So it's Friday night after a long and hectic week of work and time to kick back and relax. Normally, this would be the moment I'd head into the kitchen and pop the cap off that first welcoming bottle of beer, soon to be followed by umpteen more.
I would glug down the refreshing nectar, lie on the couch, muse to myself or Iu about the world and settle back into a contented reverie. And accumulate more and more pounds. Of the fleshy kind, not monetary.
But that's happiness there - all encapsulated in that state.
Now what do I do?
I scramble to think up something to put into cartoon form, draw possibly my 100th extended stomach of mine in a fortnight, and then colour it in. The process of doing this stops me from going to the fridge, because you can't really do it pissed.
At times you wonder what it's all for - and think - maybe there are some upsides to being a fatty after all . . .
Helpfully I have a conscience in the form of Iu and her disapproving looks, and also a wardrobe full of clothes I refuse to throw out but which I have no possibility of wearing right now.
I may have come up with an entirely novel diet plan - the 'draw your fatness repeatedly' diet so that you don't have time to eat. It's quirky, it may even work - but I don't see myself on the lecture circuit with this one.
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