“I swear, it’s just a food baby!”
Stop right there, fatso! You and I both know better than that. It’s good to have you back and bigger than ever, fatty. Only, we have a bit of an issue... 300lbs is quite the number, BUT you’re only JUST within the range of your average domesticated pig.
That’s right, you walking (for now) mass of adipose. We’ve been wrong to call you a pig all this time. NOW you’re a true pig, but juuuust barely. That’s something we’d really ought to rectify. I’m sure you plan to remedy that yourself, but wouldn’t having a feeder be more enjoyable? Imagine, bras bursting, pants popping, buttons flying, and leggings stretching into oblivion all because of some extra funnel feeding keeping you full and tight at all times.
If it were up to me, you’d be expanding so fast it would make your head spin, most likely from your blood pressure being like that of a rocket taking off. But that’s the trade off, piglet. Carrying around all that blubber isn’t exactly good for the human body, especially that tank of fat you have hanging off your front. Don’t you know all of the visceral fat is the WORST kind of fat there is? It crowds your organs and pulls them down as it takes vital nutrients and blood away from the rest of your engorged body. Essentially, it’s a parasite feeding off your own gluttony, a physical manifestation of your greatest sin.
But you don’t care, do you? No, every piece of outgrown clothing, every new stretch mark, and every disappointed doctor’s head shake is a mark of pride for you, isn’t it? A victory of some twisted kind. And I’d be happy to oblige you, you greedy, ballooning adipose storage unit. After all, why settle for being a fat girl when you can be a pig? Why be a pig when you can be a whale? And why be a whale when you can be an overinflated blimp?
But be careful, piglet. You’re playing a dangerous game. Blimps had this nasty habit of exploding, remember? And you’re essentially playing a game of “chicken”, trying to see which pops first: your distended, stretch mark covered, lard saturated balloon of a gut or your little, overworked heart.
Happy gaining, little sow
I think that needs to be remedied as soon as possible. Who cares how bad it is for me. Ruin me. Pack blubber on to me as fast as you can. Make me spend every day tipsy and overfed and bursting at the seams. I want to know how much you can stretch my appetite, stretch my capacity to fit even more calories in my huge gut a day.
I want to know how greedy I can be. How much booze can I take. Butter. Cream. Burgers. Fries. Stop measuring my food in “Servings” and measure it in pounds. Cheese. Pasta. Pizza. Ice cream. Cake. Brownies. Eating 3 times a day is in the past, I need a feeder to keep me achingly full and ready to burst.
I don’t give a damn about the “warnings”. My doctor lecturing me all the time. Blood pressure, cholesterol, heart attacks, too much fat, not enough exercise, too much fast food, not enough salads, too much grease and butter, not enough vegetables and fruit...who cares? Family and friends hinting I should lose some weight. They don’t understand the struggles and sacrifices it takes for a body like mine ;) It takes hard work to become an absolute blimp of a woman.
I LOVE knowing people will worry. Can’t stop thinking about and feeling pride and shame...it’s just so hot to think that people are WAITING for me to burst. Waiting with their phones out to call someone when my 8th burger and fries of the day finally does my heart in. Waiting until I’m just a sack of lard waddling around, just a fat-filled balloon exploding at the seams as it gets crammed with even more fat ever waking moment. W
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