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I'm not big boned, I'm just fat!
I'm getting ready to jog, because, well, I'm getting fat... haha... no, that's
not the reason, but then I put on these shorts. Shorts that I got back in college.
What the f*ck? They're too small. Get the hell outta here! I should be
the same as I was in 10th grade, damn it! Then I'm thinking, these can't be
my shorts! Have I ever really worn these things? I mean, I can't f*ckin
fit! This is outside the realm of possibility.
Then I realize, the apparent status quo, it's all an illusion. Fatness has
been creeping up on me like a evil little cross-eyed slug. It's been building
slowly through the years, patiently, cunningly, clinging to my gut, clawing
-- a determined, chameleon-like gelatin (the generic name for the dessert confection
endorsed by Bill Cosby). Like a wobbly, blubbery, baby kangaroo.
Muthaf*cka, I didn't ask for no little joey.
Damn it. I'm finally used to being skinny and this is what I get.
The slow retreating glacier of abdominus lulls you into complacency then WHAM!
the oceans rise and your world is one bloated stinking mess. There's
no excuse not to jog now...
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