An Ode to Donuts

I feel like I start every post by apologizing for not having written in so long! I really need to be better about updating my blog…

I’ve had a CRAZY few months though, which is part of why I haven’t been writing. The most important update: I MOVED OUT OF MY PARENTS’ HOUSE! Yes, I’m *finally* back on my own. And you know what that means: I get to eat, and eat, and eat, whatever and whenever I want. And you know what *that* means: my belly will jiggle and my thighs will wiggle and my double chin will wobble with every fattening calorie I stuff into my growing body.

SO I thought I would celebrate with something I’ve been wanting to write for a while. This is my ode to my one true love, DONUTS.

(Okay, so it’s not technically an ode, because it’s not written in verse—but you don’t care, right?!)


I feel that first subtle groan deep in my bones and I know that tonight I will satisfy my craving. I will feed my desires. I will give in to my lust.

I will eat donuts.

Though it is calorically dense, the box itself is light. I break easily the small piece of tape that holds it closed and open the lid to reveal a rainbow of sugary delight: the deep, dark chocolate of the frosted and Boston creme, the pasty white of the vanilla, the glisten of the glazed, the promise of powdery happiness of the jelly. The hundreds of sprinkles that top the frosted donuts become reminders of the hundreds of calories contained within, each individual sprinkle simultaneously standing in for and adding to the total number of enticing calories. I lift the lid cautiously, careful not to rush and spoil my excitement, my hands shaking with the tumult of desire. I’m assaulted by the scent of the treats, a rich combination of fried flour, sugar, and frosting, the smell of happiness, fulfillment, and contentment. I tease myself, denying myself that first bite, and my mouth waters, my belly swells with longing, my spine tightens, my thighs quiver with un-satiated lust.

I run my fingers along the smooth edges of the Boston creme, the rocky bumps of the frosteds, the rough powders of the jelly. I pick up a donut, hold it, caress it, as you might hold a precious and delicate gift from a loved one. For these are precious and delicate gifts, gifts from me to my own fat. To show its appreciation, my fat will jiggle more furiously and my cellulite will dimple more deeply, and that tightly wound knot in the base of my spine that demands I eat and longs only to watch my fat pile upon itself will momentarily loose its grip, before tightening once again.

I take the first bite of the first chocolate frosted. The frosting melts on my tongue as the soft pastry dissolves into a chewy mouthful of fattening sweetness. I linger over each bite, chewing slowly and then quickly, letting the calories sate my desire before my desire swells anew. Before I even fully realize what is happening the chocolate frosted is gone.

Quickly, mindlessly, out of that powerful combination of desire, lust, and necessity, I pick up the glazed. It is softer than the chocolate, and the glaze, both cloudy and clear, tastes almost viscous; it melts so immediately upon entering my mouth it tastes liquidy, like the sugar has turned into a caloric solution that my fatness will absorb. In five massive, quaking bites the glazed has disappeared. Though I have four donuts still looking up at me, I’m greedy, and I lick the frosting from my fingers.

I dip next into the vanilla. Texturally it’s similar to the chocolate, though the frosting lends a certain brightness to each bite. The vanilla is a reminder of the birthday cakes that I consumed so often at parties as a child, with lust-that-I-didn’t-yet-know-was-lust. I’m reminded of those birthdays when, as young girls, we were allowed (if not quite encouraged) to eat just a little too much, to stuff just beyond the point of being comfortable, to consume more calories than even our over-active little bodies were capable of burning, in celebration of this one’s or that one’s day of birth. I’m reminded, eating this vanilla frosted donut, of the intense privacy I felt in those moments, sitting there, surrounded by friends and their families, stuffing myself with the happiness of a perfectly baked cake. Even as a thin young girl, and even before I could identify the deeply lodged feeling as lust or desire, I knew that foods rich with calories, food that were monitored to prevent over-consumption, foods that offered little in the way of necessary nutrients and seemed to exist for sake of pure hedonism, I knew that these foods held a powerful sway over me. I knew that trying to resist the pull of these foods, the gentle whisper of the calories, would be fruitless; and the when the cake was finally cut, and the pieces distributed, and my tiny little teeth sank that first bite into the vanilla frosting, I was transfixed, transported to a solitary island of loving desire. Life around me faded to black, and I was alone with my first true love. I’m reminded, eating this vanilla frosted donut, of those early days of my love affair with what would become my own fatness.

