feedismandrituals

Your question needs a different framing. At the beginning of the Obesity journey, its pretty common place to ask about the mechanics: What should I eat? How many calories? Which shake is best?

But you don't treat expansion like a math problem. You don't wanna be a beginner feedee anymore, you want real progress to happen.

Packing on pounds faster is not a dietary shift. It is a matter of surrender.

Ritual XXXVI: The Erasure of the Self

You still look in the mirror expecting to see a girl who is just carrying a lot of extra weight. You look for familiar features buried under the softness. You are desperately trying to hold onto the illusion that you are still the owner of this vessel. You are not the owner anymore. You have fed the structure until it mutated into something entirely separate from who you used to be. It is time to stop looking for a human reflection and start studying the anomaly.

The Directive: Tonight, before your heaviest intake, you will strip down and stand before a full-length mirror.

The Mechanic: Do not look at your face. The face is a distraction. The face is where your ego lives. Focus your eyes strictly on the vast, uninterrupted expanse of flesh below your neck.

Look at the sheer, impossible width of your hips. Look at the way the lowest apron of fat drops heavily over your pubic bone, erasing any sign of biological anatomy. Look at the deep, dark crevices where the rolls of your back fold over one another, creating suffocating trenches of sweat and friction.

Stare at this sprawling, immobile mountain of tissue. Trace the outline of your massive silhouette with your eyes. Study it not as a body you live inside, but as a completely foreign landscape of dead weight.

Let the realization hit you: the girl you used to be could never, under any normal biological circumstance, grow into a shape this grotesque and unrelenting. You have successfully bypassed the limits of your species. You have built a monument to excess that has completely swallowed your history, your fragility, and your individual identity.

There is no person left in the reflection. There is only an expanding perimeter. There is only a biological machine designed strictly to process and store grease.

When you can look at that massive, sagging heap of blubber and feel absolutely no connection to it other than the primal urge to make it larger, you have completed the ritual.

-

Feedees look in the mirror, looking at their growth, trying to develop their own aesthetic. They talk about "cute rolls" or a "phat ass". They look sexy on their instagram stories. Some of them become plus size influencers. Even some of the most obese ones do, the ones that get so fat they can’t ignore the brutal, mechanical reality of what they are doing to themselves. But becoming a blob? There’s more than just romanticizing their expansion. Now it’s your time to witness what you experience when you look at your obesity as a cold, clinical evidence.

SOLSTICE SPECIAL: The Zenith of Decay

You take angled photos to highlight how soft you look. You are lying to yourself. Fat is not an aesthetic. It is an active, likely overfed and feral process tearing your health apart from the inside out. If you want to worship your expansion, you must stop treating it like a fashion statement and start treating it like its physiology..

The Directive: Strip completely naked. Stand in front of a full-length mirror. You will not pose. You will not suck anything in. You will stand perfectly still for three minutes, letting the dead weight of your greed assert its dominance over your skeleton and poor frame, that was never meant to carry this much obese lard.

You are going to perform the Clinical Inventory. You will not look for beauty. You will look for the evidence of your collapse.

Phase 1: The Biomechanical Surrender

Turn to the side. Observe your backbone. Notice the deep, unnatural curve of your lower back. Your spine is bowing, desperately trying to counterbalance the massive, downward drag of your apron. You are actively destroying your back just to stand upright. Now look at your knees. If you are past 300 pounds, they are likely bowing inward. The cartilage is grinding down to dust under the impossible axial load of your upper half.

Acknowledge it: You are not "curvy." You are structurally collapsing.

Phase 2: The Erased Borders and the Wet Folds Look closely at the junction between your torso and your legs. In an advanced state of morbid obesity, the fupa grows huge yet it stays hidden. The belly fuses with the thighs, swallowing your groin entirely in a single, suffocating block of lard. Lift the heaviest fold of your apron. Look at the skin underneath. Feel the heat, the moisture, the discolored, irritated flesh caused by constant, crushing friction and lack of oxygen.

Acknowledge it. Certain body parts of your are literally buried by lard. And this same amount of lard is growing all around your organs, which leads you to the next phase.

Phase 3: The Suffocation Audit Stand still and listen to your breathing. Do not try to control it. Notice how shallow it is. Notice the effort it takes just to expand your chest. Your visceral fat is pushing your diaphragm upward, stealing the space your lungs need to function. If you are panting just from standing in front of the mirror, you are experiencing chronic hypoxia. Your heart is working at least twice as hard just to keep this useless mass oxygenated.

