Fattened - Tumblr Posts

I find it funny when you still try to deny your fate: to blow up indefinitely, fill your body with rolls of lard, cover your lap with your blubbery gut; anyone who has followed this blog knows just how little self control you have. How addicted you are to this silly little way you get off. Except, unlike normal people's self-gratification, the effects are permanent, and embarrassingly visible to anyone who looks your way. Fat cells don't go away, did you know that? So go ahead, lose weight. "Take it slowly," if you want. All of the greedy fat cells you've forced your body to create may shrink down slightly, but they'll always be there, waiting for just a few extra calories to swell back up again.

I do think about this a lot. The inevitability of it. What will I look like in 5 years? How far gone will I be? There honestly are days, even now, when I wake up early, drink some water, go for a walk and feel good in a very normal way. I think to myself, ‘come on, what are you doing with all this weight gain stuff? It ends today.’

I think about how nice it would be for everything to just go back to normal, before I fell headfirst into this surreal addiction to transformation and embarrassment. The thing that makes it so believable at the time is that I’m realistic about it. I’m not in a position to ever become a Hemsworth, and I know it — maybe I was once, but not now that I’ve done all this to myself. I’ll always have cellulite and stretch marks. That’s a permanent and irreversible consequence of my actions. But I could look normal again. I could stop dressing like I’m a sip of water away from all my fat flopping out. I could stop craving the gasps and the stares and the shock. Alice clawing her way back up the rabbit hole and out of Wonderland. I could do it. It really seems real in that moment.

But then by the evening, I’m shoveling Ben & Jerry’s into my mouth, throbbing desperately as my soft heavy stomach drops out into my lap. I’m thinking of what to eat next before I’m even halfway through. Fingertips massaging into my thick fat, moaning, whispering under my breath what have I done, what am I doing, but this time it’s not to talk myself out of it. They’re needy whispers, intended to spur me on, and they do. I’m so full I can barely get up, but there are only two reasons I force myself to try. One, to get more food. And two, to haul my engorged body off the couch and waddle slowly to my bedroom, hands restless on my belly, feeling at its swollen new size, to bend down with difficulty and pull open a drawer - the one where I keep all the clothes I’ve outgrown, and slowly, painstakingly force my wobbling body into them. Turn before the mirror, disgust and desire, moaning as I cup my hang, tease a roll, handle my sensitive dough. Then waddle back eagerly, fat cheeks blushing as I feel my pillowy hips and exposed overhang wobbling. So obscene. More food. The sofa creaks. Cushions dip. Seams strain. I shouldn’t be doing this.

That only makes it better.

And I eat, and I eat, and I eat.