Whatever You’re Doing, It Appears To Disagree With You

I’m sportin’ a new look this summer that is all the rage in my social circle. My clique, my club, and my peer group consist of a party of one. I’m it. And we say gaunt is in.

It wasn’t by design. Perhaps it’s the hot, humid summer we’ve been enjoying in these here parts. Or maybe I finally have that cancer that refuses treatment. Or early onset of Alzheimer’s, and I’m forgetting to eat. I don’t remember. But I’ve got that strung-out look that sends young moms and their strollers to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Fat people tell me I should eat, and fit people admire my six-pack. When fit people start telling me to eat, I’ll know I’m making headway.

Once my new look began creeping up on me, I decided to capitalize on it and see how far I could take it. My goal is to look like one of those skinless anatomical drawings in medical textbooks. Just a bunch of muscle and bone strapped together with blood-filled twine. A full-scale mock-up of Keith Richards’ and Iggy Pop’s ass-baby with fetal alcohol syndrome. Skin that’s haggard, yet snare-drum taut. Veins-a-poppin’ like ivy on a light post, like piano wire wrapped around a totem pole, like spaghetti splattered on a tile floor.

With minimal hydration and maximum sodium intake, partnered with abundant unprotected exposure to the midday sun, I should be able to take my pulse by watching my thorax convulse in the mirror. Real scary. Real cool.

I want the body fat percentage of a veteran laboratory cadaver. If the paramedics have to peel me off the asphalt after a motorcycle accident, the time of death will be a question mark on the coroner’s report. Send ‘em off in search of previous autopsy results.

My next birthday gift to myself will be the horrified look in a person’s eyes. The look that betrays the spoken words. The lying lips will utter "you look good for 50" while the truthful eyes will shout "you’re only 50?"

For my 60th birthday, maybe I’ll get fat. Unless this really is cancer. Then I’ll be dead. Unless this really is Alzheimer’s. Then I’ll forget. Unless I assimilate into society and behave like a normal person. Forget that…I might as well be dead.