Acknowledge it: Your fat is suffocating you from the inside.

Phase 4: The Trophies of Metabolic Failure Inspect your neck, your armpits, your deepest creases. Look for the dark, velvety patches of thickened skin. Do not look away from them. Those dark patches are not dirt. They are the visible proof that your pancreas is burning out. They are the medical markers of severe insulin resistance. Your body is screaming that it cannot process the amount of sugar and grease you are forcing into it.

The Conclusion: Look at the entire picture.

The failing joints, the raw folds, the shallow breath, the dark patches of metabolic ruin.

Normal people would look at this and call a doctor. They would beg for a bypass surgery.

But not you. Every sign is getting you to beg your feeder for more lard.

You chose this. Every symptom of failure is a trophy. Every ache in your knees is proof of your dedication.

Whisper the diagnosis to the mirror: "I am a failing structure, and I am going to make it worse."

Getting fat is not just about getting soft. It is the suffocating pressure of visceral fat pushing your organs against your ribs. In this Ritual, your navel is the only honest metric of this pressure.

The Directive: Eat until you are uncomfortably full. Do not lie down to relieve the pressure. Sit completely upright on a hard chair.

Take your dominant hand and press your thumb deeply into the center of your navel, deep where the exact point where the skin is supposed to be anchored to the muscle underneath. Push hard into your obese fat.

Now, inhale as deeply as you can, forcing your massive, bloated gut out as far as it will physically go. If it's not hard, you're not full enough. Gorge until its barely possible to hold your breath, and then hold it.

The Mechanic: Do not exhale. Keep pushing the fat outward while your thumb presses inward. Feel the agonizing, tight pull of the skin radiating out from your navel up to your chest. That pain is your visceral fat desperately fighting for space inside a torso that can no longer contain it. It is crushing your lungs.

Hold this position until your vision blurs and your lungs scream for air.

As you finally gasp, whisper the truth:

You want to pretend the beach is just a place to relax. It’s not. For a body that has surrendered to absolute expansion, the beach is a stage of exposure. You cannot hide your volume in the sand.

The Directive

Go to the most crowded section of the beach. Do not seek the quiet edges. Waddle right into the center of the crowd. You are going to perform the Eclipse of Dignity.

The Mechanic

Part I (The Shadow Cast)

Before you lay your towel down, stand perfectly still under the midday sun. Do not suck anything in. Let your massive, heavy apron drop completely over your thighs. Let your arms hang wide, pushed out by the dense fat of your sides. Look down at the sand. Look at your shadow.

Notice how grotesquely wide it is compared to the normal people around you. Notice how it swallows the light. Your shadow is a sprawling, shapeless blot. It is the visual proof that you are taking up too much room on this planet, as you're becoming the planet. Drink in the disgust of the tourists shifting away from you.

Let their stares be the deafening silent applause for your ruin.

Part II (The Descent)

Now, look at the ground. You know the truth. You know that lowering 300, 400, or 500 pounds of pure glutted lard onto a flat surface isn’t 'sitting down'. It is a controlled collapse.

Feel the hesitation in your aching knees. Feel the terrifying certainty that once your massive, soft bulk is flat against the earth, Gravity will pin you there.

Let yourself fall back onto the towel. The impact will send a shockwave through your fat.

Part III (The Surrender)

Lie there. Let the sun heat the sweat pooling deep in the dark, suffocating folds under your belly and between your thighs. When it is time to leave, you will not bounce up. You will execute the final step of the ritual.

Try to sit up. Use only your core. Feel the catastrophic failure of your abdominal muscles trying to lift an immovable mountain of visceral fat. You will struggle, Obese. You will rock back and forth like a beached whale, your face flushing red, your fast food fed yellow heart hammering against your ribs in sheer panic. You will fail. So pathetic.

You will have to look at the friends or family who brought you or worse, a stranger, and ask for help. You will have to extend a thick, useless, hanging arm and let someone else haul your dead weight upright, exposing just how physically incapacitated your gluttony has made you. Make all this sweaty flabby wobbling lard jiggle out of control. Watch people try to turn away.

Watch their disgust turning into concern, that is your goon fuel.

The Confession

As you lay there, staring at the sky, calculating if the people around you had enough combined upper-body strength to hoist you out of the sand... what did that specific terror taste like?

You were panting, red in your huge fat round swollen obese face, thrashing helplessly on the ground before finally begging for a hand up... the humiliation always crushes your ego, and it makes your fupa throb and gush under that mountain of fat.