My next indulgence is the Boston creme. Stuffed with thick, fattening filling, it’s heavier than the others. The first bite yields only a hint of the creamy calories inside, while the second bite offers a mouthful of the stuffing. The combination of textures makes me tremble: the frosting melts while the pastry crumbles while the two are mashed with the creme, the whole becoming more than the sum of the parts. The Boston creme is the most calorically rich of all the donuts I’ll consume tonight—it provides my fatness with 300 rich calories, and perhaps because I know that this donut will contribute most to making my thighs ripple more fully with cellulite, my love handles swell further from my waist, my belly wobble more powerfully with each step, I eat this donut more quickly than all the others.

In my haste, a gooey assemblage of creme gushes out of the donut and spreads quickly over my lips and chin, the excess spilling onto the top of my chest and among my fingers. I quickly lick up the mess, sure to get every last sticky drop.

I feel my belly beginning to tighten with the thousand-plus calories I’ve so easily consumed, and I feel the sticky residue of the creme on my chest and fingers reminding me of what a gluttonous greedy fat little pig I am, and I feel myself starting to get wet. I clench my thighs, feeling the fat that hangs from each leg squeeze softly together, and my spine shivers. I continue licking the donut-sweetened fingers of my left hand and allow my right hand to creep downwards towards my thighs. I grab a thick handful of the cellulite that lines my inner thigh and jiggle it harshly; picking up the second of my two chocolate frosted donuts, I let my fingers creep from thighs to peach, and I enter myself just as I take another breathless bite of donut. I massage gently as I chew, and as I take another bite allow myself to slip just a bit further inside. I feel my fat belly getting ready to groan, begging me to slow down just for a moment, pleading with me to take just a quick break from my stuffing, and my heart skips a beat with lusty desire: the fuller I get, and the fatter I feel, and the more consumed I become by my own gluttony, the more deeply aroused I become. As my fifth donut disappears into my massive body, I feel my fingers beginning to drip with my own sex.

I’ve saved my favorite donut for last: the powdery jelly, stuffed with cold, sugary, thick, glutinous jelly. I move to my bed and prop myself against my headboard, letting my jiggly belly flop on to my thighs. I hold my donut in one hand, feeling myself turned on by the messy sugar that spills onto the sheets, evidence of my uncontrollable gluttony—I’m so fat and so greedy and so fully consumed with become fatter that I can’t even prevent the powder of the donut from spilling onto my bed. I’ve allowed my fatness to consume not just my body, but my living space as well.

In my other hand I have one of my small, vibrating toys. I twist it on and it shakes rigorously in my hand. I move the toy downwards and the vibration makes my fat ripple. The vibration moves from inner thigh to outer and then dips inside me, circling flirtatiously my sensitive clit. My tongue climaxes first: the sugar coating of the donut is almost crunchy, and the jelly oozes through my second bite. Chunks of sugar break off the donut and scatter over my body and my bed. My next bite releases a larger-than-expected wave of jelly, which, like the sugar, drips onto my chest and the top of my belly. I want to lick it up but can’t—I’m paralyzed with sugary, caloric, vibrating desire. I chew for longer than usual, allowing the sugars to melt together on my tongue, and giving my toy just a little longer, just a little longer, just. A little. Longer…

I quickly stuff the last massive bite of donut into my greedy little mouth just as I feel the vibrations shuddering most forcefully. My heavy breath pulses with each throbbing beat of my heart and I drop my toy onto my bed; the vibrations continue to ripple through my cellulite even as I squeeze my fat thighs tightly, tightly, together. My right hand, now free of the vibrator, grabs a handful of fat from the bottom part of my belly which I continue to jiggle as I allow my orgasm to finish. When it’s over I lie nearly breathless, hot, sweaty in my bed, my thighs wet, my chest heaving up and down, licking the remaining sugars from my fingers, all six donuts consumed, packed tightly and safely into my fat body.

