the heaviest cow on the farm

900 words · 5 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · January 2026

The fourth meal of the day ended ten minutes ago, and the heat hasn't faded. It's the most I've ever eaten in one session, or close to it. My breathing is fast, my thoughts are slow. The fullness of my stomach radiates outwards, pressing against every part of me.

You're nestled into me, resting your head on my padded shoulder, squished between my arm and the soft slope where my side meets the mattress. I'm not really someone you cuddle anymore, but more like somewhere you settle, soft and comfortable. Your wrist rests on my belly, rising and falling with my shallow breath, as you gently trace lines of glittering fire over my stretchmarks with your fingers.

"You did so well," you murmur. (I grunt in agreement.) "All of it, every bite. I'm so proud of you. You make me so happy."

"You make me happy," I answer, drowsily, unthinking, but it's true. This is all I want - this moment, this warmth. Our closeness. Your voice and your hands and the heavy, satisfied ache that holds me.

"I know I push you a little far sometimes. But you always rise to it. Look how far you've come," you say, moving your hand a little further down my belly. "Six hundred and thirty pounds. My perfect little larder."

I smile.

And then the number lands.

Six hundred and thirty. I knew, of course I knew, I'm on the scale practically every week and again earlier today - but hearing it here, in your voice, in this moment, it's different. Six hundred and thirty. The numbers used to be hot but now they're scary. Those are TV show numbers. Hospital numbers. Numbers that make me think the honeymoon could end at any moment.

I'm still smiling, but it's just the muscles holding position. The rest of me is somewhere else.

Your fingers still trace me but the sensation is gone and I feel what you're outlining: contours of land, like earth poured into this reinforced bed. You're curled up against the expanse of me like you'd curl against a hillside.

You shift, look up at me. Your whole body weighs less than one of my legs. If I rolled I'd smother you in a landslide.

"What's wrong?" you ask.

"It's nothing," I say, trying to find the warmth again. It was right here. "I'm okay."

But the cold is in me now. It's not the first time I've heard that doubting voice. It speaks up at every milestone, at every new struggle, each time I need help with something I could do before. But it's always been silenced by that heavy fullness. It's never interrupted a moment like this before - it's never smothered the warmth. It's never stolen you from right by my side.

I need it gone.

"Sometimes I get doubts," I say. "About... this. Of losing it."

You wait.

"There's part of me that hears a number like that and panics. It tries to tell me that this can't be my life. I try to ignore it, but... one day, when I'm empty, when the warmth is gone, I'm scared it'll win me over."

You open your mouth to speak, but I continue. "So don't let me. Okay? I need to stay in this feeling. Promise me you'll keep me in it. Promise me you won't let me go."

You're silent for a moment. Perfectly still.

Then you sit up. You lean over me and take my face in your hands. Your eyes are full of love.

"Yes," you say. "I promise."

Relief floods through me. The warmth burns hot. You understand. You'll keep me here, you'll keep me safe.

"You've made a big decision," you say, gently. "I'm proud of you."

I smile, and relax, but something snags. Decision? The word feels out of place. I was only asking for reassurance.

The endorphins are fading now. The warmth is tapering off, and I find myself lying here in our bed, in this body, this growing six hundred and thirty pound body that becomes less independent day by day, and you're still holding my face in your hands, and your eyes are still full of love, but something within has changed. Something that was waiting and isn't anymore.

What have I done?

I go to speak, but you shush me with a gentle finger. You stroke my cheek.

"You're tired, honey." You reach for the tube, connect it, check the seal, place the end in my mouth. Never mind that I'm already as full as I've ever been. "Let me take care of everything."

No chance to argue. The lights dim. You leave.

There was no hesitation, I realise. No "let's talk about this when you're less full", no "this is a big step", no "are you sure?"

The warmth is gone, fully gone, and in the cold I see clearly: a body I can hardly move, a door I soon won't be able to reach, a life that revolves around you. And I... don't...

...but... those are cold thoughts. Tomorrow, when I'm full, with you beside me, I'll mean every word I said tonight. So whatever I just gave you - if it helps me get back to that warmth, you can have it. That's what I want. That's all I want. I have to believe that.

The feed runs, and I swell.

BEFA

Body Expansion

Eating & Feedism

Fat Appreciation

BEFA

Body Expansion

Eating & Feedism

Fat Appreciation

650 words · 3 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · March 2024

It's not enough just to win. It's not enough to only have broken you.