Edge to this, and you realize you are no longer a person who goes to the beach, but a cargo load that requires a team to move.

You love the sea because it lies to you. The buoyancy temporarily erases the consequences of your gluttony. You float, your joints stop screaming, and for a few minutes, you can pretend you haven't morbidly fattened yourself up. This ritual destroys that illusion by turning the relief into a weapon.

-

The sea is a liar. You wade into the water and the buoyancy lifts the massive lard weight of your apron off your thighs. Your knees stop grinding. Your lower back finally finds a moment of peace from the relentless strain of keeping you upright. You float, and for a second, you convince yourself that the hundreds pounds of obese lard you've piled on don't matter.

We are going to shatter that illusion. The water is not a reprieve; it is just a contrast fluid to highlight your degradation.

The Directive: Go to the sea. Wade in deep enough so that your massive gut is fully submerged and floating. Enjoy the weightlessness for at least five minutes.

Then, you will perform the Ritual.

The Mechanic: You must walk out of the water. But you will do it with agonizing slowness. Do not rush back to your towel to hide.

As the water level drops below your hips, stop. Feel the exact, painful moment the ocean stops supporting you. Feel the buoyancy disappear, instantly replaced by the brutal, undeniable physics of gravity slamming the full tonnage of your wet, heavy apron back down onto your pubic bone.

Take one step forward. The wet sand is soft, and your sheer bulk will force your feet to sink deep into it, anchoring you. Every step out of the water will require double the effort. Your thighs, previously floating, will violently slap together, dripping wet, fighting the friction. Your lungs will immediately compress with the needed effort as the visceral fat settles back over your diaphragm without the water to hold it up.

You will stand there, ankle deep in the sand, heavy, breathless, and completely exposed to the sun and the stares.

To complete the ritual, while normal weight people are looking at the price you're paying for being a horny glutton, tell to yourself what did the sudden return of that crushing weight felt like, in that exact second when the water dropped below your belly and gravity handed you back every single pound of junk you’ve ever swallowed.

Feel the panic knowing you can never escape that burden on land.

And feel the sudden, painful realization of your own massive abnormal size and weight make you wet for something other than the sea.

Not all feedees are created equal. Some are eating until they fall asleep to avoid looking too closely at what they are becoming. Some other are not. Who are the ones who are awake for their own ruin?

The Directive: For your next binge, you will not zone out. You will not watch TV. You will perform a deep inspection on your own surrender.

The Mechanic: Eat until you reach the threshold. You know the exact point. It is the moment when your stomach wall is drum-tight, your breathing becomes a shallow gasp, and the physical pain of fullness sets in. The point where normal people stop.

Stop chewing. Hold the next bite of heavy, dense food in your hand. Look at it.

You know perfectly well that your body does not need this bite. You know that forcing it down will cross the line from 'full' to 'incapacitated'.

Now, close your eyes. Put the food in your mouth. Chew and swallow.

While that unnecessary, painful mass slides down your throat, pushing your overstretched organs to their breaking point, I want you to isolate the exact thought in your head.

The Inquiry:

What was the exact trigger that made you swallow it anyway? When you felt the pain increase, what was the specific feeling you were exploring? Was it panic? Arousal? Or just the desperate need to prove you have no limits?

Break down that surrender. Tell me exactly why you chose to destroy your comfort just to add another fraction of an inch to your more and more obese waistline.

Do not lie and say "it tastes good." Find the real reason you are dragging yourself down. Document it. Post it.

There is a ritualistic edge to the way you gorge when you are alone in bed. You surround yourself with grease and salt, building a nest of fast food wrappers on your sheets. It's time to acknowledge this is about more than just having a lazy binge in your bed.

The Directive: For your next massive binge, order enough fast food to uncomfortably stuff a family of four, at least. Bring it all into your bed. Dump the boxes and bags directly onto the mattress around you.

The Mechanic: Strip naked. Get some pillows under your head and shoulders, and lie almost flat on your back. Spread your legs as wide as your heavy thighs will allow, letting the massive weight of your lower apron sink into the gap between them.

Prop your head up just enough to look down the length of your body. Do not look at the walls. Do not look at the ceiling.

Look only at the immense, distended dome of your own super morbidly obese belly rising up in front of you as you gorge. Let it completely block your line of sight. This is your new horizon. There is nothing beyond it.

Now, reach blindly over the mountain of your own fat to grab the food scattered on the sheets. Do not look at what you are grabbing. Just feel for the grease, pull it back over the dome of your belly, and shove it into your mouth.

