At two in the morning, I awoke with the cheery thought that if ever I find myself in the company of travelers lost high in snowy mountains with dwindling food supplies and no haven in sight, I will be the one who lives the longest because of all the extra layers of flubber on my figure. I will be the lone survivor of this doomed party, stumbling weakly to a ski lodge at long last, to be feted by Oprah and millions captivated by my horrific tale that I will release one detail at a time in order to stretch my fifteen minutes to their utmost.
At three in the morning, I realized however that my strength is also my weakness. For this company of travelers will surely not go quietly into the night in the dank of the cave where we have taken refuge. Their emaciated spirits will in time observe that Gay Panda's rump, tenderized by quarters flung by legions of admirers, would be a most succulent addition to the menu. One that will last and last and last while they hope for rescue. And so they will gang up and decide the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and close in on me with their titanium travel sporks brandished.
In conclusion, since it is not my wish to die by spork*, I must make myself less appetizing to cannibals. So begins another day of primal eating and a visit to Lonely Treadmill.