We both knew that I thrived on the struggle. That I loved when you resisted, but loved it even more when tomorrow you'd resist a little less. As day by day I'd snake past your defenses, overwhelm your dignity, make you give in. Little by little, bit by bit; just a tiny bit more compliant today than you were yesterday.

We both wanted it. You wanted your barriers broken and you knew you couldn't do it yourself; you wanted to renounce everything that was holding you back, but you didn't have the strength to turn away. I wanted nothing more than to corrupt you, isolate you, dedicate you to me and only me. From when we first locked eyes there was a tense balance between us and we both knew all we wanted was for the scales to tip, slowly, irreversibly, to me.

But you were worried. We both love the struggle but your real goal was what comes afterwards. You wanted to be switched off, to be putty in my hands, to follow my instruction without a thought from your own head.

You worried that I didn't want the same. You worried that I was in it only for the battle, only for the agonising push-and-pull of power, only for the slow accumulation of subservience. You worried that I only wanted the glory of winning, of proving myself superior to you. You worried that once I'd won and gotten my prize I'd have nothing to play for. You worried that I'd leave and find a new champion to play with, leaving you utterly dependent on me with only my memory to slake your unquenchable thirst; a breath held forever.

Honey, no. Hush those silly thoughts. Seeing as I'll be doing all the thinking for both of us one day, we may as well start now.

It's not enough for me to win, darling. In some ways I already have, from the moment you first resigned yourself to eventually being mine. Yes, I love the struggle, and I'll savour it as long as I can make it last — but even though the flesh of this fruit is perfectly tasty it's the sweet ichor inside that drives me wild.

I don't need to win. I will, of course; I am superior to you, in every way, but I don't need to prove it. No, I need to dominate you. I need to win day, after day, after day. I need to win when you can no longer muster any resistance at all. I need to win when you've given up all thoughts of running. I need to look into your eyes and watch the memory of life before me fade. I need to own you, inside and out, so thoroughly that you forget who you were.

When one day you realise that you got what you wanted, and you have nothing left to call your own, and you belong to me in every sense of the word, but I'm still taking more —

— when you're already addicted to me, but I keep upping your dose —

— when there's nothing left to think but thoughts I fed you, but I still fill your head with lies —

— when your world extends no further than my bedroom door, but I still keep you bound —

— when you put up one last struggle to try to tell me this isn't what you wanted, and for the first time you really earnestly try, and worry for wholly different reasons — that's the battle I need to win.

And I will.

And you'll be nothing.

And that will be my prize.

But you fucked that one up, didn't you?

You took that first process, the one where you need to eat a certain amount of food to get the energy you need, and supercharged it by letting yourself develop an eating addiction.

You took that second process, the one where you need to do work, move, exercise, and enjoy life to offload that energy into action, and you just... got rid of it. Gone. Not like you could ever do enough to get rid of the huge amount of food you consume daily, so why bother at all, right?

But that energy's gotta go somewhere so what did you do? You funneled it straight into your arousal process. You know, the one that's your 'biological imperative'? You didn't consider the consequences of propping up your obsession with fat, with the one thing living beings are designed to do in their lifetime? Did you even realise what you were doing when you were reprogramming yourself? Were you even aware?

So what now? You eat, you get horny, you get fat, and you don't do anything. You're trapped in a never-ending cycle you made yourself. You can't ever escape because you convinced your body this is what it's supposed to do.

And I like to tease you. Make you admit that you've given in, let your fetish become your life, that you barely leave the bed. Ordinary questions like "how was your day?" or "do you wanna go out tonight?" are playful reminders that you're not like the people you watch on TV. We both know you spent the day lazy in our bedroom. It's all you do. You couldn't make it to the end of the hall, let alone down the front stairs. You blush and tell me you're too fat for any of that. It's embarrassingly pathetic, and nothing turns you on more.

The look he gave when hearing that was a little too...excited.

No really. It wasn't like I didn't overeat before, but it was never with this level of purpose. It's not all that hard to snack all day and wind up 100lbs overweight without falling into a serious habit of binge eating.

Three square meals a day. Some crunchy or gummy snacks in front of the TV. A steady fitness routine of bed to couch. Couch to car. Car to seat. Then in reverse order. That'll do it. Not exactly the most out of control behavior. Could be better. Could be worse. Enough to make a person fat. Not enough to make a person unwieldy fat.

Then a feeder comes along and throws his stone into the pond. The ripples of the water reaching every edge and reverberating back.

