I'm a PIG.

Oink Oink my good man.  It took awhile, but I've come to terms with it--I'm a common fat person.  Just your average, run-of-the-mill, garden variety fat fucking American pig with no will power or understanding of the word "No".  No big deal, just packin' em on USmutherfuckingA style y'all.  Sure, I could blame the baby that doesn't sleep ruining my body's ability to regulate cortisol, blah oink blah.  That is fatty talk.  But fatty I've become, and you know what?  I'm cool with it.  I'll just buy bigger pants and shit.  The pic to the left isn't actually me--I could only dream of melting panties with a big swingin' dick mustache like this.  But it was the closest body double picture I could find on the Internet which truly captured the essence of what a slack-assed bottom-feeding swine I've become.  I didn't plan this.  It happened organically and over time.  A few months go by and one row of abs disappears.  You wake up one morning and walk by a mirror and your arm is one solid, shadow-free, uninterrupted mass of pork flesh.  No more visible veins and certainly no horseshoe on the tris.  Now my gut is the first person through the door and the tops of my khakis (way too fucking hot for jeans this summer) curve ever so lovely outward like a tulip in bloom from supporting my ample girth.  I've arrived at the moment where I must accept reality, retreat to the mall and buy all new clothes sized up for today's modern, husky man.  I wanted to set a positive example for my daughter.  Truly this was my intention.  I was to be the dad IN the backyard soccer games and body surfing along side her at the ocean.  Now I'll just be the dad shouting encouragement from the lawn chair in between bites of potato salad and swills of Budweiser.  That's okay, she'll know that under all those chins, obesity sweat and XL sweatshirt, there slowly and laboringly beats an organ fat sheathed heart that loves her all the same.  The previous 5 years when I was lean and sleek like an alert Jaguar, ready to tear off running at a moments notice and perpetually on edge with sharp hunger, deep inside there slept a pig whose oink would not be silenced evermore.  And now his oink roars like the king of the barnyard.  It is 2:00 p.m. on a sun-drenched, humidity-free Saturday.  The type of summer day that bends over, hikes up its skirt and DEMANDS to be taken advantage of with a savage pounding of exercise.  And I sit indoors, air-conditioning blasting, drinking a fucking beer.  Yes, a goddamn beer (and not to throw anyone under the bus, but fuck you Gerald for texting me how awesome your 24oz Dead Guy movie theater pounder was).  I'm already planning hors de vours and dinner.  My wife and I are debating the merits of Jillian Michaels's "7 Day Weight Loss" plan that we came across during an Olympics commercial break, where we were watching the accomplishments of the young and in shape.  I feel like Jared Leto at the end of Requiem For A Dream when he awakes in a hospital room with his festering, needle-tracked arm having been amputated.  Maybe I can recover, maybe I can't.  But do I still possess even the will to care?  Or do I accept that Pfizer makes cholesterol pills for a reason (not to make money but to save lives goddamnit!!!) and march to that kitchen and go balls deep in a block of Italian cheese that lurks in the lunch meat drawer of the refrigerator?  The devil pig screams "YES!" from my right shoulder while glancing to my left I see that angel pig is still on sabbatical somewheres unknown.  I quit.  It is too late for me.  Next time you see me I'll be gut-bumping another of my fat American brethren in the aftermath of our team's touchdown, beer and bratwurst condiments spewing into the crisp autumn air.  

UPDATE: Gerald texts that he is on to 24oz Dead Guy #2.  Is this the impetus to continue my own downward spiral into diabetes?