It's so funny you thought this wouldn't change you. That you could eat like this. That it wouldn't change your brain chemistry. That you're aren't biologically programmed to want this exactly.
To grow fat. To crave more.
Now everyday you're growing. You can't help it. You can't turn it off. You can eat so much now you don't realize with every bite past your lips that you're only making room for more, increasing your capacity for gluttony.
You only notice when you're outgrowing something—your clothes, furniture, a space you used to fit in comfortably—to an embarrassing degree. Or you sit back stuffed after a meal and see the mountain of empty containers, the stacks of plates and bowls ...
Suddenly, you become aware how heavy you feel, how you couldn't stop, how your stomach pushes out more than you last remember, maybe you've spiraled more than you think, you have been accidentally stuffing yourself multiples times a week lately because you need to be full these days to be satisfied and normal meals don't cut it anymore, but who cares because eating just feels so good, and are those new stretchmarks?
You're aching and tender and sensitive, exploring and touching your body to these thoughts. You don't even know when you started doing that, it's so automatic at this point. Squeezing, hefting, gasping, belching, whimpering, moaning.
You're definitely bigger, softer. There's more to heft and grab—it's so addictive, the sensation rubbing and playing with your belly, of jiggling with every move. The way it's all your fault. There's no one to blame but you, your appetite, and your desire that's gotten you here.
... and it only makes you wetter for dessert.
You thought greed could never control you. That it couldn't trap you in a cycle that you were so sure you could leave whenever you were done, once you thought you had your fun with your feedist tendencies and be ready to leave them behind.
Look at you now, huh, fatty?
When did you realize you would never get away?
