Your boxer briefs leave behind indented skin in the form of a de facto waistband when you take them off. Women do not seem especially enthused by this discovery when the pants come off. Trust me.
You’ve gone from wearing relaxed fit, to slim leg, to skinny jeans, all without buying a single new pair.
Your friends and family have begun referring to you as “Hoss” during trips home from school.
Your girlfriend has encouraged you to “try a new diet” with her under the guise she needs to lose weight, yet somehow you’re sharing in her miserable meals.
When people check your license photo they regularly question “wow, how long ago was this taken?” all while holding back laughter.
Your feigned ability to dunk, which actually consisted of laying a tennis ball in and grabbing the rim obnoxiously, has regressed to a mid net swiping due to a perpetually “pulled hammy.”
You’re reprehensibly physical in all IM sports, extending the line of scrimmage receiver “jam” to new lengths 20 yards down field, throwing shoulders and elbows around screens, and “boxing out” with forearm shivers.
You’ve begun taking solace in your bench press “gains” that in your own mind offset the difficulty you experienced walking up the stairs to the weight room.
While sitting, it is best to hike your pants over your protruding gut to prevent the possible splintering of your zipper, and gut wrenching pain of button impalement.
While inside of her, you pause for what you claim in a “stop and start” to prevent a premature ejaculation, but in reality need a bit of a breather.
Your recent purchases almost uniformly consist of elastic waist banded pants, Hawaiian shirts, jerseys, and all clothing types that do not require a belt.
Your mother mentions the calorie content of alcohol and “fatty foods” during your first return trip home, while your dad offers advice on restaurants and bars located near his alma mater.
You respond to all valid questioning of your near psychotic over-analyzation of the female body with respect to your own dilapidated appearance with: “What? Bro I’m a guy it’s different.”
You don’t think Mac from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia actually looked that bad during his “bulking stage.” He was just cultivating mass.
Fat people you used to find aesthetically grotesque now refer to you with terms such as “us” and “we” when discussing the daily hardships of America’s obese individuals. For instance: “And she drives a fucking Fiat, so you know how hard it is for us to get in one of those.” Fucking Fiats.
Your sexual misadventures have resulted in structural damage to a bed, chair, balcony, railing, couch, or futon in the last calendar year. This, of course, is assuming you do not have an Amy Schumer fetish.
You’ve discovered you “actually like cooking,” but your original creations somehow all are comprised of frozen pizza, takeout wings, assorted flavors of ice cream, cheez-its, and various candies.
You’ve ingested so much high fructose corn syrup that the unexpected kernel in your fecal matter has you wondering if it’s possible your intestines restored the syrup to its original form.
When you got home for summer and first saw your friends, someone abruptly stated, “Looks like you had a good time this year.” Unless you have a stack of hickeys that makes it look like you share a bed with a family of black widows, this means you’re fat.
Your ex, who doesn’t go to the same school as you so she doesn’t understand how inconsequential your weight is compared to your tier one affiliation and reputation, declines fucking you, instead claiming you remind her “of that guy from The Wolf of Wall Street, not Leo.”.