Honestly it's all his fault. Having the right to say no doesn't work when dealing with a force of nature like that. Bags of snacks adorn every visit. Deep, puppy eyes insisting a final, laborious helping at dinner. Sometimes all it takes is a forkful of dessert in public. Usually it comes with a very sly grin. Overeating is expected, but to see his eyes twinkle at the thought of winning another daily battle against...normality.

A stretched out stomach doesn't happen quickly. The first few times he coerces a heavy, heavy meal brings a very slow, groggy morning. Don't even mention food, let alone bring it. Sure sure sure, binging to his twisted sense of foreplay is a rush, but it was always mortgaging the future for the immediate present. Limits and the realities of overeating were always top of mind in these moments. The mind is willing. The flesh is...even weaker than expected.

Then the mornings begin to get easier. First, it started with a pastry. Maybe a few eggs in a little homemade breakfast burrito. Nothing truly offensive to someone who spent the previous night splayed out. Piggish. Defenseless. Exposed. Sometimes, that kickoff to the next day's eating was pushed back for more aggressive snacks. A fourth meal. Or simply an entire heaping plate of something "easy" to take down like pizza rolls. A few grilled cheeses. An entire hearty meal.

Clothes get tight. Standing up brings that "ooooph" sensation. Ok maybe that skirt didn't fit great before, but it's hard to deny losing some of your lap to a more prominent belly. More fat. Watching a few weeks of eating with no guardrails turn into an undeniably bigger wall of fat spilling out from your middle.

It truly hits the one night. Another day, another set of three square meals, dense snacks, and a day spent in bed looking at the ever more familiar walls. Let's go to dinner, he suggested. It's near closing time, but reasonable. 9pm. Most don't think about filling up their significant other at those hours on a weeknight. He does. How thoughtful. Always concerned with making sure I carry more and more fat on my frame.

Burritos and fries it was. Sure, let's have margaritas. A pitcher of sugar water to dull the senses. Sometimes it's hard to get drunk with all this food sloshing around. Better drink up. If he had the presence to mention it, he'd have pointed out how undignified it looks to be slouched over the table to minimize the distance from plate to mouth. An occasional girlish grunt. Breathing from the mouth. Altogether fat fat fatass behavior. Once the check is paid, it's a slow shuffle to the door. A buzzed, bloated pig dealing with a overfed gut. Let alone the way a fat pair of legs slow someone down. How wide hips keep fat arms from swinging without those dramatic arcs.

It isn't far into the drive home when it comes up. It wasn't an easy 2nd dinner to force down, but after 10 minutes it's...much easier than before.

I think my stomach is getting stretched out.

750 words · 3 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · January 2023

I heard something that I shouldn’t have.

You were on the phone, chatting to one of your friends. I’d met her before, months ago — you brought her here to see me, to show her what you’d made of me. I don’t remember what she said. She said something to me; made some crass comment about my weight. There was an argument; you yelled at her. I said nothing. Her face is a blur. I think she might have been my friend, once, too. I’m not sure I remember her name.

I heard snippets of your conversation drift in through the open bedroom door.

“No. I’m not an abuser. I’m not enabling anyone’s addiction. I don’t appreciate that implication.”

It was like I could hear both sides of the conversation.

Perhaps you sent her a picture of me, maybe taken this morning while I slept. Perhaps she’d seen how much new weight was on my body, despite how she’d tried to convince you to stop.

She’d called you an abuser. She’d called you an enabler. She’d accused you of taking advantage of my addiction, of emotionally abusing me.

You’re an enabler. That’s all I need, isn’t it? An “enabler”. My default state is to eat and eat and eat and I can’t stop myself, right? All I need is to be “enabled” and I’ll bloom into obesity. You don’t need to do anything. You just need to “enable” me.

I can’t stop myself. The worst thing is that everyone knows it. Everyone knows I have no self control. Everyone has given up on me. They don’t tell me to stop eating, they tell you to stop enabling me. Everyone knows I’m utterly powerless to stop myself; that you’re the only one with any semblance of control.

They’re right, of course. I can’t stop. I say I have an addiction (and it was me being so open about it that lured you to me in the first place), but that’s not the whole truth. The truth is that eating turns me on… but that’s not the whole truth either. Eating is dull, a mindless necessity. I have done so much of it that there is no pleasure left in it. No, what really turns me on is when I reach the point where a normal person would stop — where I assume I would feel “full”, where my stomach no longer readily accepts food — and I must force that it into myself like air into a balloon. Only this brings me arousal.

