I came in for this skin thing—I’d been calling it the “Marinara Trench,” because that’s what my inflamed armpit looked like. The doctor claimed these saucy conditions were due to my weight, lifestyle choices, and other things he couldn’t fix with a simple pill or elegant suppository. Then that smooth-skinned cutlet probably pedaled his ten-speed off to go sell a few subscriptions of Grit.
I don’t have to like him. I don’t have to like his pierced lip. I will, however, acknowledge that I should lose weight. Not just to try to alfredo over my marinara, but lose enough weight so that I can be the most attractive cadaver. I will find solace in my remaining years knowing that, when they have me dolled up at the Malt Valley Funeral Home, I want the strangers—the ones there for the other, less-aesthetically-pleasing events—to take one look at me and think, “Yeah, I’d do him—I mean, obviously, if he wasn’t dead.”
My neighbor was less than convinced. “Why do you care,” he kept insisting and I began losing track of my argument and instead started trying to undermine his religious beliefs. At one point, after I had dropped a massive payload of truth that completely debunked monotheism, he finally said, “You know what, I hope you do drop dead.” I told him he didn’t understand; I hadn’t lost the weight yet.
Even after my death, I want to believe that my corpse can be the best looking thing in the room. Online I found a diet where all you consume is lemonade with cayenne pepper and maple syrup. Supposedly the pounds just melt off. It’s my “Thinspiration,” as the website says. I’m not sure if I’m using that right, though; I should probably ask my hip, libertine doctor.
Fingers crossed I can squeeze into a Size Two casket, like this one. #Thinspiration
The juice bender should burn off my outer layer quickly. I’m thinking I might be able to enjoy the benefits of being a handsome cadaver even while I’m still alive! Once my chunky-tomato crust is gone, I can fine-tune the rest of the way to the finish line, mostly so my skin cooperates and I avoid the deflated balloon/human raisin/Biggest Loser look on my big day.
If my neighbor’s idea of heaven does exist, I’ll bet they excuse more mortal sins and unforgivable amounts of vanity if I show up looking real handsome. I’d ask my neighbor, but he’s been weird since I tried to undermine all of his family’s beliefs. He’s still invited when my lean, fit body finally says no more. Everyone is invited, even those just looking for some “Thinspiration.” Casket selfies will be allowed. Again, it’ll be at the Malt Valley Funeral Home. I’ll be the dead guy who’s finally able to fit into that bathing suit, so long as this skin thing goes away.