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“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” – Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 1933 Inaugural Address¹

I’m always amused by parents who keep their children on a leash.  I used to think that treating a child like a German shepherd was only appropriate in crowded, pedophile-rich places (subway stations, Times Square, Montana²), where one could easily lose a kid in the throng.  But just the other day, I saw a father calmly walking his toddler son in Target. Target! (It wasn’t even a busy Target.)  The kid kept trying to run off to the toy section, only to be bungee-boomeranged back to his dad.  It was actually rather funny to watch a guy play paddle ball with his son… except it was with his son.  However, when I mentioned the absurdity of the scene to my mom on the phone, she immediately leapt to the father’s defense: “If parents don’t keep an eye on their children nowadays, the child will get kidnapped.”  She went on to list several examples from Dateline in which un-leashed children were snatched away from their negligent parents.

(Thankfully, I never had to suffer the indignity of a leash.  I merely have memories of my parents telling me to stay close unless I wanted to be abducted and sold to a Nike shoe factory.  When I got older and questioned the likelihood of this ever happening, my mom was adamant. “They want Asian children because of your tiny fingers.  For the laces.”)

My parents were great at manipulating fear as a weapon.  After all, fear is entirely a product of nurture.³ I grew up fearing almost everything: snakes, spiders, roller coasters, big dogs, strangers, light poles, peas, the deep end of the pool, my own closet… I feared it all.  If you asked my parents, this was a good thing.  They would say it’s better to be fearful than cavalier.  Fear makes you more cautious, and caution makes you less likely to end up dead or with a venereal disease.  If it were up to them, they would encourage all parents to subliminally inculcate fears in their children like this:

Age 6: “Yes, the boogie man is real, and he chops off children’s heads.  The good thing is, he’ll only chop off your head if you don’t eat your vegetables.”

Age 13: “Yes, ninjas are real, and they will attack you in your sleep.  The good thing is, they’ll only attack you if you’ve been drinking or smoking.”

Age 16: “Yes, there really is a serial killer running around town.  And he will kill us unless you take out the trash. So do it already!”

Thankfully I managed to avoid permanent scarring, outgrowing most of my fears as I got older.  But the funny thing is, my parents kept theirs.  Even now, my mom always offers warnings about grave dangers that are immediate threats to my life.  Her long list of “Things to avoid” includes: the beach (tsunamis), the sun (cancer), left turns (inevitable car accidents), men with tattoos (you will get attacked and go into a coma), baseball games (you will get attacked and go into a coma), and drinking bottled water that’s been left in the car (you will die).

Since now I’m living 3,000 miles away in California, her worries have intensified: I’m almost certainly going to encounter a life-threatening earthquake, wildfire, mudslide, or errant Botox injection.  Scumbag LA agents and managers will eat me up and spit me out.  The Hollywood sign will tumble down and leave me trapped in my apartment, forcing me to eat my own arm to survive.  The only thing that could possibly keep me safe out here is marriage. Marriage (and grandchildren) will save me from all such ills.

My mom maintains that her concerns are just the normal fears of all parents.  And I suppose she’s justified, in some way.  After all, parenthood is cruel: having a child is like planting a seed and watching it grow for 18 years into a big, tall tree… and then having the tree ripped out and hurled across the country, fending off wood chippers and paper plants along the way.  So I can understand the anxieties of those parents who put leashes on their kids and who hound you about getting a first aid kit with flares for your car… at least you know they care.

And truth be told, there is a value to keeping a healthy dose of fear alive, reminding us of our own mortality, encouraging us to optimize the time we have on this earth, pushing us to live life to the fullest… because, like my mom⁴ says, we’re all just hanging on by a thread… a thread that may be contaminated with leftover radiation from Japan.