I love eating donuts, and I can’t wait to do it again ❤


A Fatter Fatfeast

It feels SO GOOD to indulge my fat: to taste the sweet sugary promise of the raspberry danish, to feel the taco’s greasy exultation, the let my tongue bath in the glory of the cheesy, fattening Doritos chips, to cool my throat with sugary caloric soda, knowing all the while that all of these indulgences, all of these extravagant delights will only make my body swell with even more sensuous fat.

As you know if you follow my blog, I haven’t posted in a long time. I won’t bore you with what’s been going on. In many ways nothing much has changed—I’m still living at home, my fat fantasies are still restricted by my overbearing (and “health conscious”) Mother, and my opportunities to spoil my fat belly are few and far between. Often I’m restricted to the occasional donut or six on the way to work, which my mother (unbeknownst to her) quickly combats with a heavy serving of broccoli. (I can’t help but feel the calories I consume in the privacy of my car, the jelly and glazed and Boston creme donuts, bastions of calories and saviors of sugars that they are, are somehow counterbalanced by Mother’s dreadfully healthy sauteed spinach, blanched beets, and crispy roasted carrots. WHY, when my body desires nothing more than to get as fat as possible, to feel the calories consume inside me and colonize my entire being, have I had to contend with the menacing force that is Mother?? I swear I would be near twice my size if not for Mother’s neurotic obsession with my body, and her overwhelming fear of fatness.)

So my fat struggles on, content with minor binges and sugary splurges, taking pride only in the impressive cellulitic jiggle that infects my thighs with every step and the gentle wobble of my belly as I weave myself into my shirt in the mornings, knowing only that one day, perhaps, soon, perhaps, the cellulite on my thighs will thicken, my belly will drop further over my waistline, and the waddle of my gait will slow as I consume, consume, consume, pump myself full of caloric fat.

I was supposed recently to have had an opportunity to stuff myself with fattening treats for an entire weekend. The plan was that Parents were to leave for a short “retreat” somewhere scenic in some generic upstate part of some generic Northeast State with the idea that the short trip would be a refreshing way to usher in the summer. Mother and Father bounced the idea around; I kept quiet so as not to show my hand—musn’t let Mother suspect that my fat looongs for them to leave, to leave me alone. The week of and still no definite plans, until Tuesday night, when I casually brought the topic up.

“So, what are you guys thinking?” I queried, eyeing the zucchini squash Mother had spiralized into noodles that twirled around my fork, careful not to make eye contact nor to sound too invested.

“I think we’re going,” Mother said as she cast an excited-looking glance at Father. If she was a teenager, you might have said she was gushing, except that 60-something women who have been married for 30+ years no longer gush at bae, the toils of marriage and child-rearing having worn down anything that might once have resembled passion. Father didn’t bother to look at her—an outside observer might have assumed he wasn’t directly involved in the conversation and was occupied instead with that thing from work earlier, or The Game he would watch later.

“I was looking at B and Bs today,” Mother continued, subdued only slightly by Father’s indifference, “and it looks like we’ll be able to take the time from work. I’m excited about it!”

My heart was nearly in my throat, and my spine tightened. I could hardly breathe. I felt my lungs pleading for a deep inhalation of air as I tried to compose myself. If they left—Friday morning was the plan, not to return until Sunday—I would have nearly three days ALONE. That would be three days of fattening meals, three days of lounging lazily around the house doing nothing but eating, three days of donuts for breakfast, cheeseburgers and fries and milkshakes for lunch, and pizzas for dinner, supplemented by chips and cookies and cakes and sodas. Still not making eye contact, I stuffed a too-big bite of zucchini noodles in my mouth, imagining and almost believing they real, honest-to-goodness crazy carb loaded *actual* pasta noodles lathered with cheesy and oily pesto. Please, I thought, let them go!

