In Dan's honor I just went in and weighed myself. I think I way way way more than I ever have, due to a few pretty buff declining reclining years here.
193.
That is some poundage.
I think it's a personal record.
A hundred and ninety three pounds. Do you really need all those? What are they doing? I mean they're all attached here; they must be doing something. Otherwise how could they get added? They're needed. For food processing, maybe. It can't be organs I was born without. Can it? Once your body has everything it needs, why does it add more? What good is that? And why not make hair? Make stuff that's missing? Eyeballs and muscles?
>>>Dan finished ordering a large marguarita and chicken friend steak and fries.<<<
That is very sad. You're not supposed to eat your friends, no matter how depressed you are. Contrary to primitive belief, we do not take on the characteristics of the animals we eat. Or I would recommend duck. Fly or float.
I can't run, and my legs look pretty much like those of a freezer burned chicken. They have draped flesh; like old-lady-arm. My bones don't have muscles, they have skin tarps.
It's inspiring.
My rotunda belly has a big scar all the way up the front, like they had to open it, to get something out, I stuffed in there, maybe from a trough. Something teddy-bear sized. It's bigger than a Caesarean scar; and no swimsuit is going to cover it up. Did you see Alien?
When I get my other hip, I will have seven large, "crayon-flesh" colored scars. They show up like Magic Marker railroads against my pearly spam. Picture an aged biker, in flesh colored zipper-leathers, with a little wienie in front, bifocals, and squirrel-tail hair.
It's "The Transition;" from Studmuffin, to Muffin. Or Stuffin.
American Doughboy.
Taffy Man.
Must stay doughy white, or die of skin cancer immediately.
Oh ~ and balding.
PS: You can tell you're getting big, when you're hovering over a woman and your tummy touches first, like a pirogue hitting a sandbar.
Had enough? |