___

^{1. With apologies to Frankie D, WHAT WERE YOU TALKING ABOUT?  Sure, your speech went a long way in lifting post-Depression spirits, but if we really think about it, you essentially said the equivalent of: “The only thing we have to celebrate is celebration itself,” or “The only thing we have to eat is food itself.”  Okaa-ay. Worst famous quote ever.}

^{2. Montana is the state with the highest number of registered sex offenders per capita, according to the sex offender registry. Go Montana!}

^{3. Actually, let me rephrase that: surplus fear is entirely a product of nurture. Naturally, all human beings are predisposed to certain baseline fears that threaten our survival, like hurricanes, sharks, and other things that we name professional sports teams after. It’s nurture that separates the notoriously fearful (like Chicken Little) from the notoriously fearless (like Chuck Norris).}

^{4. And Nostradamus. And the Mayans. 2012, baby!… I am terrified.}

When I was 9, I was obsessed with spaceships, light-up sneakers, and Cheetos.  Like many children, anything shiny, flashy, or cheesy could keep my attention for hours. Yet there was something else that trumped all of these fascinations, something else that captured my wonderment with such a fierce intensity that it challenged every bit of understanding in my nine-year old brain. This strange, bizarre, curious obsession was, of all things, jiggly underarms.

Yup.

It all started in the fourth grade.  Everyone in my elementary school was required to take “Band” as a class, which meant that for two days a week, we would gather in the auditorium and blow into rented instruments for an hour.  The band director, Mrs. E, was a very nice, regal woman with ’80s hair and a penchant for wearing short-sleeved tops.   She was also a fantastic conductor who would vigorously direct our rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star as if she were Leonard Bernstein.

But those arms. Every time Mrs. E raised her conductor’s baton, her underarms would sway from side to side, like the pirate ship ride at the amusement park. It was  mesmerizing to watch.  If she were to jump off a cliff, she could soar like a condor with her beautiful, gelatinous wings gliding in the air.  Sometimes it even seemed like the sound of the jiggling reverberated in the auditorium as we practiced. Brub-brub-brub. She was a one-woman orchestra.

Jiggly underarms on their own were not that uncommon in my town. But this case was different.  What made it all so fascinating to me was that Mrs. E was not a large woman.  In fact, she was rather petite.  And so her fleshy flappers became an invitation into scientific inquiry, into exploring the unknown. How did they come to be this way?  Was it just an anomaly?  Or was it some kind of physical manifestation of irony, or a big F-you to biology, or an acknowledgment of an extraterrestrial presence? Seriously, what the hell happened here?

I was reminded of all this a few weeks ago when I was shopping for a friend’s birthday in Target.  There, I came upon the Shake Weight, the arm-toning barbell which has been oft-spoofed for making people look like they are… plunging a toilet repeatedly and rapidly.  I thought back to the days of fourth grade, when, influenced by Mrs. E’s sagging triceps, I first learned to think critically about our relationship with the inexplicable secrets of humankind.  The drive to understand ultimately led me to do well in school and to pursue a career in writing.  Would I be here today if it weren’t for those jiggly underarms?

I don’t know, but that day I bought the Shake Weight for myself… I liked that it was shiny.

We’ve heard it before.  It’s a common refrain, frequently echoed by the well-meaning types, and directed towards everyone from teenage anorexics to rapping basketball players: “You need to love yourself.  That’s all that really matters.  Don’t listen to what anyone else says.” And we nod and we think, yes, that makes sense.  Self-love is all that matters.  Knowing thyself.  Trusting thyself.  Loving thyself. 

But then we step back for a moment, and we think:  Self-love? That’s crap.  That’s baloney.  That’s (a popular card game whereupon I throw down four cards, say “Three aces”, and you shout–).”  The only form of self-love I need is when I’m at the bank, and I’m not talkin’ ‘bout the money bank. (Last line should be read as if you were a cash-strapped dude with great genes.)

Because in our hard-fast, network-happy world, loving thyself is about as old testament as thy itself.  It’s so old that it’s become new again, in that it’s mostly appropriated by hippie-vegans who carry satchels and eat stuff off the ground.  All that matters to them is that they love themselves.  For the rest of us, well, we need outside love too.  As much as we hate to say it, we seek external validation.

It’s not something we like to admit, especially in this new age of finding breathy “inner love.”  But most human beings want praise.  We want validation.  We want a honky creepsta to tell us how hot we look, just so we can go around telling the story of how a honky creepsta told us how hot we looked (ugh, so gross!).  And even though we seek it, want it, perhaps even need it, we must pretend that we don’t care about accolades.  “Oh, please stop telling me how amazing I am.  No, really.  You’re embarrassing me.”  Because if we actively acknowledged our desire for validation, we’d just seem like a needy, attention-seeking dolt: “You like me!  You really, really like me!”  (Last line should be read as if you were an Oscar-winning actress about to throw your movie career down the toilet courtesy of Legally Blonde 2.) 

