Yes, you're fat. You've finally gotten me to say it. You are fat. I look at you, and I see three chins just waiting to embolden themselves. I see your stomach when you stand up; it's practically the size of the spare tire on a French bicycle. Yes, yes, yes, you were right the first time: You're fat. And you're using the excuse that you're breast-feeding to eat every goddamn dessert in sight. And then you, occasionally, complain that you're fat (not two weeks after insisting that you're NOT fat). Look, you're fat. You're repulsive to me. You're not the sexy beast you once were, the one that laid everybody in Olympia twixt 12 and 20. You're fat, and you're shoveling down ice cream, cannoli, and every goddamn dairy product with a trademark that you can find—and finding every convenient excuse to do so. I figure you will be using these excuses for the rest of your life, because it's easy. I'm sick of avoiding everything fatty because of my health, whereas there is not a single cake, ice-cream cone, pie, muffin, cupcake, or mousse that you can find it in your heart to deny JUST ONCE. You suck these things down twice a day, then complain about it, and then expect some words of sympathy from me. Look, YOU ARE FAT, YOU ARE DOING NOTHING TO STOP IT, AND YOU HAVE NEVER SHOWN ONE IOTA OF RESOLVE THAT YOU WILL EVER TRY TO DO SO. So you got me to say it, in my own passive-aggressive/through-the-media manner. Why do I have to deal with it? Self-control: It's better than bite-size Milky Ways, Bessie. Catch the wave.