“That might be nice!” I cautioned. Shoot. Was I too excited?

“I think so!” Mother quipped, casting another glance at Father. Seeming to realize he was being included in these plans, Father smiled and sported, if briefly, an expression that to an attentive viewer such as myself suggested he might actually be excited, too, to venture Upstate with Mother. They hadn’t noticed my own excitement, my own longing, my own desire for their departure. The weekend couldn’t come soon enough.

The plans were still tentative, though. They would have to see, Father said, about work: it was possible he would have a busy weekend, and it was possible something would come up that would prohibit their leaving. He seemed optimistic, though, and Mother’s genuine excitement seemed enough to convince him that this weekend must be cleared for their little trip. Father announced that he wouldn’t know until after work on Thursday whether he would be able to skip Friday.

I couldn’t focus all day at work Thursday. I mapped in my head the routes I would take from foodplace to foodplace: the grocery store first, then McDonalds, then Dunkin Donuts? Or DD first, for breakfast, then to the grocery store for treats, and then to McDonald’s for lunch, and takeout pizza for dinner? Should I stop at the grocery store tonight, Thursday, so I wouldn’t have to go back out Friday, so I wouldn’t even have to waste the 15 or 20 minutes waddling the aisles, so I could stay plumply plopped on my couch, a donut in this hand and a milkshake in that?

I got home Thursday evening and had the house briefly to myself. My excitement was overwhelming: having done almost no work all day, I was now free to plot more methodically. I opened up a blank document on my computer and made several different versions of an eating schedule, all designed to maximize the calories I would consume. The most caloric breakfast sandwich (sausage, egg, cheese on croissant: 700 calories) and most caloric sugary sweet coffee drink (Dunkin Donuts frozen coffee, medium, 630 calories), plus a few donuts, for breakfast; a massive burger and large fries and large milkshake for lunch; a whole pizza, if I had room, for dinner. I planned out different versions of different meals: should I have burgers for dinner Friday or for lunch Saturday? Which donuts would go best with pepperoni pizza? If I ate a jar of cashews, I could add an easy 1,500 calories to Saturday; a homemade milkshake with a small thing of heavy cream could supplement Friday’s caloric intake, easily pushing dinner alone upwards of 5,000 calories and 200 grams of fat. The goal, I decided, would be 20,000 calories in about 36 hours: because I had to work Friday, I would have Friday evening, all day Saturday, and Sunday morning, before Mother and Father returned, to stuff myself.

Mother got home, and then Father. And then the unthinkable happened: Father laid his briefcase against the wall and stepped out of the mini-mudroom-thing which opens into our family room without slipping out of his shoes, a melodramatic gesture intended to preface the disappointing announcement he was about to make. Sure enough:

“Honey, we have a problem,” he said, casting his voice outwards towards Mother. “I can’t get off tomorrow. Something’s come up. We’ll have to go another weekend.”

Mother was disappointed. She did one of those little half smiles, the kind that are meant to convey that you’re okay but suggest just the opposite, the kind of smile you can only make when what you really want to do is frown and pout, the kind of smile that adults have mastered because they know that they can no longer pout and cry in public. “It’s okay,” she told him, but I could tell it wasn’t.

Later on that evening, I heard her on the phone with her Friend, telling Friend how frustrated she was, that couldn’t Father have put off this work thing until next week? that it was almost like He didn’t even want to go, almost like he didn’t want to see her. I heard her say, with her characteristic flair for the dramatic, that she was going to stop trying to plan nice things for them, that if He wanted to do something, He would have to plan it himself.