Of course, there is something to be said for Sally Field’s honesty.  When we find out that someone does like us, we get that warm, fuzzy feeling inside, of butterflies and smiling babies and blue skies ahead.  But because praise is discouraged (and, most often, by the recipient of the praise), we don’t quite get enough of this non-self-love. 

Thus, I propose a Validation Day, where you call up your friends, and say something nice about them.  In return, they’ll say something nice about you (we can even make it a mandated holiday, so it won’t seem weird).  Then everyone will hug and exchange cards that will go into a scrapbook shoebox and we’ll all feel good about ourselves.  Because no matter how many times we say “I love you” in the mirror, it feels so much better when someone else does it.  (And that’s why there are prostitutes.)

On Sunday, I spent two hours at the Verizon store.  When I finally left, the parking attendant told me that because I stayed for so long, “I cannot validate you.”  So, I paid $8 for a guy to look disgusted at me. 

At least I love myself.

Remember when Jesus died on Good Friday, rose again on Easter Sunday, and then somberly looked into our eyes and said, “I’ll be back?”*  Jesus has proved to be a man of his word, rising from the dead to hobnob with Thomas the Apostle, have a resurrection fling with Mary Magdalene, and appear in a bucket of pizza sauce.  Indeed, Jesus has been sighted many times, but not only in inanimate objects like fish sticks and pancakes… In fact, I am resolute in my belief that JC is back; he’s inhabited a body (fake-Locke style),  and he’s living right here amongst us mortals in Southern California.

In fact, you may have heard of him.

And the modern-day resurrection of Jesus is…

(Wait for it.)

(Wait for it.)

(Commercial break.)

(Long yawn.)

(Thought we were back but it’s just another commercial break.)

(…OK, we’re done here.)

Yes, Ryan Seacrest is the modern-day resurrection of Jesus.  (Shock, awe, teen screaming, and applause.)  In case you haven’t heard of him, Jesus is the guy with long hair who walks on water.  Seacrest is the ubiquitous face of Hollywood, the host of American Idol, the host of E! News, the host of American Top 40, the host of his own daily 5-10 AM radio show, and the host of Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve (with Ryan Seacrest).  Unless you drive a horse and buggy to work, you know who Ryan Seacrest is.  He catapulted Kelly Clarkson to fame. He kickstarted the Kardashians to infamy.  He is a hosting hog (he’ll show up at your son’s bar mitvah, demanding the mike).  He’s been on TV more often than Brian Williams, Oprah, and God (or, who he calls, “Pops”).

You might be skeptical.  But there is evidence suggesting that Ryan Seacrest, is, indeed, Seasus.  First, he has six jobs.  Six.  The fact that Seasus has six jobs is a testament (pun intended) to his ungodly work ethic (let’s just assume that from now on, all puns are intended).  Second, he was born on December 24.  Coincidence?  I think not.  Some disbelievers might say that Jesus was actually born on the 25th — well, Bethlehem is 7 hours ahead of Dunwoody, Georgia, where “Ryan Seacrest” was born.  So it was still the 24th in the ATL.  What up.  Third, both guys had/have girl issues.  Jesus supposedly had a lover in Mary Magdalene; Seacrest supposedly is straight.  The life of do-gooding bachelorhood seems to fit them both, though it’s a shame that Seasus got rid of His free-flowing locks (better to attract hair gel sponsors, I suppose).  And finally, if all that isn’t convincing enough, then just take a look at Jesus’ modern-day moniker: if you rearrange the letters to RYAN SEACREST, you get CRY, SATAN SEER.  (It only took me about two minutes to get that one — for some reason, “Satan” just jumped right out.)

So, that is Seasus.  He’s able to preach his gospel through the church of radio.  He’s got more Twitter followers than the populations of New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Vermont combined.  He’s liked by many, hated by few, but known by everyone.  And for all those wondering, What Would Seasus Do?, I imagine that it goes something like this: He wakes up at 3 AM, talks for five hours on His radio show, throws jabs with Simon Cowell on American Idol, oversees a Kardashian episode where a hissy fit is thrown, does prep for American Top 40, takes an Underdog pill around 6 pm, blows through His E! News gig, calls up Dick Clark to see if he’s still alive and if He can finally change that show’s name to Ryan’s Rockin’ Eve, hangs up once He hears a croaky voice, calls up Pops, has a discussion with the man upstairs for the umpteenth time about Dick Clark (“It’s his time! He’s like 105!”), loses the battle once again, and before you know it, it’s 3 AM and He’s telling his radio show producers that “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”  Good one, Seasus.

