Thanksgiving (And Everything I Ate Later That Night.)

Thanksgiving has come and gone and in the tradition of making this more of a current blog about my weight "issues", I figured I'd report back.

I over ate...of course.

I held out until dinner, which was at 2PM. I began by gorging myself with all the usual Thanksgiving fare. Mashed potatoes. Squash. Turkey. Rolls. Stuffing. The whole nine yards. It was one of those situations where I tried to be cool at first. Play it as if I could contain myself like a normal human being at a dinner table with adults. This lasts through the first round. I take a break, take part in the dinner conversation (all the while plotting my next move), and then subtly start to load my plate again. Now I know this is normal during the holiday season, but I have this complex whenever I am eating now, that people are staring at me. Adding up what I am taking in. Laughing. Judging. Of course they are not. I hope.

After my second round I am fucked. The seal is broken. The dam is busted and I am off to the races. I go for thirds and fourths and even pick as the table is being cleared. At this point I am full, but I don't let a little thing like that stop me.

Even after I leave the table I poke around for anything left of the apps or that is being wrapped up in a tin or Tupperware. Stuffed mushrooms, cheese, olives. Whatever I can get my hands on.

This year I was being watched, as my food paranoia has told me. I ate at a good friend's where I have spent most holidays since we met. Today there was a friend of the family present. An elderly lady. She was sweet and actually funny. TOO FUNNY. When she saw that I was game for being funny with her, the gloves were off, and she wasn't shy about poking me about my weight. If I made a joke about being lazy and not raking the leaves at my house she would reply by saying "Well there's a shock." I had to give it to her. She had skills. Everyone would laugh and we started to make a good team. Kind of a vaudeville thing. She was old enough to have actually performed vaudeville too (Boom. Take that granny). She was one of those lively New Englanders that wasn't afraid to be the life of the party after a couple drinks. She obviously didn't know that I was the life of the party and after a while of our Two Person Show it started to get old. This was my turf. I was the star of Thanksgiving. She was getting greedy with her bits.

At one point while watching the football game, I was devouring cheese at breakneck speed. I was really in my own world when I heard, "I don't think that's in your diet Mark." She got a big laugh on that one. Now she was just busting my balls. In my head I'm like, "Okay. Relax Phyllis Diller."

That was it. I had to break up the comedy team by avoiding her the rest of the day.

When desserts came I played the "I'm Diabetic so I can't do sugar" card. Translation - I will take some home later for my aunt and eat most of it before she knows it even exists. I don't know who I am kidding with the not eating desert discipline bit. With Diabetes - mashed potatoes, gravy and rolls are just as bad, if not worse. I fool myself into thinking I am fooling everyone else when they all know.

After the crime scene is cleared I go home, have a smoke and crash on the couch. I am full and I watch TV (like every free time I get.) I am done eating. Don't need anymore food. All good.

1 HOUR LATER:

I am in the kitchen scrounging for whatever I can eat, including all the deserts. Full disclosure - I even go so far as to make pasta. Fucking pasta?! It's bad. I know. Thank God there was no pizza joints open. After I feel I've sufficiently put myself in danger of a Diabetic coma, I call it quits. I turn off the TV, send some late Thanksgiving texts and hit the sack. I'm done for the night. In bed. Ready to sleep. Goodnight world.

Hopefully I won't wake in the middle of the night for a grilled cheese with bacon...and mayo.

Happy Thanksgiving all.

Phinney

MarkDonalds

I have a problem with fast food. I love it and hate it at the same time. It's been good to me and has also destroyed me. I am an addict. I am truly addicted to fast food like one is to drinking or heroin. I am in love with everything about it. In love with it like being in a dysfunctional relationship. Fast food is the girl I know I shouldn't be dating. She's wrong for me on so many levels, but the sex is too good not to be in it, and like that girl it is so many aspects that attract me. The taste. The smell. The textures and layers. Fast food is its own food group. Also like women, it's the different types of fast food you can get. The amounts you can get on the cheap. There is so much and so many to choose from out there. It's like a Disneyland of fast food, and I have my favorites, but I don't discriminate. Like women, I don't kick any fast food out of bed if it's not the perfect fast food. If it's fast and it's food, it's going in me.

