Hypno And Fat

Look at you, fatso. You’re not a pitcher, you’re a structural hazard. You picked the only position in professional sports where you can stand still for three hours and still be considered ‘active’, and yet you’re still the slowest thing on the field. Those straining buttons on your jersey aren't fasteners anymore, they’re load-bearing cables. Every time you wind up for a pitch, the entire dugout holds its breath, not for the strike, but because they’re terrified a button is going to snap off at Mach 1 and take out a spectator in the front row. You’re one deep breath away from a wardrobe malfunction that would require a hazardous materials team to clean up, big boy. You’re playing in Miami, the global capital of fitness, sunshine and metabolism, and you’ve managed to defy the laws of physics by getting even fatter in a city that lives on fish and salads. Your body isn't 'bulking', it's an expanding empire of bad decisions. You don't have a 'core', you have a planetary orbit. The only reason you’re still on the roster is because the team realized they don't need to buy a ball rack as long as they have you to lean the equipment against. You aren't pitching heat, you're just sweating out the three deep-dish pizzas you had for breakfast, you fat slob.

The 'girlfriend effect' isn't a biological phenomenon, you pathetic excuse for an athlete, it’s just the sound of your discipline evaporating the moment you found someone willing to tolerate your mediocrity. You didn't just let yourself go, you collapsed. You went from having a core of steel to a core of soft-serve, and now your chest looks like a pair of sourdough loaves fighting for space under a cheap t-shirt, fatso. Calling it the 'girlfriend effect' is the most cowardly way of saying: 'I have the willpower of a toddler in a candy store and no longer have the discipline to lift anything heavier than a fork.' You’re not a former athlete, you’re a cautionary tale in a gym-shark shirt that's screaming for mercy across your stomach. Those aren't moobs, chubbs, they're emotional support pillows for the ego you lost along with your abs. You didn't get comfortable in the relationship, you just became a human beanbag. The only thing 'ripped' about you now is the seam on your favorite pair of jeans, pudgemaster.

I want to take such good care of you that you won't even notice how much weight you're gaining. With you constantly having your mouth full of delicious treats and being stoned, you won't have time to worry about how big you're getting.

I love the idea of a man that's made to be pampered. He's too big, too easily wiped out from his fat body to be a provider for anyone. He's not doing any providing, just taking. Taking in everything he can into his mouth with ravenous gluttony. A man who makes soft, vulnerable sounds when he's full and let's me get on top of him, to feel how much he's at my mercy.