I decided to tell a story. Like all stories are observed beginning with a "Once upon a time ..."
There once was a fat child and naive, but so naive as to not know yet to be neither fat nor naive, because in addition to being a quite impressive thinness, juggles spigliatamente among her peers, wreaking havoc and killings in the hearts of doe-eyed.
As a child, and not having yet had the mental disorders of adolescence, hormones, girls and everything else, you could not consider at all affected by some eating disorder, ate plenty, drank enough, it was poop regularly, but could not do increase the fat layer that some of his peers cradled so sweetly. Not that it mattered much, but the fat man hidden inside him pawing and shaking from the pain, shouting and cursing (and acciderboline ciribiricolccole) desiring one day to be able to win the freedom of that body, skin and bones. 
It was the eighties, the second half, when the world was still divided between good and bad and although we did not know clearly distinguish what were (the good and the bad ones I mean), TV screens are more convex dreams that never aired in the form of Japanese animation, with its depopulated the Commodore 64 and Amiga with that of the twenty-six, he has taught for addiction computer science and love for technology. The days ran long and endless, the weeks turn into months and then lasted blinks of an eye when we stopped to riosservarle. Autumn is finally dreamed forward to a snowy Christmas and throughout the remainder of those four weeks of summer were the only oratorio coveted goal, where the time to be bored with the one that was so narrowly accepted banknote with the face of Galileo dated by your mother in the morning, you could buy an ice cream or candy and twenty fags spend it all in, to find the missing figurines Volpi Poggi and no one had ever even seen from a distance with binoculars. 
Meanwhile, the fat che è in ogni individuo, si anche in voi, si dimenava: “Perché mangi tutte quelle caramelle e merendine e non mi concedi la libertà?” ma il Bambino Grasso Che Non Sapeva Ancora Di Esserlo non lo ascoltava, anzi non lo sentiva nemmeno, talmente si crogiolava nel suo autocompiacimento dell’essere smilzo.
Passò qualche anno che il Bambino Non Ancora Grasso trascorse tra alti e bassi, lunghi e stretti, spessi e sottili, senza mai ascoltare il ciccione che era in lui, non dandogli la minima chance, la minima aspettativa, la minima briciola di pasticcino.
Fu così che una sera, dopo l’ennesima iniezione di penicillina in una partita contro gli Mumps won at the last 2 to 1 with a kick at the end, the fat man took control: the guard was lowered, the Child Magro was exhausted for the disease or just thought for a moment how beautiful life from non-fat groped making plans to conquer the world.
The Fat, with a skilled and agile maneuver unworthy of its nearly 100 pounds, Magro relegated the Child in its deepest subconscious, starting to gulp down tons of snacks Mulino Bianco, tons of Nutella, pounds and pounds of trash, losing interest for girls, sports, and almost all interpersonal relationships. The domain undisputed ruler of this fat was so early. I wish I could say Magro that the Child was somehow aware of his status of "not more", but in captivity, along with too much sugar eaten up, they send the brain into baby food, the pancreas to the creator or even the awareness of having the tits could move him from its torpor. In the early days followed the first few months as the programs followed the pounds overweight, over the years, the faded colors of life around him: all shades of red and yellow heat lost, the indigo blue were transformed soon ashen alteration of what had once been; 
also green and orange when they lost their meaning of existence, the Fat Boys were no more than the white and black. Ormai il numero dei menti somigliava sempre più alle pieghe di una fisarmonica; l’addome, ormai simile a quello dell’omino Michelin, cascava sopra dei pantaloni larghi abbastanza per farci entrare il proprio padre; la schiena si incurvava e le ginocchia faticavano a reggere cotanto peso adattandosi in pieghe malsane. A sua discolpa, Sua Grossezza il Lord dei Prosciutti non era del tutto stupido, anzi era ai livelli di intelligenza del suo prigioniero sottopeso; era curioso, imparava alla svelta e faceva galoppare la fantasia ad una velocità impressionante. Forse è per questo motivo che il suo dominio incontrastato durò così a lungo, è risaputo infatti che nessun sovrano mantiene il potere senza una buona dose di arguzia, intelligence, contempt of danger and a supply of semi infinite cov Mulino Bianco. His empire in fact pass unharmed through the revolutionary upheavals of puberty, the upheavals of early adolescence, keeping well away from the disappointment in love, girls, and sometimes even by his friends for the sole purpose of preserving power.
One evening, the wind changed. And it did not bring with it more or the fragrance of youth, nor the taste of high-calorie food, but only a new breeze of hidden knowledge and hidden and suppressed that reached the dark secret that the poor child was left locked Magro for more than ten years. The wind always brings with it a counsel, who is listening, it's a "put on your hat that makes a cool cat" or "put a foot in the October Revolution", it does not matter. The fact is that during that night, our hero escaped from the dungeons where for more than a decade was remained shut. It is an exciting story full of twists, a couple of flashbacks, the butler invariably guilty and a surprise ending involving a priest, a Swiss Canton viados and the Government, but this is not no place nor time for tell it.
It was already evening when, taking advantage of the excessive attention of a guard for his noisy ass obese, that person who was the Child Magro sneaked into the throne room.
Hidden behind the sumptuous curtains, past colorful tapestries and paintings of old gray-haired, the monarch could be seen bent under the weight of its chili and exhausted from too much food swallowed. The eyes were still lively and dreamy, but the look did not seem happy or hungry, just tired, and when crossed to the Magro who had been a child, with a smile Messer Porcello grassissima dissolved in a soap bubble, leaving behind nothing but a scent lard. And the skinny girl understood. He understood that the Stout had always been within him, which were nothing more than the double side of the coin, the same half of pandoro, the two butts of the same sausage and that neither could live without the other in a eternal alternation, in an eternal struggle between good and evil, between freedom and slavery of calories from sweets, including obesity and anorexia. still the thin man happy lives of its thinness, and never forget what it was twenty-five kilos ago, without having to forgive the baby fat in one day so far, took control of his life. Without forgive him for having made him regret the wasted years remorse or missed opportunities, the Child was the one who occasionally Magro, now allows the fat that is in him to have a good time for a few minutes with a little 'chocolate or a feast of bread and cheese, and is still looking for a woman who may be able to share with him the memories of a childhood spent on the baby fat.
We can not save anyone from themselves.
