When I was 12, my mother sent me into a convenience store to buy a bottle of Coca-Cola for a party. Taking the money, the cashier looked at me critically and said, “Do you know how many calories are in that?”
Most days, I can’t remember where I put my glasses or the car keys, but that small exchange is seared into my memory forever. As are the times I jumped into a pool and heard someone yell, “Thar she blows.” It’s why I support the death penalty in only one instance: for people who make fun of fat kids. Make all the Chris Christie jokes you want, but the moral law within me, born of a childhood of small torments, says hands off the Nathan Sorrells of the world.