you love to feel like this, don't you?
just filled to the brim with good food, endorphins beaming from your little piggy brain and dopamine rewarding you for engorging and gobbling on anything edible within a radius of 2 meters from you... wondering what's for dinner.
you wake up at improbable hours, and then you eat, you hit up the pc and devote your hours to videogames, streamings, and food until you go to bed.
i don't even have to encourage you by now...
you're digging your own grave a bite after another.
you know, i see the posts you publish on your kinky socials.
you almost always say that it's me filling that ball of lard you have as a gut...
...but in reality, if I make you stuff once a week it's a lot. After all, I work full time and I'm often too tired to do much but cook for you a filling meal and then going to bed listening to some ASMR to fall asleep...
but you... you love to appoint the entire guilt on me.
you love to tell everyone that it's me rendering you so obese that you can't even walk anymore.
you love to make everyone think "boo hoo poor feedee, her wife is fattening her up!"...
...while in reality you panic if you don't eat for even an hour.
the other day you literally had a meltdown because we didn't have anymore cookies.
and two days before that, you begged me to find another job just so that you could order mcdonalds more often.
(i'm searching for it, of course...)
i'm watching your puffy body sink in the mattress and i can hardly recognize each body part as a human one...
you're deforming your meat vessel by adding so much lard it's becoming unrecognizable.
you're digging your own grave a bite after another...
i'll sleep all night, like always...
...and instead you, like every night, will wake up around 5 am and eat whatever you can fit in your mouth without having to cook it.
you are so lost in the folds of your own obesity...
so much lost that you fail to notice that, at this point, your own greatest feeder... is yourself.
