FRO12 LC14

I love fat babies. They are absolutely adorable, and they simply don’t give a hoot. They throw their diapers–which are no doubt stained with the remnants of bag upon bag of trail mix and breast milk–at unsuspecting people. They projectile vomit as though they were possessed by Satan and destroy (and I mean destroy) your new suits and dresses. They make messes. They are loud and obnoxious. They’re brutally honest without even knowing of their own shortcomings. Like, I saw a rather heavy-set woman struggling to lace up her shoes, as her years of health-degradation left her gut the size of a Tokyo-based movie villain. The baby, having no lack of sincerity, yelled out, “You are fat lady! Your shoes tied? No!” while his creamy-white cheeks were set aflame with laughter. Little did this baby know, that he was on the trail to losing a foot himself, as he was literally inhaling powdered-doughnut holes just five seconds before.
I want to be like a fat baby. I want to be completely uncaring of my rapidly declining health, and never do a sit up again. Imagine that, me on a couch, eating fried chicken–only skin and dark meat, as white meat is too healthy–dipped in seventeen different sauces, topped with chocolate and butter-cream frosting. Additionally, I’d drink eight liters of Coca-Cola straight from the bottle. I’d never shower! Forget toilets, the world will be my bathroom! I’ll kick over every septic tank in a two block radius! Okay, not every septic tank since my health will be horrible, but enough to get my point across. I’d wear a swimsuit everywhere in the summer! I’ll spit when I talk, and I’ll talk with conviction! No more being restrained and civil. I can be me! I can let myself go! If I were a fat baby, I’d burn self-consciousness to the ground. I’d unleash my inner homeless person. I’d finally actually live by YOLO! If only I could be a fat baby.