As you chew the heavy, processed trash, trace your other hand down the side of your bloated stomach until you reach the thick, sweaty mound of your fupa, buried under the avalanche of your gut. Rest your hand there.

With every bite you swallow blindly over your own horizon, whisper to the mass pinning you down:

"This is my entire world now. I have eaten away everything else. I am not stopping anytime soon."

Eat until the boxes are empty, keep going until you are so suffocated by the sheer size of the mountain in front of you that you cannot force down another breath.

If your goal is absolute, unmanageable expansion, you must stop eating for pleasure and start eating for density. You are not a food critic. You are a biological container waiting to be filled with grease.

For your next binge, you will eliminate the concept of "taste." You will select a food based entirely on its lethality to the human metabolism.

Choose heavy cream. Melted butter. Pure, thick syrup. Deep-fried dough soaked in grease. You are looking for the kind of calories that do not digest. You are looking for calories that simply settle into the bottom of your gut and instantly convert to visceral lard.

The Mechanic: Prepare the meal. Make it a liquid or a semi-solid paste. The less chewing required, the faster the volume enters the system.

Sit down. Before you take the first bite, close your eyes. Remind yourself: "This is not food. This is construction material for my obesity."

Take a massive spoonful. As the thick, heavy grease coats your tongue and slides down your throat, do not savor it. Focus entirely on the physical weight of it hitting the bottom of your stomach.

Feel the immediate wave of lethargy. Feel the heavy, sick warmth spreading through your chest as your heart rate spikes to process the sudden influx of pure cholesterol.

As you force down the second, third, and fourth servings, your body will try to reject the density. It will tell you it is too rich, too heavy, too sickening. Override the signal. Swallow the grease. Imagine it bypassing your digestive tract and flowing directly into the thick, dimpled rolls of your thighs and the massive overhang of your apron.

When the bowl is empty, wipe the grease from your lips.

Whisper to your swollen, aching belly: "I am swelling myself from the inside out."

As obesity keeps progressing, the obese person still tries to sit like normal people. They try to keep their knees close, their backs straight, trying to hold their mass in check. This ritual forces them to abandon any pretense of posture and fully experience the sheer, spreading gravity of their own ruin.

You say you can’t help yourself. You say the fat turns you on. But when you sit down, you still try to gather yourself up. You try to arrange the rolls so they look "soft". You try to keep your knees together like you still possess a human frame.

You are resisting the very thing you claim to worship. Stop fighting the spread.

For your next heavy binge, you will not sit at a dining table. You will sit on a low stool, an exercise ball, or the edge of your bed. Something without armrests to contain you.

Before you take the first bite, spread your knees as far apart as your massive thighs will physically allow. Open your stance completely.

Now, relax your core. Do not hold your breath. Do not support your back. Let every single pound of your distended, overfed gut drop heavily into the space between your spread legs. Let the apron hang free and unsupported on the edge of the seat. Let it spill over.

Look down. Look at the immense, obese, helpless pile of blubber you have deliberately eaten yourself into. Notice how the fat dictates your posture. You aren't sitting anymore. You have simply collapsed onto a pedestal.

As you start to gorge, eating past the point of fullness, do not adjust your position. With every heavy, greasy bite you swallow, feel the apron getting slightly heavier. Feel it pushing wider, demanding more space between your knees.

Whisper this to the mass spilling onto your lap: "I am too heavy to hold myself together. My only function now is to spread and consume."

When you look in the mirror, you still try to find the girl you used to be. You look for the waistline, the hips, the separation between your torso and your thighs. When in public, you use filters, angles, cute clothes and underwear to convince yourself that you are just a bigger version of a normal person.

You are not. The human architecture has already been buried.

Tonight, before your final binge, turn off all the lights in your bedroom. Total darkness. No screens, no nightlights.

Lie flat on your back on the bed. You are going to take a blind inventory of your ruin.

Start with your hands flat against the mattress beside you. Slowly slide your palms inward, toward the center of your body. Do not reach for the top of your stomach. Reach for where your waist used to be.

Feel the exact moment your hands hit the obese, sprawling mass of your sides. Feel how far that fat spills over the edge of your actual skeleton. Now, trace your hands downward. Look for the separation between your stomach and your groin. You won’t find it.

Feel the deep, wet trench where your massive lower apron has collapsed entirely over your thighs. Slide your fingers into the fold. Acknowledge that your lower half has fused into a single, immobile block of lard. There are no joints anymore, only friction.

