Despite the obsessiveness of this week’s topic, I’m honestly no slave to fashion—I neither have the funds nor the inclination to stay on top of what’s in or out or avant-gard or what. I wear what I think works on me based on how comfortable I’m feeling in the pants at the moment.

The thing about the area where I live is, there’s not a lot to do in Astoria, but the food is excellent, and I do loves me some eating; hence, my choice of attire is often guided by what’s fitting best. In this respect, I would imagine I’m much like most American men; if the pants fit and they’re clean, they’re acceptable.

I tend to fluctuate a few inches in my waistline from week to week. It depends on how much water I’ve been drinking, really. Thank god I’m tall, I can pull it off and nobody really notices but me. Nevertheless, I do have my fat pants, the jeans that usually fall off my ass most days, that I break out for my heftier moments. I’m not ashamed. I’m not, I say.

Those bittersweet moments do somehow always remind me of my favorite comic, Max Cannon’s Red Meat, or more specifically, this strip.