Today’s become a pigging-out kinda day: four Eggo blueberry waffles, five Eggo cinnamon French toast slices, two big Hershey bars smeared over with Skippy peanut butter. Kraft Mac & Cheese. Fifteen Fig Newtons. Oh, and a few too many low-carb bars, too. All that? Dinner.* 

Today is a private-little-meltdown kinda day. Today is a what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-my-life kinda day. Today is a why-am-I-working-out-for-no-fucking-reason and with-few-fucking-results kinda day.

All that fucking sweat and morning soreness for what? Swear To God, my body does not produce enough testosterone. If you want big biceps / triceps, you’ll need two fully functional nuts down there in that sack. 

Working out and writing? It’s really the same thing. Sweat, sweat, sweat; scribble, scribble, scribble and NOTHIN’ TO SHOW FOR IT. Thin is not enough; pages and pages of half-baked fiction is not enough.

And thin for what? I’m fucking terrified of every fucking girl I’m attracted to. 
Aw, fuck it. 
I’m getting fat again. 

Unlike girls, Big Macs don’t complain. And Big Macs, unlike girls, are a helluva lot cheaper. And Big Macs, they don’t care what you drive, how much you make, how often you shave, how hairy your back, the width of your “love handles,” how funny you are, how short you’re not, and all the other horseshit girls expect. You can love a Big Mac and a Big Mac will love you back. At least, it’ll love your taste buds back. In a way, it will. It’ll make your taste buds happy. Unless you’d prefer Whopper, I suppose.
Somebody I know has a hernia. I’ve heard of hernias but I’ve never really known what one is. So I look it up, and what I find makes me wonder if I have a hernia, too. So I fret about it until I make an appointment with some doctor. He tells me he doesn’t think I have a hernia. But for the several hundred dollars he’s gonna to charge me for this good news, I kinda want a hernia. For forty-five minutes of waiting and for ten minutes of this stranger grabbing around my groin, saying, “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a hernia,” I wanna little more bang for my buck. 

So now this quack’s gonna send the bill to BS of ILL; and BS of ILL’ll turn around and send me the same bill, only on their letterhead for the same exact amount, and say: “Pay it. Pay it and keep paying the hundreds we take from you every month.” And that’s what insurance is for in America. It affords a delay in having your arse handed back to you. Any company that charges for providing no services at all (they call it a “premium”)—and then charges you more for all the costs it ought to cover (they call it a “deductible”)—is a fucking racket. That’s right, insurance is actually organized crime. 

But, nope, I’m not done with dinner. 
(Or dinner’s not done with me.) 

I’m goin’ out for a Big Mac. Maybe four. After that, I’m goin’ out for a Papa John’s Pizza. Maybe three. After that, I’m goin’ out for a Dunkin’ Donut. Maybe a baker’s dozen. After that, I’ll probably be sick. But that’s love for you. Or, that’s always been love for me. 

19 October 2004 

*[03/27/22: Whatever I had for breakfast and lunch weren’t worth mentioning, apparently.] 

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