Fast food has always been in my life. Since I was a kid it always played a part in my upbringing. We grew up right next door to a McDonald's and we had dinner there at least 2-3 nights a week. We were poor and it was cheap and my mother waited tables all day so it was just easier to get us some Mickey D's so she didn't have to serve any more people. McDonald's was also great because it had the Playland. That shit will rope a kid in quicker than a hooker to the pipe. In its own socially acceptable way it is crack. McCrack, if you will.

By the time I was 12, me and my buddies were hanging out at that McDonald's everyday after school. It was the meeting place for the Junior High kids. We would sit around, shoot the shit and chat up girls. If it was the 50's we would have been a Doo Wop band, matching harmonies on the corner over a trash can fire in the winter. All this was done over cheeseburgers and fries. McDonald's reigns supreme in the fry category, by the way. No one can touch them. All connoisseurs know this. Burger King makes those coated bullshit fries. It's like kettle corn popcorn - an abomination unto the Lord. But the thing about these delicious fries is that, like drugs, they are habit-forming and I have never been a friend of moderation. Now I am paying the price.

When I was 14 I went to live with my father. He was a bachelor and a drunk. All he ate was pizza and McDonald's, therefore so did I. He is now grossly overweight and has Type 2 Diabetes.

When I turned 15 I got my working papers and got my first job. Yep, you guessed it- at McDonald's. I was a horrible employee. I have always been a horrible worker and student. If you know me, you know this to be a solid truth. I either end up fired or suspended, even expelled a couple times. I remember during the job orientation we were offered a free meal while we watched the company video. There were two others in the training. They declined a meal and took only a soda. I, on the other hand, heartily enjoyed a Big Mac and fries with a large Coke. I ate right through the video, paying no attention whatsoever.

By the time I was 21 I was devouring fast food at breakneck speed. It was a constant revolving door of drive thru's and walk-up counters. After late night drinking is always the best time. There's nothing better than greasy shit food to wash down copious amounts of booze. You really tear it up when you're drunk too. You just say fuck it and throw in the towel. You would be just fine dying right then and there in a pile of chili burgers and milkshakes in some parking lot at 4AM. God knows I've been there. I would liken it to being a junkie shoving that shot in his arm in the middle of the night, alone in an alleyway without a care for anything else in the world but that hit, even if it's the last hit.

From sausage and peppers to slices to late-night diners, it all falls under the fast food heading. It's a paradise of after-hours gluttony. True, these other foods are great, but real fast food is still king for the simple reason that they have drive-thrus, the greatest invention since the wheel. In fact, I suspect they invented the wheel just so they could have something to roll into the drive-thru.

I worked for a catering company that sent us all over New England, working events from fairs to concerts to soccer tournaments, and we would be on the road for hours at a time. This is where fast food really played its part. There is a great comfort in seeing the golden arches on a highway in the middle of nowhere. You roll through, get your goods and get back on the highway. You eat this food with your co-worker. Your buddy. There is a real moment in this. I know it sounds hokey, but it's just you and your partner sharing something. My Italian heritage always shared joyous moments over food. It's a tradition, as in most cultures. Every time there is some sort of celebration or death, there is food involved. This is how I looked at fast food when I was young. I was sharing a time with friends. Every time we would be together it was a celebration of life. Life, love and coronary disease. Who knew that all the good times would lead to bad times.

I've covered my history with fast food. Now I want to talk about what it really does for me. Comfort. It comforts me. I know we all eat comfort foods like Mac 'n Cheese and Meatloaf, but I am talking about another type of comfort. Many times I have taken to the warm bosom of a Whopper or 7 Layer Burrito. The food, fast rather, is there for you. If you have experienced this, you know what I am talking about. It may only last five or ten minutes, but it's that time that counts for me. For five minutes you are not alone. You feel safe. Warm. None of the shit that befalls you can touch you. You are in control, even if you are out of control. Through career bullshit. Breakups. Fights with friends. Through all the tragedies and comedies of life, the food is there for you and most importantly... it always stays. It doesn't leave you or lie to you. It loves you like a dog. Loyal. Honest. Supportive. All I need sometimes is my TV and a Big Mac and fries and a Coke. (Then maybe something later.) The food isn't out seeing other food or talking about you to other food in their emails that you hack into. The food won't do any of that.

Problem with all this is I was out of control. I was eating it everyday and not just for comfort anymore or the affordable dollar menus. I craved it. Needed it. I was an addict now. Officially.

