This man doesn't deserve a kitchen.

Peanut butter sandwich and a glass of wine.

Leftover tri-color pasta with cold jar sauce, followed by Ben and Jerry's.

Two peanut butter sandwiches and a beer.

Yes, these are all things I've dared to call dinner during my adult life. My adult life is everything from college up to 10:45 today.

I think that if I were to describe my lifelong consistent eating habits to a dietitian over the phone, he or she would render into a sketch pad a portrait of me that would include the following qualities:

Fat.
Bad skin.
Thinning hair.
Poor gums.
Bowel irregularity.(though I'm not sure how this would be drawn in a portrait)
Dodgy breath.(again, hard to sketch realistically, but may be indicated as necessary with stink lines.)
Subpar eyesight.
Poor muscle tone.
Scoliosis.
Bulging ankles.
Under-eye puffiness.
Premature deafness.
Some skull shrinkage.
Receding penis.

Lord knows how I've gotten away with looking as polite as I currently do. I give it a year, tops, before all - not just some - of the above conditions come to light upon this vessel God made out of healthy Semitic sex cells, fertilized in love, not anger, only a few decades ago.

Soon I won't be able to make it up a flight of stairs without pausing to collect one or more teeth on the lino.

I will breathe like a hippo. I will buy Cuban shirts by the crate.

I will transform. It's coming.

It's coming.

For, this I vowed long ago: that I will learn how to play Major 7th chords and how to do a Liverpool accent and how to get in touch with long suppressed memories for the benefit of a paying audience - but I will never, ever learn to take care of myself.