I've always been a heavy dude. Probably a little heavier than I look, because I've got the kind of frame that carries it well, or so I've been told. I'm built like Wolverine, short and squat, but my healing factor doesn't so much as eliminate the toxins in beer as much as it converts it directly into fat. I don't have a Danger Room that keeps me on my toes; I've got a Living Room that keeps me off of them.
But, yeah, I'm a big dude. Black guys can pull off "Big Dude" easier than white guys can. (We can also do bald much better. For the record.) A caucasian fella carrying my weight might look like he's never left his basement, for fear that his carefully-painted D&D figurines will finally succumb to that "animate" spell he's been casting for the past 15 years and he'll miss it. A black fella will just look like someone you don't want to fuck with. (There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. I'm just saying.)
But enough was enough. I drew a line when I got on a scale and was pleasantly surprised that I hadn't hit 300 pounds. And that's fucked up. So, the diet.
Severely cut back on the carbs. Two slices of breadstuff a day. Or a serving of low-carb pasta. Salads. Fruits. Lots of protein. Gallons of water. Walking to work. The occasional McNugget. Because otherwise, life is just too damned cruel.
I started at 285. I'm now 258. A nice, round, dyslexic figure. But still just the beginning. I'll see what I can drop before San Diego, when it's almost impossible to eat like a sensible human being, even with the walking 3 or 4 miles a day.
So if you see me on the street, shouting obscenities at the hot dog vendor, those obscenities are borne of a love lost...