My Kingdom for the Body of a Horse

Spring is in the air. As usual, from the spring air, I extract the scent of dread. This is the time of year I most fear…and I most fear everything! Warmer temperatures usually facilitate horrors such as terrorist attacks and the removal of my protective gear, my sweaters, scarves, gloves. I despise shedding my winter coat. During the dark, chilly months, friends and co-workers had forgotten that my neck and arms were fashioned from broomsticks. They’d forgotten how I tend to vanish when I turn sideways. All this comes roaring laughably back to them, and, while they politely refrain from gasping, they do their best to keep their gaze level with my eyes, willing their eyes to waver above the unfortunate state of my girthless frame. For, regardless of the volume of my food intake, it seems that I am doomed to remain an ectomorph, leaning toward emaciation. This has been the case since adolescence, so the assumption that I am a symbiotic shelter for some hungry organism, earth-born or otherwise, seems unfounded. It is time that I accept my form. Now is the spring of my discontent made glorious summer by the promise of the coming of another cold, dark winter.

Or maybe I could lift weights.