In my internet wanderings today I came across the morgue photo of the still-unidentified man who jumped to his death from the back of the Staten Island ferry in early January of 2009.
He was a BHM. Or at least my definition of a BHM. Plump cheeks, marvelous chubby neck and double-chin. The photo showed his face only, but I can extrapolate the rest. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and to me he was beautiful, receding hairline and all.
The rational side of me understands how the suicide choice happens. But when it comes to BHMs, I'm not always rational. So, in this case it's like trying to understand why a breathtaking sunrise would want to scrub itself from the sky, or why a priceless Fabergé egg would want to take a hammer to itself. The FFA in me just doesn't comprehend.
Fat guys shouldn't be jumping over ferry railings into the bitter, cold water; they should be living, breathing, smiling, laughing, making love, getting belly rubs. To see even one gone before his time just rips me up. I adore BHMs and find it so incredibly unfair that there's no easy way to conjure up an FFA for those of you who don't already have one. If I could, I would somehow splinter myself -- my FFA self -- and send a piece to each of you. One moment I feel this so strongly and my heart gets so full it could burst, and in the next moment I chastise myself for what seems like selfish silliness. I suppose only a small fraction of a woman is a rather thoughtless, useless gift. You all deserve so much more than that.
So, here I am sitting and crying over this guy. This dead BHM without a name.
Fat guys, I love you all. Don't any of you dare jump. Maybe you don't realize it, but there's this fire you guys have in you. It's so strong and primal. I see it in your eyes when you post photos of yourselves. It's what attracts me. I can't help myself; I'm like a moth. Please don't ever purposely extinguish the fire that makes me dance.
My world is dimmer when I lose one of you. Even if I never knew your name.
He was a BHM. Or at least my definition of a BHM. Plump cheeks, marvelous chubby neck and double-chin. The photo showed his face only, but I can extrapolate the rest. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and to me he was beautiful, receding hairline and all.
The rational side of me understands how the suicide choice happens. But when it comes to BHMs, I'm not always rational. So, in this case it's like trying to understand why a breathtaking sunrise would want to scrub itself from the sky, or why a priceless Fabergé egg would want to take a hammer to itself. The FFA in me just doesn't comprehend.
Fat guys shouldn't be jumping over ferry railings into the bitter, cold water; they should be living, breathing, smiling, laughing, making love, getting belly rubs. To see even one gone before his time just rips me up. I adore BHMs and find it so incredibly unfair that there's no easy way to conjure up an FFA for those of you who don't already have one. If I could, I would somehow splinter myself -- my FFA self -- and send a piece to each of you. One moment I feel this so strongly and my heart gets so full it could burst, and in the next moment I chastise myself for what seems like selfish silliness. I suppose only a small fraction of a woman is a rather thoughtless, useless gift. You all deserve so much more than that.
So, here I am sitting and crying over this guy. This dead BHM without a name.
Fat guys, I love you all. Don't any of you dare jump. Maybe you don't realize it, but there's this fire you guys have in you. It's so strong and primal. I see it in your eyes when you post photos of yourselves. It's what attracts me. I can't help myself; I'm like a moth. Please don't ever purposely extinguish the fire that makes me dance.
My world is dimmer when I lose one of you. Even if I never knew your name.
