think about an unsuspecting friend walking in on you during a really bad binge. the kind of binge where you don't even have the decency to be wearing clothes that fit, the kind where you gave up on sitting at a table cuz it was too far from the kitchen, the kind of binge where you eat with your hands just to get it down quicker.
and there your poor friend is, coming into the kitchen for a glass of water and they find your fat gluttonous ass on the kitchen floor covered in slop and grease. picture them being disgusted before saying, "god. . . is this how you've been putting on all this weight?" walking over to you to bend down in a way you haven't been able to do in months and probably mever will be able to in the coming years. they pinch at the fat spilling out from your too small shirt, amazed that anyone can let themselves get like this.
and you. . . you try to show some decency. blushing and mumbling and stuttering trying to recover for what they're seeing, but you know anything you say just wouldn't sound reasonable. that anything you say just makes you sound like a pig looking for an excuse to stuff your face. and the longer they pinch and jiggle you, staring at you waiting for some kind of response, you're hyper aware of what you've done to yourself.
you can feel how tight your clothes are. how those stretchy cotton shorts are begging to be pulled beneath your fat gut. you can feel how stretched your stomach is, the skin hot and irritated from the material still desperately trying to cover what it can. and god, you're so out of breath. in the silence of their judgement all that can be heart is your huffing and puffing, and the gurgling of your gut trying to digest all the junk you've put in it.
you look like your next words are a complete lie, but for you they're the 100% truth.
they don't say anything at first before laughing at you. "you're telling me, all of this," they point to the empty containers and wrappers surrounding you, "was a midnight snack for you? . . . and look at you in these pants, the waist band is folding over your rolls."
your gut is so packed, begging to be let put of those shorts. you wanna slide them down under your gut, give yourself more room. but you can't do that. can't be that depraved in front of your friend. they already think you're a pig.
but then they move forward and do it for you, sliding their bony fingers into the too tight space and sliding them down. your fat gut slides out like melted butter before bouncing in your lap and the relief feels so good you moan.
they marvel at your belly, see how it sits in your lap, round and jello like. "you're not even fat, just large." they play with your belly for some time, jiggling and shaking it, mocking you every time you burp and like they lnow just how far gone you are, they ask you, "well. . . aren't you gonna finish?"
and like the true pig you are, blushing and ashamed, you shove another mouthful down your throat.
yousharknotpass
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tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
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