Piggy:

Let me tell you something about Piggy: Piggy wasn’t always so fat.

But I was once weak. I wanted to be free of my carcass; I wanted women to love me. So began a pitiless regimen of weight loss, of contortions and repetitions that, even summoned now so many years later, makes me cherish this present like a near-drowned man:

Girls whose glances in my direction would have been flips of a nickel in a beggar’s cup, now held my gaze before fluttering their lashes downward with the studied precision of their kind:

I had them. I had them to my satisfaction, and then to my displeasure.

They were tourists in my body who knew nothing of its Unincorporated Areas to save their lives:

No – I was the tourist:

They were sherpas guiding me there.

How you can trust a thin man? The very cylinder of his waist is unforgiving. I don’t mean the man who carries cans of vanilla-flavored protein drink in his coat pocket to bulk up what genomes have denied. I mean the one whose admiring eyes stroke the bow of his own neck tendons and banishes bread.

Stick with Piggy. He’ll show you what the world is made of.