Most people don’t consider me fat. If I stand up straight, my shirt hangs down flat with no signs of a growing gut stretching the fabric of my shirt to its limits. I present a slim, but false facade.
I know I’m fat. I overate with impunity. I can feel and knead the fat with my hands so that rolls of flab dart in and out between my fingers. I think I have it figured out. My man boobs have grown large enough, but are still perky enough that they push my shirt out far enough so my shirt will hang down flat beyond my ever-expanding belly. Yet another benefit of good posture.
Jim Flanigan Looks at the World 