Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: Free Write
Big ol fat dude. Not really. That would be too easy. Be 300 pounds, lose 50 pounds, do it in a weekend, feel motherfuckin’ triumphant. Or be 400 pounds, lose 100 pounds, do it on a Friday, beer n wings to celebrate. Life is sweet. Friends buy me new shirts. Old pants are a novelty; post before n after pics on god damn Instagram.
But nope. Not that fat. Just a little fat. Fat enough. Got the gut, can suck it in, so if I do, then forget, the before n after pic’s a sad one. There’s poetry in failure, right? I’m a limerick. There once was a dude in his forties. Who longed to be fit and play sporties. But those rough twenty pounds filled his poor ears with sounds of laughter when he wore those tight shorties.
Not even a good limerick. Twenty damn pounds, that’s it. At least there’s a kind of panache in fighting those last ten pounds. There’s books for losing those last ten pounds. There’s fitness instructors in early 90’s spandex with amazing hair who explain how hard it is to lose those last ten pounds. That’s veteran-status suffering, friends. That’s tragedy unto an existential scene in a drama comedy on HBO.
But twenty? Slob. Put down the Coke, then, slob. Another night in front of the computer scooping spoonfuls of peanut butter into your gob, slob. Go to bed early, get up early, jog a few miles, eat a healthy breakfast. That’s not working on the atomic bomb. That’s basic human shit. If you can’t do that, you probably can’t vote right either. Your shirt fits a little snug because you’re a horrible American. You’ve only got one pair of jeans left and that’s why our country is going to hell. Thanks. Slob.
At least I had a triumph today. A beer for breakfast. And one for lunch. Even if beer is fattening, it’s not, not all by itself. Tequila for dinner, I think. I’ll be skinny in no time. I’ll stand next to 2004’s Jessica Alba and say sweet things like “Don’t worry, you look just fine in that size.”
Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Outside
Kauai, Hawaii