where being free means eating whatever I want now and dealing with the consequences later. The McDonald's Arches are my Mecca. My drive to Wafflehouse at 3:30 AM is a pilgrimage. The Golden Corral’s sweet buttery rolls dipped in just the right amount of creamy ranch dressing are my Holy Grail (I get a salad solely to appear to have a reason for the ranch). Scientists are sure to come up with a diet that doesn’t require eating less or exercising more before it’s too late.

So, fuck you, cholesterol.
Go to hell, fitted pants.
Spandex suits me just fine.

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