When Did I Become a Big Fat Rebel?


I’m a rebel. I know for a fact I am, and my weight is proof.

There has never been a time where I haven’t produced grueling diet and exercise regimes for myself like a tyrant. “YOU VILL HAVE NO MORE CARBS,” I demand in a Third Reich sort of German accent.

In response to these fascist food laws I rebel, and my waistline expands in defiance.

Have you ever wondered if being one of those people who has a problem with authority may be creating waves with your own internal authority figure?

We choose to do things counter-intuitive to our own best interest based purely upon a voracious need for freedom.


Every luscious, dripping with BBQ sauce, smoky pulled pork sandwich stuffed in my face amounts to a desperate attempt at giving the finger to the powers that be, who just happens to be me.

We are our own worst enemy, and if you only hurt the ones you love, by default, we must hurt ourselves the most.

So, as I spoon-load another luxurious mound of caramel-toffee ice cream into my anxious gob I can only assume this is yet another act of rebellion, and a mad attempt at chaos in an ordinary life.

Yes, I am a rebel, a well fed and rotund rebel, and I fear my own personal Anarchists Cookbook may actually be a cookbook.

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