Fat Kids Make Easy Targets

Fat kids make easy targets, and, at 10 years old, I was a bus-sized bullseye. Imagine the porkbellied two-year-old stuffing his face with deep fried chicken wings backstage at Maury’s Morbid Babies show. Now picture him eight years later, roaming the blacktop in grey sweats like a baby elephant with a butt cut.

The Long Way Home

The one block left before our turn stretches out before me like a pirate’s plank, and the more I try to convince myself that everything’s okay, the more I feel like I’m going to be fed to the fishes. The food coma has overtaken my girlfriend at this point and she sits in the passenger seat with her eyes closed. I contemplate turning into our complex, but the possibility of us being murdered is too much to bear. As long as we’re in the car, we’re safe.


I glance inside the restaurant. Everyone looks so warm. Couples smile between bites of pasta and sips of wine. I envy how easy dating used to be. Before I had to research every restaurant I took a girl to. Before I had to scrutinize the staff about each of the ingredients they used in making their “signature sauce”. Before I had to escape to the bathroom just as our meal arrived to inject insulin. Before every meal was a dance with death.


She pressed her lips around the rim of his favorite cup. Her lipstick made the faintest imprint and she smiled knowing he’d know she’d been there. She left as quietly as she came, the cup the only indication she’d ever come around. After a 12-hour shift at the mill, all he ever wanted to do …

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