The thing about fast food is it's easy to get your hands on, like drugs. There is a fast food joint on every corner. Around my block was at least three spots I could hit at any given time. I like to share the love, but I did have a Taco Bell problem for years. There was one in walking distance that I would drive to everyday, sometimes, most times, three times a day. I'd get the goods and gorge in my car. I love eating in the car. Maybe it's from my road days. I eat in the car so people don't see me squeezing into the tight booth and eat my six or seven items. You always feel like someone is watching you or worse, talking about you and or laughing. I get insecure about that shit, which is why I take the comfort in the food. That safety factor.


I talked about that five minutes of safety and comfort you feel, but then there is the minutes following the act. The comedown. The depression creeps in shortly after. You beat yourself up. "Why did I eat that shit? You fat fucking pig! What is wrong with you?!" It comes comes on like a tidal wave, a trans-fat tsunami drowning you in the harsh reality of your latest cholesterol binge. Your addiction. It's a quick fix, which is why you end up right back at that drive-thru later that night or the next day or both. It's the only thing that kills the shakes and sweats. That next puff. That next spike. That next burger. I'm waiting for my McMan... *(See Velvet Underground)

I was eating this food all the time now and I started to see my health was becoming the real victim. My body, mind and emotions were paying the price. (Spoiler alert - fast food makes you more depressed.) I was showing signs of middle-age illnesses. I already had gout. Gout sucks. Here I am, this young, hip dude living in LA trying to score chicks and I am stricken with an 18th century ailment that started with the Vikings. I have never had a mutton burrito at Taco Bell, which is why the gout remains a mystery to me.

People were becoming concerned. Friends. Family. Just because they found piles of fast food bags in my room and car? Come on. Wasup with that?! There were so many bags that I could have made a fucking paper bag sculpture for the Museum of Modern Art. Fast food art. I was now downing the shit food and not looking back. I did try to stop, but I am a weak bastard. I have zero willpower. I freely admit this. I am a slave to most of my desires. I live in extremes and on impulse most of the time. I didn't think about it. I loved it, wanted it, needed it, therefore I ate it. Period. No one was going to change that. It went beyond the food itself. It became routine. It was a habit that I was used to. My brain became wired. I had to find a way to disconnect and re-route my thinking patterns. I didn't have a exercise or paying-my-bills-on-time regimen, but I sure as hell had an fast-food-eating schedule.

Eventually I was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes, like my mother and grandmother before me. It killed both of them. That was the wake up call. Sort of. Not right away at least. I am a slow learner. Fast Food Nation did nothing to stop me. Neither did Food Inc. and Super Size Me only made me hungrier for a McChicken.

Here's the deal. I partly don't know how to end this and partly feel I need to be honest. I have quit fast food for the most part, but sometimes I still sneak it in. Thing is I'm not sneaking on anyone but me. People care, but as long as we don't help ourselves in this life, people lose interest in helping you out. This lends itself to every aspect of life. I love fast food. Always will. I just have to continue to keep it in check. I am an addict and always will be. Everytime I pass a Taco Bell at 11PM I want to hit the drive-thru. Sometimes I do. Most times I don't. It will always be that way. I understand that. Accept it and own it.

Hey, Move It, Fat Ass!

What is it with it being okay to call me fat ass? Or fat fuck? Or anything like that? Or anyone, for that matter? All of a sudden it's cool to just call overweight people fat motherfucker?! Or fat ass fat bastard fatty fat fat. WTF!

I noticed this started happening to me a few years ago as I got bigger. It started with small jokes at my expense that even I took part in from time to time, but then there was a shift. The joke was on me now. And that joke wasn't funny anymore (Tip of the hat to Morrissey.)

Friends began to freely comment on how big I was becoming, playing it off in a concerned and/or funny fashion, but mostly it just came off as fat fun at my expansive expense.

As the comments became jokes they morphed into insults - maybe without knowing, but all the same... insults.

There are levels of this name calling:

There's the pat on the back along with a friendly "Big guy." A lot of times this is said by another, even bigger, big guy. It's like a club you're now part of. You're one of them. The big guys. You're a "big guy." What if I don't wanna be a "big guy" with the other big guys?

