Now is when I feel fat & bloated. I want
to juice cleanse and run and move and not sit
and not eat. Mario Kart seems an appropriate
lecture; people yell and scream at a tv screen.
I witness this while others are starving,
while watching A Christmas Story. Sometimes
I want to shoot my eye out. The flow of this
media is like red velvet-lined handcuffs.
Some die with their hands up on a couch.
The world is cruel. Loved ones are spoken of
at the bar. They died a few warm years back.
Peppermint drinks come in coffee mugs and
in-laws come with drunken cheer, my pants
come taut and Facebook blows up with new
engagements. I wonder if they really know.
Some give support and get it. Others don’t.
Respect comes in consumerism and what
you can bring them, and I still worry about
my weight. My youngest sister tells me I
am skinny. Jesus is on the computer screen.
The bar life in downtown is docile, a perfect
place to feel heavy and finish a $7 pitcher
of Spotted Cow; I feel better already. Growing
farther apart, and bigger, and older, and more
prone to upset all those around me. At least
I feel fat and good being myself. And some
start, and others pick winless battles. Now,
what a great time to feel fat and bloated.