Playfully leaning into her eating away every single one of her emotions as to give her the impression it's all her fault, when with careful coordination it's solely mine.
She should depend on the fact that the cupboard and fridge always seem to magically be full in the morning, no matter how many times she gets up from bed in the middle of the night.
That she even still gets up without waking me to help is probably a sign I'm not being doting enough. She needs the feeding bag slipped over her head, she needs to let it sink in just how entitled she is to each and every single bite. I'll be so happy to see her grow rude & snappy, letting being my favorite fatty go straight to her big fat head.
Convincing her to have her interior design modified so that we always keep the next snack and another seat only an ample armful away. Not that I would mind seeing her getting up as little as possible, especially after watching how well she takes to having a mini fridge for a nightstand. Observing her evolution into grander scales of obesity purely because I put every finger I have on her livestock scale is a privilege.
Ever since it became too laborious to peek over herself, she's been lost in a world of hedonism completely relinquished from the constraints of numbers beyond the answer to 'how much more?' Her chemistry altered to reward her immensely for forgetting whole stock what true hunger is like.
Swapped out for a Neverending supply of synthetic, gnawing, homegrown greed. Enough is never enough until it manifests itself as too much on your plate, for you to ever set down again. Not that I'd ever let you get as far as putting your fork down...
