“I just don’t get it,” he complains from his dented spot on the couch, legs spread and belly pooling between thick, near feminal thighs. “I eat salads. I’ve even been exercising.” He gestures with his arm, indicating the fitbit pinching his wrist. “My steps are totally up. I just don’t get where all the weight is coming from.”
His feeder eyes him up. He’s reclined as much as he can be, and between his legs is a tub of chocolates he’s powering through during his rant. A family bag of chips lays discarded next to his hip. He needs the contrast– the sweetness to cleanse his palette from the grease and salt. What a refined palette he has.
“What’s the sensitivity on the watch?”
He huffs. “I put it on high. You know I don’t always move my arms when I walk. The dumb thing costs all that money, but it wasn’t even counting it.”
Waddle, his feeder’s brain supplies. Waddling isn’t in the code.
“Are you sure it’s not counting you putting your hand to your mouth?”
He glowers, wiping melted chocolate from around his mouth with a thumb, licking it off. “You could at least be supportive instead of being such a dick.”
“You’re right,” the feeder decides. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”
“It has to be all the chemicals they’re pumping into the food. The – uh – additives, or something.” As he rubs the stretch-mark addled side of his fat gut with his free hand, he adds, “America has a weight problem.”
“Because of the chemicals,” his feeder recites, trying their best to make sense of the truth.
“Yeah. At this rate, no one has a chance of losing any weight at all. Hey–”
“Can you get me that coke bottle from the fridge? I’m parched.”
“The… liter bottle? I thought you were on a diet.”
“It is diet,” he retorts. “Besides, everyone knows drinks don’t count. Everyone needs to stay hydrated. Staying hydrated doesn’t mean calories.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go get that now, okay?”
“On your way back, grab my pen too, okay? I think I left it next to that baking tray you used earlier. All that ‘America / chemicals’ talk has bummed me out.”
“Sure thing.” So the feeder grabs him his liter of coke and the weed pen from beside the empty brownie tray. “To dieting,” they cheers, handing him his requested items.
“God. Yeah. Wish me luck. I fucking need it.”