Someone I know takes a diabetes drug to curb his appetite. He posts about it on social media. No one cares, if you believe likes-to-impressions metrics.
I wish I knew him better. I wish we had the kind of relationship that died at the turn of the century: where I could just rock up to his front door, unannounced, let myself in, and flop down on a well-worn sofa in front of a too-loud television. An overflowing ashtray and dirty bong on the coffee table; a sinkful of unwashed dishes in the kitchen where the overhead light burns 24/7.
I would turn to him and ask why he thinks he needs this repurposed drug to help him lose weight. I want to know that he has completely analyzed the reasons for his lack of self-discipline, his reticence towards exercise. I want to know if he’s exhausted all of his options. I want to know why he believes that neurodivergence is to blame. I know that he blames it: I see him post about it all the time. But I see many people using those same excuses and I know for a fact that they suffer not from undiagnosed ADD or ADHD or OCD or autism but unacknowledged laziness.
I’d like him to admit to me that he is in fact just another lazy American turning to quick-fix solutions to long-term problems better addressed by lifestyle overhauls. How regular mental and physical hygiene would heal most, if not all, of his self-perceived ills. I’d really like to help this man before he dies of actual diabetes.
This is what friendship used to be like and I fear I’ve forgotten the meaning of the word.
First draft: 230805
Published: 231222