All this on top of the already very real addiction, of course. To food and to weight. The feeling of eating and growing.

Arousal and addiction, circling me forever like vultures.

One caused the other, or maybe the other way round. You’d think that I’d experience them as a single, unified hunger. Not so. They are both entirely separate from each other. The arousal… when it builds to a certain point, it overwhelms everything else, and I consume everything in sight without thought at all, in the hope that it will offer some small release. But the addiction is waiting underneath. When the arousal fades, my first instruction is still to eat. Unlike my arousal, which I can understand and which I brought upon myself, my addiction I cannot hope to comprehend.

My brain has reorganised itself such that it only wants to eat. It doesn’t matter how full I am, or how tired, or what I’m doing. I must always eat. The arousal is sometimes fun. The addiction is always misery.

They don’t always come separately. Most of the time, they are intertwined. Both processes running at full speed at the same time. I eat and I eat and none of it is for the joy of eating, or because I love food. It is simply because I must. I have to. I have to.

You came to me and you worked all this out, didn’t you?

I broke myself. I ruined my brain long before you ever met me. You didn’t have to do anything — just enable me. I was perfect for you, wasn’t I? A perfect cow for you to feed, already broken where it mattered.

I love that my piggy hasn't even tried to get on top since passing 400. Poor thing. He'll never be on top again. Well, for anything other than grinding his belly where I like him to for a couple minutes until he has to roll over and lay there a panting wobbling blubbery mess. He can't hold himself up for long and his belly and fupa really get in the way too much.

Lucky for him that's exactly how I want him. I just want him laying back like a good blob and letting me move that belly out of the way and dig his manhood out of his fupa to ride him while I tell him how pathetic and enormous he is and how he's let me ruin him for good and there's no going back. He's only going to get fatter from here.

He better be glad he's got a girl like me who doesn't mind a man with tits three times the size of hers. And if he wants to keep getting off like that, he better keep getting fatter.

I want him weaker and jigglier and flabbier and lazier and more out of shape. I want him so fat, there's no hope of ever pleasing a woman from on top ever again.

His handsome face getting fatter and fatter. His big double chin and fat cheeks so grab-able and pinch-able. His eyes nearly constantly squinting from all the fat.

He doesn't quite look like a completely different person yet. Somebody who saw him a few years ago might still recognize him from 100 pounds ago, and maybe even some people might recognize him from college 200 pounds ago. I want to change that. I want people to gasp when they find out its him.

I want to put another 100 pounds on him and take my 500 pound blimp to his college homecoming, and make a beeline for some group with one of the little normie vanilla sorority girls he dated, and bring up that I hear they used to be a thing back in the day. And see her embarrassment at the people around her finding out she ever dated such a hog. And hear her excuses like "oh yeah... he's... uh... changed a lot since then." And ill put my hand on his belly, right above where his fat wobbling apron of lard is poking out, and say "Yeah he grew a beard! Oh and I guess he might have put on a few pounds." (And a pair of tits bigger than any girl in a 10 mile radius)

I want girls he's been with before to not even recognize him, and be horrified by "what he's done to himself" (what I've done to him 😈).

They'll think I'm some sort of saint for being with him. How could he possibly be with someone like me? Little do they know I've put that most recent couple hundred pounds on him, and there's gonna be more where that came from.

I'll bring him over a seat. Well, a couple seats. We can't risk fatty breaking one of those little foldout chairs can we? He'll ease himself down, his big sagging flabby belly hanging between his legs. He's probably pretty tired. It takes a lot out of him moving all that blubber around. The group disperses awkwardly, making half-hearted excuses. Once he's caught his breath, I pull out a full size snickers bar from my purse and shove it in his mouth. He makes short work of it. Such a good fatty. My pathetic gluttonous blob.

He gets up and waddles slowly beside me as we make our way somewhere where he can sit his big fat lazy ass down again and put some more food in his mouth. As we're walking away, I whisper in his ear "You used to ride girls like her, but now you get ridden, my sweet helpless blob. She's probably disgusted by the new you, huh? You'll never be able to f*ck like a man again. And our next milestone is for you to not be able to reach your manhood around your massive fat belly and fupa with those huge soft ham arms you've got. I'm gonna be completely in charge of when you can get off. You better get used to it fatty. There's no turning back. But don't worry. I promise you'll enjoy every moment of it, my sweet fat pig. Now let's get you something else to eat. I know my fatty's hungry."