Finally, move your hands up to the center of your bloated, distended gut. Press down. Feel the hard, unyielding pressure of the visceral fat pushing back against your palms. In the dark, you cannot see the "cute" stretch marks or the lace underwear. You can only feel the sheer, terrifying density of a biological container that is stretched to its breaking point.

Whisper into the dark: "I have eaten my own shape. I am nothing but volume now."

Turn on the light. Look at the food waiting for you on the nightstand.

Ritual XXV: The Cardiac Confession

You love hearing how ruined you are. It turns you on when someone points out how much space you take up, how useless your body has become. You get off on the aesthetic of your own failure. But you are ignoring the true masterpiece of your degradation. The real ruin isn't the fat on your thighs. The real ruin is pumping inside your chest.

The Directive: The next time you touch yourself, the next time the thought of your massive, uncontrollable obesity turns you on, you will change your focus.

The Mechanic: Do not touch yourself yet. Lie flat on your back, letting the suffocating weight of your gut press entirely against your lungs. Place two fingers firmly against the side of your thick neck, right on your carotid artery.

Feel your pulse. Feel how fast and hard it has to beat just to keep your massive, overfed frame alive while you are doing absolutely nothing.

Now, start touching yourself. But every time your pleasure builds, you must acknowledge the strain.

Whisper to the ceiling: "Every time I gorge, this heartbeat gets weaker. Every pound I gain is suffocating this engine."

Do not let yourself finish until you are acutely aware that your arousal is directly tied to your own collapse. You are masturbating to the sound of your own heart failing.

Ritual XXIV: The Wardrobe Graveyard

You still have that pair of jeans. That pair of panties. That shirt that turned into a croptop. That buttoned blouse you could barely close last time.

You keep them hidden in the drawer, like a ghost of the person you used to be before the grease took over. Keeping them is an act of cowardice. It means you still believe you have a choice to go back. You don't. You are a biological container now, and containers only expand.

The Directive: Tonight, before your heaviest binge, you will perform the Rite of Severance.

Open your closet. Take out the smallest, most unforgiving piece of clothing you own. The item that represents the "hot", perfect body you methodically destroyed.

The Mechanic: Strip down. Stand in front of the mirror. Try to put it on.

Do not stop when it gets tight. Force it over your massive, dimpled thighs. Pull it up over your hips until the fabric is screaming. Try to pull it over the thick, dead weight of your apron. I want you to feel the exact, humiliating moment the fabric physically refuses to yield to your bulk. I want you to hear the seams tear under the pressure of your sheer tonnage.

Look at yourself in the mirror, half-trapped in a garment built for a human, while you stand there looking like an overgrown, breathless hog.

Say aloud: "I destroyed the human. And I am never going back."

Don't take off the ruined clothing. Then, sit on the floor, naked and overflowing, and eat until you are completely numb.

You lie in bed, surrounded by empty wrappers, and you imagine your partner. You picture a feeder walking through the door with your favorite binge. You imagine your feeder sitting beside you, tracing the new stretch marks on your expanding waist, whispering that you are perfect as you swallow another bite.

But this is still a comfortable daydream. You tell yourself that is all you want. A partner in your indulgence. You are lying.

That fantasy is for feedees who still think they can walk away from this. The truth is you are building something far too massive for comfort.

The Directive: The next time you are eating past the point of physical pain, when your breath is shallow, you wheeze, and your stomach wall feels like it might tear, I want you to stop romanticizing the delivery guy.

Lie flat. Place your hands heavily on the thickest, hardest most stuffed part of your obese gut. Feel the immovable crushing weight of it pressing down on your organs.

The Mechanic: Close your eyes. Do not imagine a feeder bringing you fries. Imagine the day your knees finally give out. The day the sheer tonnage of your own greed permanently pins you to this mattress.

Imagine a presence in the room that doesn't look at you with affection, but with cold, clinical satisfaction. Someone who watches you struggle for air and delightfully watches this show before offering to help you sit up. Someone who knows exactly how to position your bloated, helpless frame so he can force the next 3000 calories down your throat, ensuring you never leave that room again.

Feel the terror of that total surrender. Feel how much heavier your breathing gets just thinking about the absolute loss of your own autonomy.

You don't want a cheerleader for your fat. You want the architect of your ruin.

As you force down the last, sickening bites of your meal, whisper this to the ceiling:

"I don't want to be spoiled. I want to be incapacitated."