I used to weigh over 115 pounds. I’m 5’2", so that would have made me morbidly obese. If famine struck the land, I would have survived for years off of the fat on my thighs. Others would have to fend for themselves by the fat in their heads, and that is, after all, the most useless kind of fat, so they would die instantly. Such an occurrence would situate me, Stephen Hawking, Marilyn vos Savant, and Marlon Brando as the only remaining inhabitants of earth. It would be like an interesting version of Gilligan’s Island, I assume. I’m not entirely sure, because I never actually watched that show. It wasn’t terribly interesting.

Unfortunately, I sadly had to accept that I probably wouldn’t see, in my lifetime, a worldwide, overpopulation-induced famine. That would happen shortly after my death, because I plan to die young in a freak gasoline-fight incident.

So now the question remains, how am I going to leave a beautiful corpse?

The inspiration came to me from the impulse-buying rack near the checkouts at Target. I saw the cover of Glamour, Redbook, Cosmopolitan, and In Style before it occurred to me: My desire for an unrealistic body image was insatiable. And I could blame it all on Hollywood! After all, if I was daft enough to atrophy, it was society’s fault.

I’m sad to report that I couldn’t stick with anorexia for more than about four hours. Hollywood hadn’t brainwashed me well enough yet.

To make a long story short, The End.

However, may I make one more cutting social observation? I’m now less than 100 pounds (see the condensed account above), but I’m still overweight compared to Catherine Zeta-Jones, Jennifer Lopez, or any of the other so-called "indulgent" Hollywood celebrities. In Tinsel Town, "fat" is an unsightly 12 BMI.

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