This is in the same vein as buddies busting balls. Trust me, I like busting balls and in turn busting others' balls. All the jokes about food, being big, girls, everything. It gets to be okay to say anything, though. It's like open season to take it to so many other places. To get personal. Intimate. Sometimes you just want it to stop at a certain place. To draw a line in the sand. Problem is, being the guy I am, I can't say this or that isn't cool after I set the ball rolling in many ways. Like I said though, it can get harsher than just horseplay.

I remember getting a hot tub with a buddy of mine at the gym. I took of my towel off and as I was soaking I noticed him staring at me. I began to think our relationship had changed, but he was more in a state of awe like he was looking at rare animal from a lost jungle. "Dude. You're huge." I mean, what the fuck do you say to that? "Oh, why thank you, good sir. The disgusting hair growing on your back is attractive as well. You're a regular Brad Pitt." I was just taken with how freely this came out of his mouth. Like he was ordering a burger. Burger. Burger. Burger. Wait. Stop. You know what I mean.

Seriously though, the hardest part is what to say to these things. I don't know how to handle it. That's why the best cover, in most cases, is to just laugh it off.

I know it's not like letting a racial slur or a handicapped joke fly, but it's still a body image issue. I know plenty of people who would feel uncomfortable if I called attention to a flaw in their person. There are plenty too, but ya know I just...don't. Simple as that. That's my secret way of dealing with it. I keep my mouth shut. Hello? See how easy it can be to just NOT SAY ANYTHING AT ALL. That's the problem - people think they always have to comment on shit. Unless someone asks me for my opinion, I don't make mention of of some bodily event they have going on cause I know it's sensitive. Or I do the right thing and talk about it behind their back, which, hey, I am cool with, as long as I don't know it or have to hear it. Beyond that, it's not a political conversation where it's an open forum. It's personal shit.

I know I am over weight. believe me. I am aware. It's not like I walk down the street thinking I'm Zach Braff or something (I don't know why him. It just came out). I don't all of a sudden catch sight of myself in the mirror and scream in bloody horror at my obese awareness. I am fat. I get it. It's with me every day and night. With every shower, Old Navy dressing room and all that gut sucking around girls.

What's worse than the friends making mention are the motherfuckers that just sling it around like it's nothing. I was running across the street one day - well okay, not running, but you get it - when this dude yells out from his car, "Hey, move it, fat ass!" What the hell! Come on, man. Really? Was that necessary? Fat ass?! In front of tons of people too. Everyone looks to see who the fat ass is. Me. Some other fat asses turned and gave a sigh of relief when they saw it wasn't them being humiliated. Nope. This one is on me, guys. I got it. I just looked around to see who called out.

Another time I was with a buddy when I almost got into a fight with this guy that cut me off. The guy turns to me and says "Relax there, Fatty." Fatty?! My friend burst out laughing. I went manic and challenged the guy to a fight. He wasn't scared in the least and drove off. He wasn't even threatened. He just squashed the whole thing with the word Fatty.

Yes, it has made me lose it at times. I was in line at a known LA eatery one day, actually trying to get a salad when this cute girl looks over at me and out of the blue says, "What are you looking at?" She actually thought I was checking her out, and normally I would be, but I really wasn't this time. She turned into this rude pain in the ass and kept at me with lines like "You can't have this." and "I'm too fine for yo ass." I laughed it off at first until she dropped the F Bomb. Fat. "Take your fat ass elsewhere.", she said. That was it. I lost it. I started going off on her in the middle of this crazy lunch rush. People were looking on as I tore her "fine" ass a new one. We were going back and forth until I dropped it. Yep. The C - Bomb. She looked like she was going to kill me, but I couldn't help it. For one, she was one, and I was just so pissed it came out. It happens. She stormed out, and I followed because by now the whole place was eyeing me, so I bailed.

Outside she got into a Mercedes with one of those little LA barky dogs. I got into my ''88 Tercel. She looked over and called me fat ass again. I pulled up beside her and tossed a day old soda into her window, all over her and her barky dog. This triggered an LA high speed chase. I bolted after I tossed the soda and this crazy bitch started after me. We raced and weaved through the busy streets and residential neighborhoods of Hollywood while she beeped at me, and I, well, I laughed. It was a real chase though. It kept up for like 15 minutes. I high tailed it because I didn't want any cop shit going down. I finally shook her, but that was probably craziest reaction to being called fat. Well, maybe there's another.