1200 words · 5 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · October 2021

I remember how I used to be able to fuck you. I loved climbing on top of you and earning your love. I loved learning your every want, I loved exploring the intricacies of your body and your orgasm, and most of all I loved feeling useful to you. We weren’t far into our relationship when I was no longer able to do that. I couldn’t hold myself up for long, and later, it was difficult to climb on top of you at all. I was so scared that my growing arms, wobbling in exertion, would fail me and I would fall, crushing you — or at least smothering you. Your eye gleamed when I shared that concern, and you told me to do it. You told me you wanted it; you wanted to feel my whole body boring down on you. But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t dare.

I remember how you used to be able to fuck me. When I could no longer get on top of you, you would get on top of me. I felt pathetic and weak, more like a thing than a person, knowing that I didn’t even have the option to switch places if I wanted to. You reassured me, telling me that this way of doing things was more than normal, even for vanilla couples; and you told me that so long as you could fuck me, I’d still be useful to you. But I don’t think those couples faced the same issues we did. First all you needed to do to get to me was push aside the fat on my thighs. Later, you’d have to also lift up my ever-lowering belly fat. Later still, you also had to dig around in the fat that swathed my crotch to find me. That didn’t give you much trouble, at first, and you’d crack jokes about my buried treasure. But, given time, you had to rummage for longer and when you found it you had trouble mounting yourself. You had me hold apart my legs or lift up my belly as best I could, to open myself to you as much as possible, but it wasn’t enough, and later, I struggled even with that.

I remember how you used to be able to fuck me with your mouth. My growing belly meant there simply was not enough space for your body for traditional sex — perhaps we could have tried other positions, but it was so hard for me to shift myself around that you couldn’t bear to see me do it. But while you could no longer fuck me properly, there was still space for your head between my thighs, and if I strained you could reach me with your face. It was never particularly comfortable for either of us — I had to contort myself into a position where I could pull towards me as much fat as possible, which quickly exhausted me; my lower body had to be raised with pillows and such to make me accessible to you, which forced more fat backwards by gravity and made it difficult for me to breathe; you still had to hold apart the fat covering my crotch, which tired even you out; and even then there wasn’t quite enough space — you had to really push yourself into me, which can’t have been comfortable, and take breaks to breathe yourself. Our one-sided sex made me feel awful, leaving me no method with which to prove to you my love. It wasn’t workable for long.

I remember how you used to be able to fuck me with toys. Once we’d exhausted all other methods, props were required. At first, these worked wonders. Where you could no longer reach, or could only reach with your hands and even that with difficulty, our new toys seemed to have no trouble accessing. Once it had made contact, it didn’t need to be moved much, and that meant we could both relax. My fat was pliable enough that there was still some wiggle room for the toys that needed motion — it was a workout for you, but you somehow managed it. But, given time, it became ever more difficult to find the right spot and more tiring to keep it there — especially after I’d reached the point where any attempt of mine to help you didn’t achieve anything. I couldn’t bear watching you put yourself through all this when I could never do the same for you, so I tearfully asked you to slow down. It pained you, but you agreed.

I remember how you used to be able to fuck me. Now, we rarely fuck at all. It’s simply too difficult; too taxing on both of us, both physically and mentally. Sometimes, I grow so desperate. I forget my guilt; I crave your touch. There’s no hope of me touching myself, so I beg you. You laugh, and tell me “honey, you know that you’re too big for that.” You grew me a body that you can’t get off, and I grew a body that wants nothing else. I’m forced to find release myself, often through feeding, and often amplified by the knowledge that there’s simply no other way.

I remember everything we had, and I see how much of it is lost.

“You’re too young to be so fat” is something you’ve heard all your life. From your youth spent snacking in front of the tv, to your high school years indulging at restaurants or the mall, to your college years eating late-night pizza and junk in your dorm room, you’ve always been big enough to get that comment out of people. Parents, friends, boyfriends and girlfriends have all watched your advancing waistline with alarm, worrying about the fact that — no matter how big you had been when they last saw you — you were always bigger the next time.

And so they’d express their worry to you. These are the best years of your life, they’d say — you should be getting out and enjoying them, not sitting on the sidelines stuffing your face. Someone your age shouldn’t have trouble finding clothes that fit, or such a hard time making it up a flight of stairs that you have to stop halfway. You needed to try and watch the weight a little. Sometimes you wonder how things would have turned out if you had followed their advice.

