I Love You, Now Stop Making Me Fat


woman feeding man pizza
I'm not blaming you for my weight gain, sweetheart, but I know it's not my fault.

When I'm hip-deep in some hot feelings action, I typically clock a goodly amount of hours with my sweet baby. Though time is a manmade construction, I'm still beholden to a 24-clock and therefore have to make some sacrifices. The aforementioned exercise is the first thing to go. I'm very guilty of couples skating and family and friends typically miss out on my presence when I'm a-courting. Forget trying to convert exercise to quality time, when I'm blasting my pecs I don't want some noodle-armed lady spotting me nor will I be able to maintain concentration with the possibility of looking up her shorts so close at hand.

Finally, so much of human interaction surrounds eating. Virtually every culture can (and has) said, "food's very important to us because we're [insert race, ethnicity, religion, regional background or fetish at your leisure]." The most standard date is dinner with an optional movie. If I'm not enjoying it with someone, I'm liable to skip dinner or whip together a sandwich. That noise does not cut the mustard (sic) if you're using a meal as a vehicle for casual, getting-to-know-you convo.


Maybe I am mistaken, maybe I become literally hungry when my emotional (carnal) hunger is sated. However, I think the doubling of my chin when I'm in a relationship has more to do with logistics than becoming too comfortable. Maybe next time I'll sacrifice 40 minutes of bunk time to hit the gym to keep this physique tolerable for a lucky, lucky lady. I love you, now quit making me a fat.

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