I love a well-manicured lawn more than most things. If I were to compile a list of things I loved, a well-manicured lawn would be very close to the top — sandwiched between the likes of music, It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, the 2008 Arizona Diamondbacks, myself, neon colors and so on.

Earth’s emerald-green, pantyless pubic region; a beautiful taste of forbidden fruit, such a lawn demands my respect and calls out to me in sun-soaked song. Its short, freshly-trimmed blades glistening in the summer heat, gently waving in the gentle breeze — as if posing for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue or a Creed music video. Its perfection so unmatched in matters of perfection, it quietly makes its way into paintings and photographs and our perceptions of idealistic-utopian beauty.

I want to marry such a lawn — to frolic with it, and eat ice cream sundaes and go to a drive-in movie. (Maybe afterwards we could neck in the backseat of my car at Lookout Point.) And every time I see this lawn — this ravishing slew of bugs and dirt and seeds and grass and dogshit — every time I see it, a pang of lust drives its lusty spear straight through my lusting body, reminding me that no girl will ever be as unequivocally amazing as a fucking lawn.

I wish I was a fat person because I like food.

But, typical of the unfairness that is this world we live in, I was born with an unfairly overactive cracked-out metabolism and an appetite that can only stomach a pound’s worth of food in one sitting (at the very most — even in the most extreme conditions). My plight is real, my fortune unfortunate, and my body not able to eat all the food that I like. This is the dire reality that I live in, dear reader.

I have tried everything to overcome my insufferable disability, but it’s all in vain (and by vain I don’t mean my appearance but the fact that I cannot eat a 72 oz. ribeye steak without having a seizure). I have taken SSRI’s (hoping for the gloriously delightful side effect of massive weight gain), I have tried lipo-injection, I have tried laying on the couch for weeks without moving, I have even tried injecting multiple meals straight into my body through an IV. But nothing, nothing whatsoever will cure this horrible affliction. I will never be able to eat more than two plates at a buffet, or eat my family out of house and home (or even eat my family, after a shipwreck or plane crash). I will never fit the American obesity stereotype and also I will never be able to have a gastrointestinal bypass.

Yet despite living this nightmare life of average-sized portions and second-rate leftovers, I will continue to coat my face in grease and cow’s blood and butter and McDonald’s breakfast in the false hopes that one day my stomach will open up and I can eat an entire large animal smothered in gravy in one sitting.

Maybe one day.