The Food Is a Lie: I’m Fat, Fed Up, and Fighting Back

I’m fat.

Not in the body-positive, “don’t let society tell you what beauty is” kind of way either.

I’m fat in the “my knees hurt going up stairs and I’m mad about it” kind of way. The kind of fat where chairs groan a little when I sit down, like they're reconsidering their life choices. I’m fat in the, my belly jiggles while brushing my teeth kind of way. Did I mention I use an electric toothbrush?

I’ve counted calories. I’ve tried keto. Paleo. Mediterranean. Intermittent fasting. HIIT workouts (those suck). Walking 10k steps a day. I’ve even gone full monk-mode, eating like a Victorian orphan on rations. Nothing works. Or if it does, it’s fleeting; like a toxic relationship where the honeymoon phase ends the minute you eat a goddamn banana.

Everyone’s got a theory.

• “You’re not in a deficit.”

• “You’re not tracking accurately.”

• “Maybe it’s your cortisol!”

Sure, maybe. But here's the thing: I’ve eaten less than a toddler on a juice cleanse for weeks on end and still gained weight. I'm talking 1000–1500 calories a day. That should put me on a trajectory to wither away. Instead, my belt keeps marching leftward like it’s got manifest destiny. Or I just hold steady and nothing changes. It's up, or nothing!

So what gives?

Big Pharma Wants You Fat (and then forever medicated)

Enter GLP-1 drugs. Ozempic. Wegovy. Mounjaro. The miracle shots. Every rich suburbanite and TikTok “wellness coach” is singing their praises. “I lost 40 pounds and didn’t even crave chips!” Yeah, and you also stopped pooping, have a face like Skeletor, and now your pancreas sends death threats every time you eat real food. But sure, congrats.

I’m not doing it. Hard pass. I watched the COVID pharma circus. Saw the medical-industrial complex in full throttle. Fast-tracked approvals, conflicting data, and a whole lot of “shut up and comply.” No thank you. If your “cure” requires I be chemically dependent on an injectable cocktail for life just to be less fat... that’s not a cure. That’s a subscription plan.

And let’s be clear; this isn’t conspiracy fodder. These drugs weren’t invented for weight loss. They were designed to manage blood sugar in people with Type 2 diabetes. But when early trials showed rapid weight loss, pharma didn’t blink ... they pivoted. In 2022 alone, Novo Nordisk, the maker of Ozempic and Wegovy, made over $10 billion off these drugs.

If you think with that kind of return they are going to help you get off it .. I have a bridge to sell you.

Demand’s so out of control that diabetic patients ... you know, the ones the drugs were actually made for ... are struggling to get prescriptions filled. Not because there’s a diabetes surge, but because vanity sells better than medicine. And guess what? Once you stop taking it, the weight comes back. Fast.

A 2022 study in Diabetes, Obesity and Metabolism found that participants regained two-thirds of their lost weight within a year of stopping semaglutide (that’s the active ingredient in Wegovy). So the message is clear: Don’t stop. Ever. Welcome to your new monthly ritual.

And the side effects? Buckle up. We’re talking nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, muscle loss, facial gauntness (“Ozempic face”), thyroid tumors, pancreatitis, and gallbladder issues. And that’s if you’re lucky. Some people end up needing other meds to deal with the side effects of this one. It's like signing up for a drug timeshare.

This isn’t health. This is bio-leasing your body to a trillion-dollar industry.

They don’t want you cured. They want you manageable. They want you medicated. And most of all… they want you subscribed.

The Sugar Problem: We Are All Addicts

Let’s talk sugar. Because that’s the real enemy here. That sweet little bastard is in everything. Bread. Pasta sauce. Salad dressing. Bacon. Freaking beef jerky. We consume more sugar than any civilization in human history. It’s not a treat anymore; it’s a staple.

In 1822, the average American consumed 6 lbs of sugar per year. Today? Over 130 lbs per person, per year. That's more than a third of a pound every single day.

Our bodies never evolved for this. Sugar used to be rare. Fruit in season. Honey if you fought off some bees. That’s it. Now we eat like spoiled kings at every meal. We’ve basically force-fed our insulin response into oblivion, and surprise ... it’s making us fat, tired, and metabolically wrecked.

And then there's diabetes — our society’s sugar hangover in disease form.

