I am not a particular fan of myself. I don’t like the way I look, I don’t like the way I think, I especially don’t like the way I feel.

I am too tall, too fat, too hairy, too bald, too…too..too…

Extremes seem to be where I hang my hat and, sometimes, that makes people smile and of course, that makes me smile because my self-esteem is completely based on what other people think of me and I am positively reinforced to grow out my beard and hair by people saying they enjoy looking at it. Which is why I haven’t had a haircut since I shaved my head when Naomi and I got married, and that was almost fifteen years ago now. I haven’t even trimmed my mustache or beard in, Goddess, probably six or seven years now, I know of a single person who would know the answer to that and I will be asking her in the foreseeable future because now I need to know.

It is like that for pretty much everything about me.

I am still growing, and I turn forty next year. Yeah I know I have a weird glandular thing or whatever, but I thought it was excessive when I grew three inches between graduation and my twenty-first birthday. Growing six more since then just seems a little excessive to me. I don’t want to be tall and have every single joint that I have, that is real, in near agonizing pain every second of every day when I am standing up. Yes, yes I am getting to that part here in a second, stay with me and don’t read ahead. I don’t want to know what this is all doing to the squishy parts inside, something tells me that you aren’t supposed to just keep taxing them at two-hundred percent for years at a time. Hence the explosive gallbladder incident of…whenever ago it was.

Yup, I am a big dude. I know that there has to be a proportionally large amount of me to cover the whole tent skeleton thing, but I think I mixed the recipe up real bad and now I am about to step on the church before getting hit by the unlicensed article accelerators of four awkwardly naive men in jumpsuits. I won’t use the words people ask me not to use when describing my weight, nor will I kite around the issue by using archaic words that mean precisely the same thing.

I just, don’t like me, at all.

No, this isn’t a rallying cry, or cry for help. It isn’t an open invitation to tell me about diets, cleanses, and detoxification methods oh my. It is me writing things outside of my head so they don’t sit and fester inside of it It is trying to unlock a box at the bottom of a deep well and pull it to the surface and very slowly empty the things in it so they are not poisoning me as badly anymore.

I will never be a happy person with regards to my appearance. That ship has sailed. I want to get to a different place, yes. I am actively working on getting to that place even as we speak as a point of fact. I am trying to alter this, increase that, change this and stop that. It is a process and I am balls deep in the middle of it and all of you who say things to me that, as happened today, literally make me shut up a second, you are the reason I am, well, not a lot worse than I am now.

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