I’m a picky eater. I don’t eat vegetables. I don’t eat fruit. I won’t try new dishes, unless they’re slathered in melted cheese or deep-fried. I like starchy foods. I like cake and candy. If a strawberry is dipped in rich, dark chocolate, I’ll nibble around the strawberry, lick off all of the delicious chocolate, and discard the vile fruit.

I want to be healthy, but I’m a very, very stubborn child, and will intentionally gag until I vomit whatever hideous food you made me try. I’m not inherently evil: I just know how to manipulate you. Really well.

I wasn’t born fat. I was a normal-sized infant. I learned pretty quickly that when I cried or threw a temper tantrum, something yummy was put in my mouth to quiet me. I also learned that I liked sweet, sugary foods more than the green, crunchy stuff. For some reason, you always tried to cajole me to eat the latter. By the time I was two years old, I was a little chubby . . . my “baby fat,” you used to say. Everyone told me that I was cute, and would pick me up and swing me through the air.

By the time I was three or four years old, it was getting too difficult to pick me up and swing in the air. I was relegated to the ground, though still told that I was adorable. Chubby kids are definitely cuter than scrawny ones.

I am super active. I like to ride my bike, roller-skate and play on the monkey bars. But, as my belly grows bigger and bigger, I am less inclined to play with other children. I also get tired pretty quickly. I’m too big to be picked up and carried now, so I’m stuck trudging alongside of you.

I always ask for seconds. Two (or three) slices of pizza are better than one. I show you my “boo-boo” face, when the snack you give me looks too small. And in response, you give me more. The bowl of spaghetti you give me is the same size as my big brother’s bowl . . . and though he doesn’t eat the entire bowl, I devour every last strand. If mac and cheese is on my plate, I lick it clean. I eat until my belly hurts. Sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I fall asleep. My mom calls it falling into a “food coma.” Great.

Who am I? I am a little child, who suffers with Overactive Fork Syndrome. The chances are like that I will grow up to be an adult with OFS.