Mindlessly Growing

I love imagining all the fat on my body squishing into my chest, making me pant helplessly, slowly finding it harder and harder to breathe, endlessly struggling to get air and gasping for breath, feeling my chest ache from all my fat and my heart racing just to keep my helpless, fat-enveloped body alive.

Soon enough we’ll be too fat to comfortably reach ourselves, buried under layer after layer of new fat from all the constant gaining. The couch won’t be able to handle our growing weight forever and eventually it’ll snap, dropping our fat asses even closer to the floor. Getting up will turn into a struggle as we rock ourselves forward trying to hoist our fat asses upright just to waddle to the door for the next DoorDash order. 🥵😵‍💫🫠

The constant drool hanging from my mouth is a reflection of how badly I want it—how desperately I need to be made fatter. Every pound is another step toward becoming exactly what I’ve always wanted to be: softer, wider, heavier, and more helplessly consumed by my appetite. I want my thoughts drowned out by cravings, my willpower replaced by an endless hunger that can never truly be satisfied.

If you’ve ever dreamed of fattening someone until they’re a massive pile of lard, too enormous to care about anything except their next meal, then I urge you to contact me immediately. I want to grow beyond reason, beyond moderation, beyond recognition. I want to spend my life expanding, indulging, and surrendering to every excess imaginable.

One day you’ll find yourself standing in the kitchen in the dim glow of the refrigerator light long after midnight. Your stomach hangs heavily over the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging deep into your skin. Your breathing sounds louder than the room itself. The counter is cluttered with empty wrappers, half-finished drinks, and food you barely remember eating. You aren’t even hungry anymore. You know that. But your hand reaches for something else anyway. The habit has become stronger than hunger, stronger than reason, stronger than concern. You tell yourself you’ll start caring tomorrow. Tomorrow has become your favorite lie because tomorrow never comes.

Every day your world becomes slightly smaller. The walk to the mailbox feels longer. The stairs feel steeper. The couch feels more permanent. The thought of effort feels exhausting before you’ve even attempted it. What should be alarming slowly becomes normal. The softness spreading across your frame. The way your stomach settles into your lap when you sit. The way your shirts stretch tighter across your middle. The way your face slowly changes shape. The way ordinary movement starts requiring planning. At first people ask if you’ve put on a little weight. Later they stop asking because the answer becomes too obvious.

Every passing week leaves evidence behind. Another shirt that doesn’t fit. Another pair of jeans that gives up. Another uncomfortable photo. Another moment where you catch your reflection from an angle you weren’t prepared for. Every time you think it’s gotten bad, somehow it gets worse. The number on the scale keeps climbing. The cravings keep getting stronger. The habits keep digging deeper. The limit you once imagined no longer exists. The version of yourself that would have been horrified six months ago is already gone. The version from a year ago wouldn’t believe what you’ve become.

That’s what makes it so disturbing. There is always another step downward. Always another excuse. Always another pound. Always another day spent drifting further away from the person you used to be. The process never feels dramatic while it’s happening. It feels ordinary. Comfortable. Routine. Day after day you adapt to things that once would have terrified you. The heavier breathing. The reduced mobility. The constant exhaustion. The growing realization that your body is becoming something larger, softer, and more difficult to manage with every passing month.

Every morning when I slowly open my eyes, I feel noticeably fatter. I just sit there in a hazy daze while another massive gain shake is prepared for me, richer and heavier than the last. I’m so deep in a food coma that I barely know what’s happening around me. My vision is blurred, my body warm and useless, and all I can focus on is the crushing weight settling deeper into my stomach as it grows heavier and fuller.

The more I listen, the more it starts affecting me without even trying. I catch myself waddling, whining, and moaning absentmindedly while I’m doing everyday things. My hunger keeps growing too. I’ve been eating far more than usual and still end every day wanting more. There’s something addicting about letting my thoughts fade while my belly fills.

This hunger is suffocating.

It’s desperate to tear itself free — bulging outward, growing toward the sunlight it craves. The fat won’t stop coming. The urges refuse to burn out. I need this more than air itself. I’d sacrifice my own oxygen just to feel the unbearable weight of it consuming me.

I can’t say no anymore. I can only submit.

One bite after another. I need my mind hollowed out and replaced with the promise of becoming so fat I can’t even think straight. I want to be so far gone I can’t process what’s happening to me anymore. As the couch sinks beneath me, as the bed frame cracks under my weight, the only thought I’ll be able to form is:

“More.”

I want to disappear into this black hole of feedism. Let the person I used to be burn away so I can finally become what I was always meant to be. Take everything from me. I’m willing to give it all up just to please us both.