One day this older Beverly Hills house wife called me fat from her Bentley while I was trying to pull out of a spot. I got out, walked up to her window as she rolled it up. I knocked on the glass and said, "If you ever call me aft again, I will find where you live and kill you. Got it?!" She was freaked. I had this crazy look in my eyes too. I walked off, got in my car and drove off. As time went on, I got crazier and crazier to hearing these words from people, especially strangers.

It doesn't help dating either. This is the one that really kills me.

One night I took this chick out. We were having a splendid evening on the Santa Monica Pier. Very romantic. Nice breeze. Us. Some drinks. Bellisimo. All of a sudden, this foreign dude comes strutting along with two, yes, two ladies on his arm. He was an Armenian prince or something. A real douchebag. Like the west coast version of the Italian goombah. He had the Ed Hardy jumpsuit on, the slicked back hair. Greasy.

So this dude sees me and my date and he starts in on me. Literally starts saying shit (in thick accent) like "Hey, fine woman. Why go out with big fat man like this? He is a fat man. Why you date him? Don't you want to go out with nice, lean man like me. See, I have many women that want to be with me. You come too. Forget this big, giant man." I couldn't fucking believe it. He was ripping me to shreds in front of my date. The night was going well, too. I was actually on my way to getting laid. I mean, probably not, but still. Then I got this asshole fucking cock-blocking me. I wanted to punch this guy out, but I didn't wanna look crazy in front of this girl, so I laughed it off at first, but he kept at it. He wasn't letting up. My date tried to be cool, but I could see she was realizing she was on a date with a fatty. We walked away, even with him calling after us. "Come on. Drop that big man and come with us." I was steaming. He followed us down the pier, ruining my flow. I was so embarrassed. Obviously I didn't get laid that night and she never called me after that. Armenian motherfucker.

Then there was this girl that I dated. She didn't call me fat to my face, but she did in her journal that I read when I suspected she was cheating on me.

I know it was wrong, and believe me I paid the price just by reading this horrible shit that I can never un-see or erase from my memory, but it was a desperate moment that happened. I regret it. Period. Think what you will. Moving on.

I was reading this journal and it was full of shit about her liking this new dude (suspicion proven), and how she was ready to end it with me, but moreso it was harsh. None of it was written in a nice way. It was crap about how fat I was and referring to me as "The Large One." It was heartbreaking. I didn't mind the break-up shit compared to the insults. It was like a pit in my stomach. I couldn't believe this person that I had given all of myself to was trashing me, even if to herself. I was devastated. Broken. Again, I shouldn't have done it, but it was still depressing to know that someone I loved so much could think, feel or even write such venom. I trusted her too. Ironic, huh?

Look, I know all this shit is funny, and I laugh at it too. The joking and name calling and just fucking around. It is surely not that big a deal and it is not like calling a black person the N word or a handicapped person...whatever you would say to a handicapped person. It's just a vent. A bitch. It is, however, shitty. It sucks most of the time. All I'm saying is think about what you say instead of saying what you think. I try to and don't always succeed. You can't un-ring bells. It just stings a bit sometimes when you hear "Hey big guy." or "You really are enormous right now." and of course "Move it, fat ass!" Yeah, that one sucks most of all.

The Mark Phinney Story: Starring George Clooney

How did I get this fat? What happened? I used to be a handsome, somewhat in shape young man with charm and an air of confidence. But that was yesterday. High school, maybe a while after that, but as the Stones said - it's all over now.

I woke up like this. I went to bed thin and awoke as this mammoth of a man. A sloth. Gigantic. I admit, there has always been some weight on me, but back in the day I was still the chubby, cuddly cutie-pie who carried some extra pounds but made it work. Cool clothes from Urban Outfitters still actually fit me. I looked halfway decent in purple jeans and flowery shirts, even if I looked like the keyboard player for Erasure. Women still found me attractive. They still wanted to sleep with me. I'm funny. It helped balance out the weight end of things. Now even that doesn't work. Any joke I crack around a woman comes off as perverted or creepy or both. This weight has killed me. The me I used to know and love. It has buried the real Mark Phinney.

These are not uncharted waters for me. I have gone over this shit for years and I arrive at the same conclusion every time. I need to lose weight. Period. I could just end this right here and now and go for a walk, but I must press on with the work - even if it means sacrificing a walk.

