I can hardly explain how plush I feel like this. Everything is just large - puffed out soft and jiggling. Even the parts of me that aren't as well-plumped yet, like my arms, still give me that constant feedback: you're big. you're soft. you big fat, soft fat, plumped up fucking obese pig, just look at the fucking state you've got yourself in. 🥵😫
That would be a sample of what it's like inside my mind these days. Always hot and buzzing, melting, like tarmac on a sizzling roadway. I'm heavy now. I'm plush. I look at my old pictures, scrolling all the way back to the top of my camera roll and swipe through the tight aesthetic mirror selfies, the good-looking smiles in a fortunate face. It's a dangerous game - I might actually make myself nauseous with regret. It's hard to find the line between not enough and too much while I'm pushing the stimulus, heaping my plate with as much 'ooohh god what have I done?' as I can devour, and if I'm not careful I might overshoot it completely. Occasionally, my habit of flirting with hot, heavy dismay can tip into clarity, and clarity is sharp. Too sharp. When it comes, it comes sudden. Usually unexpected. It's a game until it's not, and then I'm sitting too closely to the core of this delicious experiment, the clear and brutal air in the eye of the storm. I'm drenched with a sudden violent yearning to be that man again, to have never done this to myself, and the wish is horrible in its impossibility. I think of the transformation I put on for everyone around me, what they must have seen, what they must have thought of me. I shift in my seat, feeling my belly slip low, my rolls jiggle, how heavy I am now. I look down at my fat body - the large, straining stomach and the cellulite-packed thighs exploding in enormous wobbling puffs from the leg-holes of savagely tight underwear. It hits different. I'm horrified.
Sometimes I empty my cupboards, hurling everything fattening, the tools of my trade, into the trash and tying the bag shut. I don't trust myself not to go digging through there later. The thought sickens me. I think of going back to the gym, or at least daily walking. I dig in my closet for my old gym clothes, but they’re so outgrown they’re basically sex toys at this point. A whisper at the base of my skull suggests I try them on anyway. Just to see, it croons in a slick oil-dark voice. Maybe I’ll like the way they look on me. Maybe they’ll make me want to eat, maybe I’ll want to wear them in front of the mirror, and when I dig through the trash later to eat, eat, eat, eat, EAT—are you sure you tied that bag tight enough—
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