^{* Yes, I did Wikipedia “Jesus”…But no, this quote is not in there.  At least, not anymore.  I hate when they edit out my Jesus quotes.  I’m confident he did say it at some point:}

^{Free-riding man in street: “Hey Jesus, will you pick up some barley?”}

^{(Jesus sighs, rolls his eyes)}

^{Jesus: “I’ll be back.”}

^See?

Everyone in this world has a rival.  It could be your BFF, like Bert and Ernie.  It could be your sworn enemy, like Tom and Jerry.  It could be a totally contrived rival, like the E*Trade baby and Lindsay Lohan.  In any case, the worst feeling in the world is when your rival gets spotlight, and you get the shaft.

There are numerous examples of rivals overshadowing their just-as-deserving counterparts.  There’s the Anorexic Olsen Twin and the Other One.  There’s “Abercrombie” and “And Fitch.”  There’s John Hancock and everyone else who signed the Declaration of Independence, except with uglier handwriting.

However, the most lopsided pairing in terms of misguided attention is the rivalry between the heart and the lung.

While lungs have mainly focused on their job (breathing), the heart has developed a frivolous side hobby: enchanting an entire subculture of lovestruck followers.  The heart has become a symbol for romance, lust, desire, wanting, turtledoves, cupids, and other things that can make you gag.  Its popularity has spawned thousands of songs featuring hearts, from artists like Toni Braxton, Phil Collins, Billy Ray Cyrus, and the Backstreet Boys.  The heart has become so synonymous with love that it has catapulted to the top of the vital organs list.  We’re fine with losing our lungs, but please don’t break our hearts.

And yet, the irony is that actual hearts look nothing like pictorial hearts, the defacto symbol of love.  If you want me to show you the shape of my heart, I’LL SHOW YOU UPSIDE-DOWN LUNGS.  But lungs, the dutiful workhorses of our bodies, get no attention.  No one worries about lung-ache.  No one says “I lung you,” even though “lung” sounds more like “love” than “heart”.  Other than Radiohead’s obscure 1994 song, “My Iron Lung,” no one writes sappy songs about lungs, even though we can’t live without them.

Our lungs have never gotten credit for love, romance, and happiness.  Instead, the heart has basked in all its glory. Our attention-whoring heart is the A-Rod to every Jeter, the Warhol to every Malanga, the Edison to every Swan.

But then again, times change.  So, if you ever encounter another example of an unfair rivalry, a healthy mediation is necessary: sit down with both parties, take a deep breath… and have a lung-to-lung.

So maybe it’s just me, but I don’t understand why Americans have to wear clothes.  I think clothing is incredibly inefficient.  Every morning, I stare blankly into the mirror for at least fifteen minutes, wondering what to wear.  Whatever I choose, I still end up looking like a children’s model from a J.C. Penney catalog.  Thus, I really don’t see the point.  I could save so much time if it were socially acceptable to roll out of bed naked and head off to work.

To me, wearing clothes is like putting ornaments on a tree.  It’s pretty much unnecessary, except that some people think the tree looks better if it’s draped in glitter.  But, it’s not as if we need clothing in order to live.  Animals don’t wear clothes, and they do just fine.  If you watch Animal Planet, you’ll see that all the animals are perfectly comfortable in their own skin.  And if grizzly bears can survive in the winter without a bubble vest, I’m sure that hairy, obese people could survive too.  Maybe the rest of us would die, but hey, it’s called evolution. 

If I had to find legitimate reasons for wearing clothes, there are only three scenarios where it makes sense to me: 1) Protection.  2) Camouflage.  3) Pockets.  Protection is only necessary to cover all the open orifices of our body that are susceptible to disease — I’m definitely not sitting commando on the NYC subway.  (This is probably why Native Americans used to wear the flaps.)  Camouflage is pretty self-explanatory too, since our stalker nation would be deterred if we were easily detected when hiding out in trees.  And lastly, pockets are useful for carrying cell phones, keys, and concealed weapons – though, at the same time, fanny packs could be a suitable alternative.

