And when I’m weighing over 700 pounds and blimped out on the sofa most of the time, I wonder what will collapse on me first? The overburdened reinforced couch or my lard ladened legs. I’m packed into a tight sweat suit, never remembering the number of xx’s there are to my clothes. My feeder keeps track of that stuff. After all, it’s his job to keep me getting bigger and bigger. I think with this new diet plan I’ll soon be upgrading to a bariatric bed. I think my chins would look good at that angle? I’m excited to see myself filling out the bed, testing man’s craftman shift against my massive bulk. I don’t really like moving that much anymore now, I can’t imagine what it will be like in a few more pounds. I can’t stop myself from constantly consuming. I binge thousands of calories in the morning, nap, wake up around noon and gorge myself again. I take an afternoon nap. Then I wake up in the late evening to have an enormous dinner and then a before time snack. I am completely addicted. I sealed my fat a few hundred pounds ago.
Time passes by. I keep eating and eating. I have so many people telling me that I look better and better the wider I get. I remember the days when I used to struggle to fit through single doorways often getting wedged in there that you would have to massage my extra soft fat rolls through the too small frame. I can’t wait until the day my arms will be too enormous to lift food up to my inflated face. I don’t know if my cheeks will be able to store anymore fat. My feeder hooks me up to a tube so that I can be constantly pumped full of calories to keep my figure expanding. I don’t know how big I’m going to get before my organs finally give out or will I actually explode? I love how my feeder will massage all my stretchmarks with oil. Just keep encouraging me to forever be swelling fatter. I want to be known as one of the most greediest fatties in history.