Photo 1: March 2017, 290-ish pounds.
Photo 2: The belt from the first photo, worn last week.
Photo 3: Dressed for work this morning, 196 pounds.
I wish I’d kept a pair of the khakis for comparison.

seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany

seen from Maldives

seen from Maldives

seen from Maldives

seen from Germany

seen from Germany

seen from Germany

seen from United States

seen from Germany
seen from Russia
seen from Germany

seen from Maldives
seen from Spain

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seen from Germany
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seen from Maldives
seen from United States

seen from Germany
Photo 1: March 2017, 290-ish pounds.
Photo 2: The belt from the first photo, worn last week.
Photo 3: Dressed for work this morning, 196 pounds.
I wish I’d kept a pair of the khakis for comparison.
I am not a fan of breaded cutlets as they are often a conveyance for secret pork products. (Even when they're supposed to be veal based.) That said, I love a McDowell's level simulacrum with points of improvement so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.
I like salads as long as they're 50% croutons
There’s this default face that my physiognomy still contorts into (esp. in pictures) that is basically openly thinking “...am I getting away with this?”
Anyhow, there I was, decades later, idly looking at pictures that had come up the other day when the realization came that in this specific case that was not just the default face [nor is it signs of a firestarter, stand down]: that mischievous ME’s clearly smuggling something under the shirt under that dress! Given the proximity to a pinata, (its lower limb is on the upper left there) and my (retained) childriarchal affection for candy, I’m guessing it’s a bag of candy. It could be a book; that was a pretty common sort of occurrence in that era/place (Mexico at a time where inter-cousin conversation was fickle), but still thinking--contextually?--Balance of probabilities says contraband chicle or better.
People would rather get Frankensteined and circumcised by a gangster computer god than let a guy who knows eggs are healthy run the FDA
R: Does soup *know* you love him? L: Shut up. It’s not a secret. I'unno. R: I'ma delete that and queue this for later, because it’s kinda hilarious to me but I wanna give you time to forget that you got weird and honest before napping. L: Bicamarmel. Remind me to get thermometer batteries. R: It’s cheaper to get a new thermometer. L: You’re the boss.
At times, one has weird persistent thoughts that just have to be rendered out, like less tasty fats.
The effects of late evening breakfast are such that I have seen a lot more of this hour than is usually normal. It's not all bad. I occasionally suddenly am thrown back to freshman year of college when I averaged 2.5 hours of sleep a night as I didn't want to miss anything and yet had a full enough courseload that everything had to get done. There are no truck based poor man's pizza* sandwiches here, though. Which is pretty good, given surely that Hot Truck was not the best thing for a young ME's health. (*I was actually a wet garlic with cheese person. I just now had a fantasy about a GD sandwich.)