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The First Step to Disembowelment
It’s official: a little over a month from now, I will be meeting the person that will be carving my guts out. Hopefully.
No, this isn’t a new fetish. No, I’m not having prophetic visions of running into a serial killer. I will be having my first consultation with a bariatric surgeon.
Okay, I’m being a little melodramatic. I probably should have gone with this picture instead:
But then I would have given away the lede and . . . okay, damn. I’m rambling.
I’m rambling because I’m nervous. This man has the ability to change my life drastically. He has the power to make me into somebody that I have never been before, to get me as close to my ideal self as I’m ever going to be.
As somebody who’s spent his entire life fat and poor, I’ve never felt like I’ve had much agency in my life. I haven’t had the leeway to become the person I want to. That requires options. Options require money. Money is a lot easier to come by when you aren’t fat, especially when you’re an uneducated laborer.
This surgeon is the closest I’m ever going to get to meeting the Wizard of Oz. He has the power to grant my one wish.
