Never Again Pizza
I looked down at myself in some bathroom I won’t be naming and realized I couldn’t see my own dick anymore. Normally it’s a decent size, but when your stomach gets big enough to eclipse it, you have to stop and process that for a minute.
Moved to Berlin in 2007 at seventy kilos. That was fifteen years ago. Somewhere between all the cheeseburgers and the pizza—and I’m not exaggerating when I say there were thousands of both—I gained thirty. One hundred kilos now. Forty percent bigger. I did absolutely nothing to stop it. Still haven’t.
This realization came at the worst possible moment: right after I’d crammed an entire double-cheese pizza into my face in record time. Felt so sick afterward that I seriously considered just slitting my stomach open to let it back out. Too cowardly to actually do it.
Got home and dumped everything. All the junk in the kitchen, everything in the fridge, into two massive garbage bags, took them to a dumpster across town. Threw away food. Actual food. Didn’t think about starving children or guilt or any of that—just wanted it gone. Felt good for maybe ten minutes.
I know exactly how this story ends. These moments of conviction last maybe two weeks before you’re eating frosting straight from a container. But what else do you do. So the plan is: cucumbers and ten thousand steps a day. That’s the whole thing. Don’t ask me for details because I don’t have any.
The worst part is I’ve stopped going to those press events. Not because I care about the people there, but because I literally don’t fit through the doors. And I’m not being poetic about that—I mean it physically won’t work anymore.
I could do the whole body-positive campaign. Make a speech about how everyone’s too thin, how representation matters, how Ken dolls are unrealistic. Post about it. Maybe that’s even true. But the real answer is I feel like complete shit. Hunger is not a thing I experience anymore. I just eat because the food exists. Vegetables are a side note. All the pathetic clichés that sound worse when you actually say them out loud.
This was supposedly my last pizza. New rule: never again pizza. Realistically? Two weeks.
Going to try the app tracking thing, hit ten thousand steps a day, and see if in a year I can look down and actually find something worth looking at.
Everything else just means waking up like this every morning.