I can sympathize with those who argue that clothing is a way for us to showcase our individuality.  Indeed, clothes allow businessmen to show off how much money they have, and it can serve as an outlet for teenagers to rebel by wearing black leather and chains.  Unfortunately, it’s also a means of social stratification.  Back in elementary school, all the cool kids owned a Starter jacket with light-up sneakers, No Fear t-shirts, and Adidas tear-aways.  But if you couldn’t afford these brands, it immediately signaled that you lived in a trailer and had a head full of lice.  Clothes make kids cruel.

Today, there are hundreds of cultures where clothing is a choice, not a requirement.  So, why can’t we signal our American individuality by wearing nothing at all?  Those who wish to cover up their bodies may still do so.  But those who wish to go au naturale shouldn’t be deterred.  Nakedness is more efficient and less exclusive.  We’re just taking our cues from Adam and Eve, Michelangelo’s David, and brave, pants-less Donald Duck.  

Instead of hiding from nakedness, let’s celebrate it.  And even though we may see some terrifying examples of the hairy and obese, perhaps this could inspire new programming for Animal Planet.

Just a decade ago, the word “cougar” meant nothing more than a giant, unpopular mountain cat. Cougars were barely on our human radar, as they were always overshadowed by their cooler feline cousins: flashy tigers, menacing lions, shoe-brand pumas, four-door jaguars, and even the Carolina Panthers. Indeed, while tigers, lions, jaguars, and panthers enjoyed being professional team mascots, cougars wallowed in their relative anonymity.

Then, all of a sudden, the word “cougar” took on an additional meaning. A “cougar” soon became known as an older woman who preyed on younger men. The origins of the transformation are unknown: some believe it started with Demi Moore, while others just blame Canada.

All I know is that cougars are finally getting the love they deserve (referring to both cats and the predatory ladies). There is the TV series “Cougartown,” the reality show “The Cougar,” and countless cougar dating websites, including dateacougar.com and gocougar.com.

The emergence of cougars into our social consciousness has created an interesting double standard. Women who chase after young boys? Simply cougars. Men who chase after young girls? Sleazy, dirty, scumbag predators. Just think: no one would approve of a “Predatortown,” featuring a forty-something male protagonist trolling on high school coeds. Even reality TV wouldn’t go ahead with “The Predator” (instead, they would re-title this “The Bachelor.”)

But now that we have established a new definition for the cougar, other members of the feline family want to get in on the action.  Whereas “cougars” are strictly limited to women over 40, women in their 30s who prey on younger men are being called “pumas.”  Of course, the irony of naming cats after desperate women is not lost on a future cat lady like myself.  So, what other cat metaphors can we come up with?

- Puma: Woman in her 30s who preys on younger men

- Cougar: Woman in her 40s who preys on younger men

- Cheetah: Married woman of any age who preys on younger men

- Snow Leopard: Woman with greying/white hair who preys on younger men

The “snow leopoard” is my favorite, and I admit that all credit is due to my friend Anthony who came up with the term.  And given the ambiguity of meaning now afforded to these animals, I’ll just say that Anthony is a huge snow leopard enthusiast… and if you’re wondering if I’m referring to a cat or a grey-haired lady, I will leave that one a mystery.

Back in the early 90s, we were introduced to the magical world of “cyberspace,” a place where you could chat with friends, check “electronic mail,” and even talk to strangers.  “Going on cyberspace” was like copulating with a pack of unicorns — no one had ever done it before, so everyone wanted to know what it was like:  How does it feel?  How does it work?  How can I get a screechy dial-up modem too?

But once cyberspace became mainstream, its better half decided that it would take on a whole new meaning.  In the seedy dark corners of AOL chatrooms, “cyber” lost its innocence.  With this transformation, thousands of curious 13-year olds were lured into predatory situations with creeps who wanted to “cyber”… Yes, like any rogue prefix-turned-slutty-verb, “cyber” became a term of virtual copulation.

So, forgive me for not embracing “Cyber Monday” as a new retail holiday.  To me, it’s as if retailers decided to name a random day “Boom Boom Tuesday” or “Bang Me Wednesday,” then offer 30% off all items in stock.  Sorry, but that doesn’t make me want to buy Ginsu knives, even if they’re 43% off on Amazon.  In fact, I feel less inclined to shop on Cyber Monday, and more inclined to join shady chatroom discussions about Grady Sizemore.