I've talked about my weight issues at length. To doctors. Friends. Nutritionists. At Overeaters Anonymous meetings. I have performed one-man shows about it. Written about it in scripts, books and articles. I've promised myself a million times over that "This will be it. Today I start. Today I lose weight!" I have said this so many times a friend once suggested my memoirs be titled Starting Tomorrow - The Mark Phinney Story. I've stop/started so many diets and have joined so many gyms (never went, just joined). I've cried myself to sleep after eating a chicken parm (last night). I've done it all.

I'm not here to make this some Oprah bit about my triumphant weight loss and life gain. Mostly because it hasn't happened. I have yet to achieve such a thing. I've come to realize that I may never kick this and that is my biggest fear in life. I go to sleep thinking about it and wake up to it everyday. I go through that with many things: fear of no career, heartbreak over a woman, etc., but they come and go. This one has stuck. It is the constant in my life. I know what people say - only you can achieve this. If you think you can't, then you won't. It's all in you. While I understand this, it is never that easy. I also try to look at it from the angle of - well fuck it, maybe there's a freedom in knowing this is what it is and always will be. I don't have to try or sweat it anymore. This is probably the wrong attitude to have, because I want to lose it. I want to look and feel good. To be healthy so I can play football in the yard with my son Conner. Conner is my imaginary five year old. He's adorable, but I'm having trouble finding the right preschool for him right now. You imaginary parents out there understand where I'm coming from.

I often think about how much better my life would be if I could actually lose the weight. It would contribute to so many great things in my world. Confidence. Health. Emotional stability. Women. Always women. Skinny = laid. Believe me. I've seen so many ugly dudes with girlfriends, and they are not 10's, but they are women and that guy is having sex. It's the weight. Girls just want an in shape guy. I have been told this by ex-girlfriends and read it in their diaries. This weight has been the bane of my existence. I've lost relationships over it. I've missed job opportunities because of it. I have suffered health afflictions from gout to diabetes and even that hasn't stopped me from gorging on pizza, fries and ice cream. All of this, combined with a horrible depression, makes for an emotional breakdown cocktail. I know this is on me too. I'm not making some plea to feel bad for me or for this to lead to some Eat, Pray, Love book deal (though I will do that if commissioned. My version - Fat Broke & Horny (and Pray)).

The diabetes scares me, though. I fear they will have to cut one or both my feet off and when I can't afford the prosthetic limbs I would have to glue roller skates onto my ankles and be pulled around on a rope. A great conversation starter, true, but at what cost?

But yea, what if this doesn't end? What if I can't tackle this beast and take it down? What if I wake up one morning and I'm 50 years old and worse than I am now, if that's even possible? I have nightmares of going to my 20 year high school reunion weighing 400 lbs., rolling around in a Rascal scooter cause I can't walk anymore. Even at 5 chins in, I'm trying to dress cool for this reunion, but it doesn't work. My old chums feel bad and cater to me, getting me apps and punch. Lots of apps and punch.

Let me explain to you that in my head I'm not this big. In my head I'm a thin, dashing stud that can still rope in women at a manic rate. More of a 007 type instead of a 300 lb. type. I never wanted to be the FFG, or Fat Funny Guy as an old friend coined it. Oh, I thrived off the fat for a while, I'll admit. Booking TV roles, entertaining friends and audiences with stories and stage shows. But again, I never wanted to be the guy who is secretly excited about shows on the Food Network. It all worked at around 230 lbs., but it's out of control now.

This is all material I would use at the reunion though, like I always do. The whole "LA" bit. That I was a writer and performer. I'd drop the names and places in hopes of getting laid, which is, as my friend puts it "what it's all about anyway. All the acting, writing and going to LA is, in the end, about pussy." He's right, but I will take it further and say that anything most men do is about having sex. If we could rescue damsels in distress from castle walls and fires we would. I firmly believe that any man in the creative arts does so in part to meet chicks. I cite Eddie Van Halen. Hell, you think Keith Richards just liked playing guitar? Fuck no! "Yeah, I did the whole Hollywood thing," I would say from my Rascal at the reunion. "Ran into Tarantino a couple of times. That place is full of politics and red tape. That's why I bailed. I'm an artist, not a whore." All this would be said in my fat voice that is stuffy and low from my chins pushing against my windpipe. It sounds like a record player at a slower speed.

