The clingy transparent plastic-wrap of incessant despair.

A few days ago I found myself in my office mouse-clicking my way through the production of a non-immigrant certificate of eligibility when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something flying about my person. Thinking that it was a putrid, disease-ridden be-winged arthropod that had been tricked into leaping forth from its vile chrysalis by a few days of 50+ degree weather, I gathered my wits about me and prepared to hunt it down and ruthlessly exterminate it with the grim efficiency of a Latin American death squad. As it wheeled through the air and began to careen towards my face, I did two things:

1) Uttered a small, rather high-pitched shriek which, if there is a sweet infant Jesus, was not heard by any of my coworkers or the random Asians collected in the front lobby awaiting their aforementioned non-immigrant certificates of eligibility.

2) Noticed that it was not, indeed, an insect bent on inserting its hellish probiscus under my eyelid to drink of my brine but was a smallish ball of dust which appears to have pressed itself into a spheroid (for better aerodynamics?).

Clearly this could have been only one thing: a collection of dust, hair and - presumably - dead skin cells had been collected by my gravitational pull and had formed into what I can only describe as my very own moon. As I began to amuse myself in my attempts to name my moon - this, from someone who named a cat Balthazar Anatole Romulus - I was poleaxed by a paralyzing thought: only really, really big things have moons. I looked down over my coffee-dribbled work shirt to my "are you in a family way?" belly and sighed. Goddamnit.

I'd noticed that in the past few months that I'd been filling out a little more, but I'd initally ascribed it to me actually having, oh, I dunno, the money to purchase sustenance again. In the months after He Who Hopefully Has A Chancre left, I had begun a regimen of habitually stealing ketchup packets from the McDonalds after making a pitiful purchase, like the Vagrant Special (a lukewarm hamburger patty that is too deformed to sell to the general public, wrapped up) and eating them as a meal. In the dark. After I ascended to my position, though, I began getting - *gasp* - regular paychecks. This meant that I could scuttle over to the Dirtbaby Kroger to purchase pasta that wasn't replete with Shrimp-flavored seasoning packets or procure an already-prepared meal at a fecking restaurant when the mood set me right. And with the checks lining my bank account came a greater sense of comfort and contentment from a number of other sources - friends, family, my work and, of course, cüceyim.

In the meantime, though, I'd begun to notice that my underwear had begun to cut off my circulation if I sat in awkward positions. Shirts I used to swim in now would eject buttons at seventy miles an hour off my chest if I sneezed. And perhaps most telling, a Norwegian internation student with an unnatural gleam in his freakishly Aryan eyes had brought a flensing implement from the 'old country' into the office, asking if he could meet "the big, white one" for an appointment. Ostensibly, this "appointment" was to be about off-campus work authorization, but I became convinced that within two hours the high stench of my rendered blubber would carry out over the lubeless sodomy of Gomorrah Avenue. I began to cast my eyes over my shoulders as I walked from my car to Franklin Hall, firmly convinced that I would behold a rusty Japanese trawler leveling a grenade-tipped spear at the tender area behind my blowhole.

So, as I sat in my office, watching my very own moon circuit around my porcine form, I weighed (*ahem*...) my options. After deliberation - and a guiltily-consumed HoHo - I determined that there are, essentially, three of them.

1) Ritualized starvation: I would only allow myself to consume iceberg lettuce, vegetable broth and white rice. If I managed to live through the experience without "accidentally" allowing my hand to enter the garbage disposal, I'd have skin hanging like freshly-laundered linens from my skeleton. Hot, no?

2) Some fecked-up diet that actually kills you. You know what? I'm sorry, but putting a pound of pepperoni on a plate and covering that with shredded cheese and microwaving it - that's not a snack. That's angioplasty cleverly disguised as food. Nor does the idea of gnawing the flesh off a cold rotisserie chicken like a wild animal sound viable. I have to give the Atkins diet credit where credit is due: it makes cannibalism sound appetizing.

3) Eating sensibly. Duh.

As I stood in the freezer section at the Meijer attempting to select healthy frozen meals for work (thus killing two birds with one stone: saving me money AND making me want to die really, really hard), I was overwhelmed by the selection of entrees. Would I select Country Roasted Turkey in Aspic? Wild Salmon Surprise? Chicken and Rice Plate? Oh, um, those are cat foods.
Instead I became drawn to the "Flavor Adventures" Healthy Choice entrees because Flavor Adventure sounded like a 1980s Marlboro campaign ("Light One Up for a Flavor Adventure"). So far I've had two: Beef Merlot and Chicken in Garlic Parmesan Sauce. I can honestly say that they weren't that bad - but this comes from a man who picks the tentacles out of the calamari first so he can feel the little sucker-cups slide down his throat just so.

So, we'll see how it goes. My bathroom scale is broken - no doubt having committed suicide rather than service the rorqual in residence at 402 North Peterman - but my goal is to not have to

oh - it can't be!

JESUS GOD IT'S AN INUIT

PUT DOWN THAT GODDAMN SPEAR AND

*gack*