Harden the Fuck Up.

As some of you may already know, my primary day job is Emergency Medical Services, or to the uninitiated, "amberlamps drivah". (Yes, I do occasionally start an IV and push drugs through it, when I'm not adopting a longsuffering expression and pretending to be interested in the patient's critical life-threatening hangnail condition.) My "career" as a professional moving van operator (on a literal bariatric ambulance) has exposed me to all the realities of high time-preference, poor eating habits, and shitty lifestyles, resulting in a sort of terror of deathfat that borders on pathological paranoia.

In fact, looking at type-2 diabetic patients with multiple amputations and acres of wobbling greasy folds evoked a religious conversion in my soul that ultimately drew me to the temple of road cycling, where I prayed to Eddy Merckx daily and venerated The Rules, lest I become a waddling pile of chewed bubblegum.

Seriously, I've seen fabric tear and the patient's fat spill through while sheet-dragging someone onto a stretcher.

The fat that oozes under the rails of your cot.

I live in the "Obesity Belt", and on a regular basis I find myself the skinniest person in the entire room, which is pretty damn strange considering the preponderance of meth labs in the South. This scenario isn't just a product of my job; I frequently glance around the gas station, store, or fried chicken establishment of my choosing and notice that I'm quite literally surrounded by a cow-eyed herd of lumbering hambeasts. They shuffle up to the counter, deathfat underbellies freely hanging over skintight stretch pants, and pay for their daily dose of enough calories to feed several Sub-Saharan dindu countries, and internally I feel a profound existential horror at the thought of this actually being the new normal. This, of course, is nothing compared to the reeking god-awful stench of UTIs and stinking unclean fat-folds of the typical bariatric patient. Believe it or not, being 500 pounds is really fucking bad for your health, and you may notice there's a distinct lack of morbidly obese people that live past the age of about 60.

Cat ladies will blame this epidemic on everything from genetics to ebul Republican policies enforcing systemic poverty, but realistically, it's because huwhyte innovations have made food plentiful and hard physical labor scarce. When everyone is eating enough calories to feed a lumberjack while working a job as a paper pusher, it's no surprise that we end up with a serious obesity problem. For you, as an individual, this means you need to do one thing:

Harden the fuck up. Unless you are an actual lumberjack, chances are, your dayjob or daily activities in mom's basement aren't keeping you in shape. You need some additional exercise, otherwise your pasty little manlet arms are not gonna be strong enough to lift all those degenerates into the ovens. This means taking a few hours a week away from LARPing online and watching Chinese cartoons and actually moving the limbs of your body repeatedly against resistance.

It really doesn't matter what form of exercise you get involved with, just so long as it's something you become autistic passionate enough about to perform it on a regular basis. I got into cycling as my primary activity with some weight training on the side because going fast on road bikes is fun and Strava turns it into a form of real world digital racing, but if being a liftbro gymrat works for you, go to it and start posting about dem gains.

The overall point is, you need regular exercise and you need to take your health seriously. Aside from the obvious benefits to overall wellbeing and the ability to fat-shame by sheer virtue of your very appearance, exercise is also linked to higher income. (Being able to push your body against the rev limiter is also going to improve your mental toughness and ability to calm your blood pressure down after someone shares a Huffington Post link on your Facebook.) You should be accustomed to the sensation of burning muscles, soaring heart rate, and that pukey feeling you get right before you blow up; pain will eventually become mere data regarding current exertion levels.

Remember, low time-preference and discipline are an integral component of setting yourself apart from Cheeto-munching bariatric feminists who insist on redefining aesthetics itself to value blubbery cellulite-riddled thunderthighs. Right now in the current year, tactical nihilism is attempting to deconstruct the very idea that a human should desire to be a physically hard specimen of athletic superiority instead of a jiggling blob of pockmarked lard, as if there is literally no difference in the mentality and life choices that result in these two wildly opposite outcomes. All lifestyle choices are equally valid and we should love and cherish all bodies equally.

Oh wait, that's horseshit.

Harden the fuck up.