The search for the love of my life (or whatever) has been a long one. It’s been a tough row to hoe, let me tell you! Finding Prince Charming has proven to be far more difficult than I’d expected. And that’s just *finding* the person! If you actually *do* manage to find that one person in the world who’s everything you ever wanted, the odds that this person will feel the same about you are very, very slim. By the time I was about twenty five, I’d stopped carrying around the illusion that I could have any man I wanted at any time I wanted him. The evidence was stacked against me, I could no longer convince even *myself* of this lie!

Plenty of boys said they’d call me and *didn’t* and even *more* boys blatantly disrespected me on our dates- stuck me with the check, insulted me, made out with fat chicks while I was singing Sweet Transvestite . . . and what’s even worse is that some very attractive, *suitable* boys just plain did not ask me out to begin with! Didn’t look twice at me! Unheard of! Now of course there was the occasional mental patient who would (with no provocation from me) flip out and name his boat after me or pick me up at my house in a horse drawn carriage, but I had to face facts- I was simply *not* Aphrodite rising from the sea foam.

And I was never going to be.

I will admit this came as a complete shock. I can’t say I was expecting anything less than temples built for me and wars fought in my honor . . . . but then reality struck. Where is there to go once you realize you’ll never be the lover of the gods? Once you discover you were not formed from the severed genitals of a deity named Uranus?

There’s nowhere to go but down, is there?

If I ever wanted to be treated as the goddess I *truly* was, I was going to have to lower my standards. I was prepared to lower them drastically, but I had to think- what kind of man would worship me above all other women? Adorn my bedroom with fountains and marble columns and a bed with a seashell shaped mattress that would rise up from the floor every evening? What kind of man would actually be stupid enough to do these things for little old Girl-Next-Door me?

The answer is surprisingly simple: I’m looking for the kind of man who *knows* he’ll never get another girlfriend, the kind of man who is so afraid of losing me he is willing to personally cater to my every need. Yes, baby! It’s time to start living large! Find someone with massive amounts of love to give! Time to go grotesque!

Yes, siree! I am talking about my LLOYD! I’ll call him “Dimples” and he’ll call me “Dumpling” and together we’ll take on the world, the two of us weighing in excess of nine hundred pounds! Do the math- that puts him at more than 760 pounds! At *least*!

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Now I first came up with this idea when I saw photos from the wedding of the world’s heaviest man. Gosh, it was beautiful! What a Big Fat Mexican Wedding! Manuel Uribe’s handsome four poster bed (which he hadn’t left in six years) was lifted by a forklift onto the bed of a reinforced truck, draped with cream and gold! There were flowers everywhere and that dreamy hunk of man meat was clothed in white satin robes! Like a sheik! He was driven down the [very long, I assume] aisle to a staircase where his lovely and quite normal sized bride was waiting.

Then as I gazed on this proud beauty in her regal tiara, I realized something: I ENVIED THE CRAP OUT OF HER!

This bitch is going to get everything she wants! For the rest of her life! She may not be Aphrodite, but by god! She may as well be! This man can’t even walk, on what planet could he possibly cheat on her? The tumors on his legs alone weigh more than two hundred pounds, he is not going to get far! If he does try to go behind her back, she will most certainly find out the second the flatbed tow truck transporting his bed gets caught beneath an underpass!

That’s when I decided to rethink my dream man- I don’t want Cary Grant on top of the Empire State Building!

I want my 760 pound Lloyd . . . lifted to the top of the Empire State Building . . . by a crane.

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