This and other fears take me even deeper into the realm of sad possibilities. I have anxiety-filled visions of reaching 600 lbs and being incapacitated to where I can't even leave my room. I have to live in my aunt's house, in my old bedroom back home, in a giant bed specially made for me. I can't leave this bed and my sweet 65 year old aunt has to care for me in her retirement. In my own self-hatred scenarios I'm horrible to her, yelling after her for my remote control and pudding. She's so sweet about it all too, changing my shit bucket and catheter while I watch Jersey Shore in my sweaty underwear that I can only change once a week. It gets so bad that eventually the armed forces and fire department have to smash into the side of the house, lift me out with a reinforced cherry-picker and chain me to a helicopter to hoist me out. It's all being shot by 20/20 and every other media outlet, cell phone and web site in the world. My rescue is being documented as the most popular thing happening at that moment. As my enormous body, draped only a XXXL Morrissey tee shirt, is being flown off I'm crying "Why? How did this happen? Why?"

FADE TO BLACK

CUT TO - 2 YEARS LATER. I LOSE THE WEIGHT!

I actually do it! I'm a success story. I finally achieve the one goal that had eluded me for all these years.

After spending almost two years in a hospital in up state New York for the morbidly obese, with the help of doctors, I drop over 400 of the 600 lbs. The whole thing is documented on PBS by Ken Burns while NPR is doing a live simulcast of my release from the clinic. I become an instant celebrity worldwide. Everyone loves me and my miraculous journey from being at death's door to the picture of health. I'm the new Jared. I'm still sick when I first get out, though. Tons of skin hangs from my body and my face looks like it's been caved in, but I smile through it all. Through all the cameras. The interviews and autographs. Funny, the one thing that was killing me gave me what I had always wanted. Life is strange.

I'm on magazine covers as the story of the year. Even Obama has me to the White House where Bruce Springsteen performs. He was so inspired by my tale that it drove him to write a "Thunder Road"-type song called "Overweight Man Triumphs (on the Edge of Town)."

As if this wasn't enough, I write my autobiography with the help of Jonathan Franzen, followed by my memoirs and a graphic novel that is optioned and made into a film by Paramount with Frank Darabont at the helm. I never imagined I could imagine this happening, but the icing on the cake (that I refuse to eat anymore) is that I am to be portrayed by George Clooney in Starting Tomorrow: The Mark Phinney Story, Starring George Clooney.

The trailer plays before the new Will Smith film and features "Solsbury Hill" by Peter Gabriel.

In the film Clooney, or "Cloons" as I come to call him on-set, kills the role like only a pro of his stature can do and ya know what? He wins the motherfucking OSCAR!

Oprah has me and Cloons on to discuss the film, but no one has seen me for a while including Clooney and in this time... I gained the weight back. Well, not all of it. Just 350 lbs. We go on the show and he's clearly embarrassed, as is Oprah. This was supposed to be one of those message movies about obesity in America and the president even tapped me to be the ambassador to overweight kids across the country. I went to schools all over and preached against bad foods and the importance of diet. Now here I am, morbidly obese again, but trying to play it cool. I joke with George on the show, trying to keep it light. In that fat voice, now on my even bigger Rascal I talk about the filming - "This guy. Cloons. He's a joker. Practical jokester on set. All the Ocean's 11 stories ya hear. All true. He's a funny bastard." Clooney half-smiles for the cameras, but when he tilts his head at me the way he used to do on ER it's with a serious gaze of anger and hatred, like I'm the most hateful of mythological creatures: half-paparazzo, half David O. Russell.

We all know how this ends.

After being shunned by my Hollywood friends, I'm found dead after doing cocaine with a 15 year old runaway who rolls me for my wallet, leaving me for dead in a ratty motel in Glendale (but close to Silverlake.)

There's a small snippet about me in my hometown paper. The headline reads: Local obese man found dead. "Mark Phinney, the inspiration for the Oscar-winning film Starting Tomorrow: The Mark Phinney Story, Starring George Clooney, which starred George Clooney, has died. He is survived by his imaginary 5 year old son, Conner. Friends say he lost his lifelong battle with weight, but tasted his lifelong dream of fame, even if for a short time. May he rest in peace."

I better lose weight fast. That part is real.