10. Anything you eat as part of a contest doesn’t count as eating. That’s a hobby.

11. Chocolate milk is God’s kale smoothie.

12. Bread is like a pillow for your stomach: essential for a good night’s sleep.

13. Opening the refrigerator door counts as exercise.

14. Calories don’t count if you can’t see them, which is why you should always cover your food in a thick layer of ranch dressing.

15. A bowl of cereal every evening is essential to a good night’s rest, except for Cheerios, which barely count as cereal and are an affront to the entire breakfast community.

16. If you’re gonna eat an entire package of cookies, it’s best to do it in one sitting so it still technically counts as one serving.

17. Putting honey in any drink makes it better for you.

18. If you’re gonna drink a glass of wine, you might as well drink the whole bottle.

19. Tea from a cup with a saucer underneath always tastes better than tea with no saucer.

20. A side muffin has the same nutritional benefits as a side salad. It’s on the side, so it doesn’t count.

21. A nap is the best way to burn off calories because calories are always running around in their sleep.

ON MY OLD AND FRAGILE BODY, OR I FEEL BAD ABOUT MY EVERYTHING

Like most chubby gay nerds in Middle America, I was picked last in gym class every single time getting picked last was an option. Honestly, it would have been easier if my P.E. teachers had just announced it outright: “Captains, pick your teammates. And remember, the tubby red one in the glasses gets picked last.” But that would have been too gracious, and a part of me thinks that gym teachers derive great pleasure from watching nature take its predetermined course, like in National Geographic, but instead of an elderly rhinoceros getting left by its herd to die in a river, it’s a fat kid with a limp wrist getting shunted to the outfield.

Unsurprisingly, gym class was never fun for me or my body. I was big in all the wrong places, my limbs too thick and fleshy to properly coordinate with my brain. The bottoms of my legs were as stubby as my calves. My torso was just wide enough to ensure any foul ball always had an unmissable, plump target. And my big clunky feet moved just slow enough to make certain I’d never evade a direct, violent hit to the face. I was a living embodiment of Newton’s little known Fourth Rule of Motion: “Every kickball in a state of brutal velocity continues in a state of brutal velocity until it applies itself to a gay nerd’s brand-new Ray-Ban eyeglasses.” I’m happy, at the very least, to have done my part for science.