Often have I been asked how it was and through what series of steps I became an overeater. Was it tentatively, gradually, and mistrustingly, as one goes toes first into the bitingly chilly waters of the YMCA lap pool, and with an immediate understanding of the perils and pitfalls lying ahead on that path of vulnerability? Or was it, secondly, in absolute benightedness, allowing my profoundly obtuse way of thinking to make me–well–more obtuse, both physically and mentally? Could the beguiling and bewitching scent of the sacred succulents crafted by the omnipotent McDonalds lured me into confusion and blissful ignorance? I will tell you, dear sympathizers, that the latter explanation is right as rain.

Alas, my intuition failed to warn me of the consequences of my indulgences, as the weight of abject slavery is only detected after it has dragged one’s unknowing soul into the dark abyss. For myself, this dreaded weight came in the form of fat, calorie after calorie received warmly and affectionately by my pathetic corpse, which never was forced to undergo any form of exercise throughout those long months following the restraining order issued by my true love. Those torturous months were, in fact, simultaneously the best and worst of my miserable so-called life. After a hurtful and harrowing breakup sent my soul into a deep state of agony and anguish, my hardly human being was in great need of salvation. Religion never gave me much satisfaction; I needed a newfound amenity, one that would provide a diversion from grief and not deliver any tribulations. Thus, I became a pig. 99 cent deals became my best friends in the world, and the kind, glorious angels behind the blessed counters at both Taco Bell and Jack-in-the-Box soon began addressing me by my Christian title: Jonathan T. Turner the First. Soon, I was simply known throughout the Fast Food Kingdom as “Jon.”

Four times a day would I journey to these lands of milk and honey and 700-calorie hamburgers, striding in through the greasy glass doors, entering my precious domain. For the early morning meal, I would consume seven orders of tatertots and over-easy eggs. For the midmorning snack I would consume six to eight Frosties and five Chocolate Overload Cakes. For the midday meal, I would consume eighteen of the finest Angus patties. And lastly, for the greatest meal of all, the evening meal, I would consume twenty–yes– twenty, of the renowned Nacho Supremes along with fifty to sixty hotsauce packets, which I allowed to ferment on my sunny windowsill in order to create my own alcoholic beverages.

After a fortnight of profligacy, the nachos and strange little men with large white golf-balls for heads no longer gave me pleasure; I needed something entirely different. It was almost as if an invisible force led me to my home, the truest of the true: McDonalds. Six months after my discovery of the holy land, I had gained a colossal 500 pounds, weighing in at a gargantuan 813 lbs. My diminutive clothing now fit only for Lilliputians no longer covered my mammoth frame, thus forcing me to contact Seattle Tarp Company and request an abundance of specially made tarps of mountainous proportions in exchange for a quick photo shoot with the workers’ cellular devices (I had begun running out of currency, due to my careless spending sprees during National Fries Week). After another six months I outgrew the loathsome tarps and began traveling stark naked, as my flabs of fat concealed all offensive bodyparts. Fat began covering vital bits and pieces, including my eyes, which led to the irresponsible purchase of a 120-pound German Shepard guide dog that I sat upon and ate.

Life was no longer worth living, and I found myself committing criminal acts of tremendous dimensions, mostly concerning the consumption of household pets and small children. Death began preparing for its dreaded visit to my soul, and I could feel its ice-cold fingers wrapping around my non-existent neckline, sucking the will to live from the depths of my very being. Death finally won me over, in its own spiteful way. It came whilst I was relaxing my corpulent carcass on the floor of my apartment (the lovely embroidered couch had become much to small for my elephantine body), watching the season finale of American Idol. I opened my whale- like jaw to rejoice at the victory of Mr. Kris Allen and quite suddenly released an unexpected wave of gas from my rear end, frightening me beyond my wits and sending me into a severe coma. I never awoke from the deep slumber, my mouth permanently fixed in its patulous position.

And that is how I became an overeater.