But you didn’t. And so, you waddled across the stage at graduation and into a young adulthood that freed you from even the limited structure of university life. You landed some regular freelance work that paid the bills and let you work entirely from home. And you kept gorging yourself on whatever delicious food you wanted, whenever you wanted it. There was nobody to tell you what time meals were supposed to be, nobody to question your incessant snacking. While other people your age were going out with their friends, traveling to exotic places, partying, and living their lives, you were home by yourself most of the time. Craving. Consuming. Expanding.

With total freedom from a schedule and your last reason for even limited physical activity gone, the creeping tide of weight gain over the past few years turned into a flood. The snacking, meals, grocery deliveries, and takeout orders became constant. You would look like a completely different person to someone who had gone a couple months without seeing you, packing on fifty pounds or more from season to season. Eventually, your friends and family gave up on trying to save you from what was increasingly looking like an unstoppable force, propelling you faster and faster toward destroying yourself.

I suppose for normal people, there’s never an age where it’s expected someone will be too fat to leave the house. But it’s your mid-20s, and here you are. You spend eighteen hours a day on the couch, pinned beneath a flowing belly the size of a bean bag chair and two bulbous titties connecting to the massive rolls of fat under your arms. Laptop perched atop your wobbling stomach, you try to type with sausage fingers you’re even starting to have trouble bending, taking breaks every few minutes to rest your bloated arms.

As they fall to your sides, the fat on your biceps — bigger around than a healthy adult’s waist — puckers, flowing over the layers of rolls bulging from your abdomen. Your forearm fat shifts down toward your hands, making an impressive roll around your pudgy wrist. You try and shift a little to get more comfortable, wiggling your tremendous butt and shapeless legs around to try and resettle yourself. As you take up most of the couch now, there’s not much room to change positions. Instead, you stretch, wiggling the toes peeking out from the distended blobs of fat, now hundreds of pounds in their own right, that pass for your legs.

Shocking as those legs are, they can still support you during your labored, stumbling trips to the front door a couple times a day. Here, you collect the tens of thousands of calories you have to put away to keep you in this lard prison you’ve built for yourself. But you don’t think of it that way. You see it as a treat. After all, you just did a full-body workout lumbering to the door and back; why shouldn’t you reward yourself for keeping up with your fitness?

Except that nobody’s fooled by what’s going on here — not even you, on those rare occasions when the delusion lifts and you get a lucid look at your situation. There’s nothing normal about a twentysomething eating themself to the size of a California king mattress. There’s no excuse for being too heavy to waddle out your front door, ignoring whether you could even still squeeze your outrageous bulk through it. And all those admirers on the internet — talking about how sexy you look, how much they want to feed you, how they’d love to see you even bigger — are all really thinking the same thing.

They would push you to your limit if they had half a chance. Forget being able to waddle to the door; they want you so blown up with lard and full of food that you’re not rolling over without help. They want you a wheezing, blubbery mess with so many rolls, folds, blobs, and bulges covering your body that you’re almost unrecognizable as a person. They want to see you reaching pathetically across your expanse of fat, trying to get the feeding tube that’s slipped away from you, and looking at them pleadingly for help to restore the sickening flow of calories into your ruined body. They want you to end your twenties as a fat cow, insatiably feeding and alarmingly obese, eating yourself to death.

And they’d probably tease you by telling you about their day out of the house, and all the things that they got to do that a half-ton bariatric patient like you can never hope to do again. Fit in a car. Go shopping, mobility scooter or not. Literally just be outside without having countless amazed stares and snarky comments from all the people, shocked at seeing someone in their twenties who already weighs as much as five or six people. Shame those are off the table for you, they’d say; guess you better eat some more to make yourself feel better.

You’re not quite that big — not yet, at least. Your weight may be wildly out of control compared to most people your age, but even so it takes some time for those bad eating habits to reach critical mass. Give it a few years, though. Even if you manage to get a handle on your rapid expansion, there’s no chance you’re losing any weight. You’re too used to living this way to give it up. That number on the scale will keep creeping up, slowly but surely. You’ll be reminded of your inevitable fate by how your clothes feel like they’re slowly constricting, squeezing your belly and rolls tighter and tighter; how it feels like someone’s turning up gravity on you a little every day. But you can’t pin this on your clothes or the laws of physics. You only have yourself, and your gluttony, to blame.