Type 2 diabetes isn’t some mystery illness. It’s not bad luck. It’s not a genetic lottery you lost. It’s your body finally tapping out after years of being drowned in glucose. Diabetes is basically a sugar allergy. Only instead of sneezing, your cells stop answering the damn door.

It’s a self-inflicted wound we’re treating like an act of God. And we’re doing it at scale. We’re normalizing it. We’ve got entire grocery aisles designed to keep blood sugar from spiking after the thing we just sold you made it spike. It’s insane.

We’re producing diabetics like we’re trying to win a prize. And pharma’s right there with insulin pens and lifelong meds ready to "help"... read: keep you dependent.

We didn’t used to need this crap. But now sugar is king, and everyone else is just managing the fallout so you can stay addicted.

The Ancel Keys Legacy: Bullshit, Bought and Paid For

You want to know when this all went sideways? Two words: Ancel Keys.

In the 1950s, this guy — who I’m convinced did more long-term damage than polio — decided fat was the problem. Not sugar. Not processed garbage. Fat. He cherry-picked data from his “Seven Countries Study” (which left out countries that didn’t fit his narrative, by the way), declared war on saturated fat, and we ended up with the goddamn food pyramid. That upside-down death chart told us to base our diets on bread and pasta and limit red meat and eggs.

It was garbage science, and it stuck.

Decades later, we now know the real villain was sugar and refined carbs all along. But the damage was done. Corporate food giants, cereal companies, and low-fat evangelists made sure that lie stayed profitable. Ancel Keys didn’t just screw up, he institutionalized it.

So What Now?

I love food. I love cooking. I’m good at it. But every year, it gets harder to trust the raw ingredients. The vegetables don’t taste right. The meat’s full of water and “solution.” Even the goddamn butter isn’t butter anymore. And when you try to eat clean, you’re basically broke by Tuesday.

It’s not just about willpower. It’s about fighting a system that wants you fat, addicted, and permanently on meds.

So yeah, maybe I’ll check my cortisol. Maybe I’ll try a carnivore diet or go full “ancestral” for a bit. But one thing I know for sure?

It’s not just me. The food is broken. The advice is broken. And Ancel Keys can rot.

Fixing It Anyway (because giving up isn’t my style)

So yeah, the system’s rigged. The food’s broken. The advice is trash. But I’m not just gonna sit here and get rounder while blaming Ancel Keys from the grave. I may be pissed off, but I’m not helpless.

Step one: I stopped trusting labels.

If it comes in a box, I assume it's lying. “Healthy,” “Low fat,” “Heart smart” — translation: “We surgically removed the fat and backfilled it with sugar, corn syrup, and sadness.” So I’ve gone back to basics. Meat. Eggs. Vegetables that don’t come with a marketing team. If a caveman wouldn’t recognize it, I probably shouldn’t be eating it.

Which brings me to the unsexy truth: I'm trying carnivore.

Not the TikTok version where you eat raw liver and scream at your phone. I’m talking beef, eggs, salt, butter, and water. That’s it. No more wondering if my salad dressing is secretly cake frosting. No more hunting through ingredient lists like a suspicious divorce lawyer. Just food. Real food. Uncomplicated.

Do I miss carbs? Every day. Bread still haunts me in my dreams like a toxic ex. But I like how I feel more than I like being bloated and angry at my pants.

Step two: I started treating exercise like brushing my teeth.

Not for weight loss. Not to “burn off” bad food. Just as a non-negotiable. A baseline. A reminder to my body that it's still mine and I’m not giving up on it. I don’t need six-pack abs; I need my back to not give out tying my shoes. Functional over fashionable.

Step three: I stopped looking for a finish line.

This is the hardest one. Because every program, every plan, every “30-day challenge” sells you the idea that there’s an endpoint. Some magical “before and after” where you’re done. But I’m not looking for before-and-after anymore. I’m looking for always. Always paying attention. Always questioning what I’m eating. Always choosing to show up, even when the scale says screw you.

Step four: I stopped keeping it to myself.

Because pretending everything’s fine while silently spiraling doesn’t help anyone. If I’m struggling, I say so. If I find something that helps, I share it. Not because I’m some guru, I’m not. I’m just one more guy trying to climb out of a hole that a whole damn culture keeps digging deeper.

So no, I’m not cured. I’m not thin. I’m not magically energized every morning with glowing skin and ripped abs.

But I’m still fighting. And that, for now, is enough.