I am surprised that conservative watchdog groups haven’t boycotted “Cyber Monday” yet for its underlying sexual innuendo.  Perhaps they’re too busy snapping up Sarah Palin’s book on eBay… or maybe these “teabaggers” just don’t get the reference.

In the end, there are so many words in the English language that we’ve allowed to die an honorable death, like “beeswax” and “cassette tapes” and “groovy” (although this may still be used to describe Hideki Matsui’s face).  Had it not been for this inane Monday, “cyber” would be with them now.  I would like to call for an end to using this word (though, really, it’s a prefix), and retire “cyber” to Cyberia (apologies).  Let’s just call “Cyber Monday” for what it really is: “Virtual Deals… Monday.”

Next Thursday, November 26, is my half-birthday.  In case you were unaware, the “half-birthday” is the six-month anniversary until your next birthday (or, if you are a pessimist, it’s the six months after your last terrible birthday).

Really, the half-birthday is just an excuse to buy yourself half a cake and mess up the rhythm of 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” (“Hey shorty / It’s your half-birthday / We’re gonna party like it’s your half-birthday”).

But for me, this half-birthday is going to be different.  Because on November 26, 2009 (also Thanksgiving), I will be turning 24.5.  And 24.5 rounds up to 25.  And 25 rounds up to 30.  And 30 rounds up to death.  Seriously, that’s how it works.

They say your twenties are supposed to be the best years of your life.  It’s true.  When you’re in your twenties, you can still make bad life decisions (BLDs) and just blame it on “being young.” And for the first few years, I definitely took advantage of my twenties.  Then, all of a sudden, I turned 23 and became an elderly woman.  I’m not quite sure what happened.  It started when I began watching more HGTV… and then, boom, just like a gateway drug, I found myself losing control.  I started DVRing episodes of House Hunters and Property Virgins. I started drinking milk, because I’d seen commercials about osteoporosis.   I started finding great excuses not to go out on weekends (laundry, cleaning my apartment, swine flu).  One night, a friend stayed over and pulled a box of cookies out of my bed.  I keep them there for late night snacking.

My A&E Intervention moment came when I saw myself sprawled out on the couch, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, sipping warm milk and avidly watching Dancing With the Stars.

So this Thanksgiving, as I’m turning 24.5 = 25 = closer to fifty than to birth, I’ll be embarking on the last best years of my life.  But I can’t even begin to think about what I should do over the next 5.5 years.  I’m already past my prime when it comes to partying like it’s my birthday.  I have a friend who started creating a bucket list for what she wants to do before she turns 30.  Me?  I just want to eat cookies in bed and watch couples fight over townhouses in Canada.

But every once in a while, I do get the urge to go out, to be young again, and to make BLDs at Joshua Tree.  And hey, I still have six months left in my early twenties.  That’s definitely something to be thankful for.

Yesterday, my friend Andrew sent me this article, “The Social Side of Obesity”, with a note: “We can’t be friends.”

The article, which claims “you are who you eat with,” cites research that followed 12,000 adults for 32 years.  Those with a friend who became obese were 57% more likely to become obese themselves.

Part of me thinks this is great news — If you are obese, at least you can revel in your whale-like tubbiness with your best friend!  Biggest Loser Couples is always more interesting than singles.  And this ensures that big people can get love too… because unless you have a hippo fetish, most Americans will cruelly judge anyone packing lardy love handles.

The downside of course, is that obesity leads to heart disease, diabetes, multiple chins, ugly flab, arm jiggle, cankles, and premature death.  Since I’m not on the road to obesity (yet), it’s easy for me to downplay these effects, and to continue to write about my love affair with food (and The Biggest Loser).

But Andrew’s email yesterday was a wake-up call.  Clearly, the essence of life is derived upon restraint.  I have to change my food-loving ways: it’s unhealthy to dream about fajitas, and wake up gnawing on my pillow.  To control my voracious appetite, I’m going to start having a lunch of water and sugar packets.  And given that obesity is just the product of irresponsible and indulgent behavior (of course, DNA has nothing to do with it), I’m ditching all of my fat friends.  I don’t need their chub mentalities seeping into my head.  I don’t want their potbellies full of beer and cheesecake taunting me. 

I may become friendless, but at least I’ll be skinny.