She opens another tub of ice cream, the combination of excitement, the coldness and a sugar rush making her hands quiver. Clumsily, she spoons multiple scoops into her bowl, already streaked with previous portions, blobs of cream, chocolate and fudge sauce smeared on the edges. In a stroke of what she considers genius, she reaches above her, with some effort, into the cupboard, feeling around for the packet of chocolate digestives she left in there. Her pudgy hands making contact with it, she pulls it out, giggling to herself softly. Ripping the packaging open, she grabs a hefty handful of the biscuits, crushing them between her doughy palms, crumbling the remains over her ice cream, licking the crumbs and melted chocolate off of them once she's satisfied with the mountain she's built.
Waddling the few steps from her kitchen to her living room, she throws herself onto her sofa, ignoring the crack and creak of the long-suffering frame beneath her, and settles back in to her favourite position: horizontal, on her back, her belly rising and falling softly, her view of her lower half a distant memory. Resting her slowly melting bowl of creamy, crumbly slop on her chest, her breasts falling either side of her, she sighs, reaching awkwardly down her side to wrestle the television remote from beneath her bloated rolls, ready for another evening doing what she does best: stuffing her face.
On the coffee table, pulled close for convenience, piles of her favourite snacks. Chocolate wrappers torn and discarded carelessly. Cans of her current favourite soft drinks, all drained dry. Greasy takeaway boxes scraped clean of their contents. She's eaten particularly well today, and she can feel it. Her stomach feels dense, gurgling almost constantly, digestion trying to match the pace of her consumption. Her face sticky, remnants of past food sitting in the corners of her mouth, her tongue darting between her lips occasionally to try and lick it off.
“This will surely be my last snack tonight” she thinks to herself, knowing full well that she's lying to herself. She spoons mouthfuls of ice cream and biscuits into her mouth, dripping it down her chins as she reaches back into the bowl. She knows once she's finished this, she'll be struggling to get off the sofa once again, ready to rummage through her fridge, freezer, cupboards, for that “final snack” that will definitely fill her up. A routine well practiced, day after day, yet never mastered.
Another night, lost to gluttony, and she couldn't be happier.
