Self-Loathing

Obese comes from the Mid-17th century Latin obesus , past participle of assumed obedere "eat until overweight" according to my dictionary.

I am one of the random Canadian statistics of Obese people who are apparently making up a huge portion of the population (though I don't really see them anywhere). I was thinking about this -as always- today at Brock. No one likes fat people. It's just a general premise in the world. Sure Kevin James or Chris Farley maybe not, but the vast majority of them, people hate. I don't particularly like seeing them either, even though I'm one of them.

It reminded me of a text we were reading in history class by Thomas Jefferson - slaveowner, racist extraordinaire, and co-founder of the United States. He writes: The negroes wish they were white as it is universally known that we are superior, even as the orangutang would prefer to be a negro. - and other things like that. It's interesting that many times people would really hate themselves today and all through history.

St. Paul says according to old Wycliffe's reckoning that "no man hated ever his own flesh, but nourisheth and fostereth it, as [and] Christ doeth the church." (Eph 5.29). But I got news for you St. Paul, I hated mine own flesh.

Then I realized, even God hates fat people, according to old Ezekiel 34:16 "I will destroy the fat...I will feed them with judgement" (he uses such great puns when he plans on destroying someone, it's like Bond one-liners)

So basically it's actually a virtue for me to hate myself. I can't believe how utterly detestable to every principle established by human or divine law. I was trying to think of things religions have in common today in lecture and I thought, all of them together could point to me and say 'this man has wasted his life - don't be like him'. That would certainly be an interesting proposal.

I genuinely drag everyone down, I am the dead weight of society. The other night I watched "the beach" with Leonardo Dicaprio or however you spell his name. Anyway, there's a scene where a guy gets bit by a shark and he keeps getting more sick and is coughing all night etc, and so the people just drag him out into the middle of the woods and leave him for dead. Then they all go back to their commune and play beach volleyball and have a fun day. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I am that shark attacked guy.

It's no one's fault but my own after all. I mean I started out in this life and made bad choices, and then God saved me at Capernwray from alot more and by the end I was on my way back to health and wealth, but then I screwed it all up by my own choices. So here I am today at 1:43 PM on November the third. I'm laying in bed, barely fitting into my clothing. I finished an essay last week (twice - had to rewrite it) and now I have 4 more due that I haven't started.

What's the point in trying to go on. I can already predict the future. I will struggle through a stress filled month, live in more sin, eat more doritos, play more world of warcraft, and then find myself in another state of severe depression 20 pounds heavier and even more hopeless than before. Life will continue to spiral downwards until I actually do have a heart attack or something and finally die, and if I'm lucky that will be it, and I'll have peace and quiet and rest from my own iniquity.

It would take a miracle on the scale of the Resurrection of Christ for life to turn out in my favour.