The rumors are true: I’m large as hell. A decade of drinking Muscle Milk instead of water as I pursued the coolest measurements available to humanity have left me towering over all. But despite the power I now command over all around me, I have to admit: being 6’9″ and 420 lbs has its disadvantages.
A height of 6’9″ — the famous sex number we all know and love — has left me ducking through every doorway. Subway travel is entirely out of the question, and even the bus is terribly uncomfortable as when I stick my legs out in the aisle, my tremendous torso still requires the space of at least a seat and a half. This is due in no small part to the fact that I also weigh 420 lbs, a.k.a. the weed (trees) number.
Why did I bloat myself so? I don’t even smoke weed, and the one time I actually tried 69-ing with an ex-girlfriend was sad and uncomfortable for both of us. My blood pressure is through the roof, and doctors are worried about my poor bone density on account of how fast I have grown.
While I have abandoned my plans to gain the further 246lbs necessary to tip the scales at a devilish 666lbs (the devil also being cool as hell), switching from Muscle Milk to healthy Gatorade is still not deflating my form as fast as I’d like. My joints hurt all the time.
As I lay my head to rest at night though, firing up my sleep apnea mask and twisting my body into an unnatural shape so it can all fit on my bed, I smile still. At any weight or height, dying young is truly the coolest.