My heart dropped almost, it felt, to my waist. I was nearly sick. I wouldn’t be stuffing myself fat this weekend. I would have to suffer through a merely normal weekend, devoid of donuts and cheeseburgers and cake. I would have to subsist on a normal amount of calories, or less, even, since I would probably eat at least one meal with Mother, who would be sure to limit the amount of calories I consumed.

The thought was unbearable. My fat mourned: it was as if the cellulite that populates my butt and thighs was trembling with tears; as if the fat rolls piling upon each other on my back were shivering; as if my chubby double chin was retreating, shy and ashamed, into a quiet, lonely place. It was as if the fat that encompasses my body, the fat that longs to expand forever, the fat that desires nothing but the most complete conquest of my frame, the fat that craves calories and demands donuts, the fat that rules my life, the fat to which I am slave, saw itself, but briefly, as a vain and ridiculous figure. It was almost as if my fat was ashamed that it had allowed itself to get so excited for its weekend fatfeast.

THANK. THE FRICKEN. LORD: I survived the weekend, and Monday morning, at work, after I spent the weekend eating relatively healthy foods prepared by Mother, something came up at work. I would be travelling midweek, they said. I should book an AirBnB, they said. I would be gone Wednesday morning until Saturday night.

I would get my fatfest after all, only a few days late! I would be able to stuff my fat body, to consume as many calories as was humanly possible, to feel my belly jiggle massively as I slammed my face with fattening treats, to allow my fat rolls to spill out everywhere, intent upon nothing but filling up an entire room! I would be a slave to my fat, I knew the minute they said I would have to go. I would give in to all my most excessive, destructive, and gluttonous desires. I would feed myself all day, everyday, from Wednesday until Saturday; I would eat and eat and eat, more and more and more and more, for every hour until I could no longer move, and then immediately upon moving, I would reach, fat and lazy, only for more food.

(I would have to work, too, of course, that being part of why Work sends people Away; this, so far, has proved only a minor inconvenience. My fat has found plenty of time, hours and hours and hours, to attempt to satisfy its most unsatisfi-able desires.

The fatfeast began with yesterday’s lunch, immediately upon getting off the plane: a massive, greasy, cheesy, cheeseburger, an immense portion of fries, and a large Coke. It was so nice out that I ate outside, near a farmer’s market that was being hosted in the center of a financial-looking building in the City to where I was dispatched. It occurred to me, sitting there, stuffing my fat fatter fattest body full with a fattening lunch, that here were people who aspired to be thin and healthy, these customers of the farmer’s market: these were people buying cucumbers and lettuce and tomatoes, who would make a refreshing salad for dinner, who would spend the rest of the day avoiding excessive calories, who might go to the gym in the morning to burn off any calories that sneaked—oops!—past their restrictive diets. And here I was, right near these people, allowing my fat belly to grow fatteningly over my thighs, stuffing my fat face with a fattening cheeseburger. I momentarily wished that I could be a depository for the all the calories they worked so diligently to avoid: that every time they refused an office donut, or a lunchtime soda, or an extra little treat after dinner, that those wasted calories would manifest immediately upon my own growing frame. I prayed to some power unknown that every calorie they burned at the gym would become mine, that those lost little calories floating off their thin and thinning frames would find its home in my growing belly.

The fatfeast continued at dinner. I stopped by the grocery stores and bought a frozen pizza, a raspberry danish tray, a box of frosted sugar cookies, a large bag of Doritos, a pint of ice cream, a 2 liter of soda, and a small carton of whole milk. I gorged: my desires were so strong that the grease of the pizza spilled out of my mouth as I nearly drooled, approaching something like satisfaction, as I was basking, finally, the fat life, the fat glory, that I had so hopelessly craved. The raspberry jam and frosting of the danish made me quiver; the cookies filled my growing belly with sugars innumerable. The crunchy Doritos, providing a contrast to my sugary goodness, made me nearly gasp. The soda and fat-filled milk padded my swelling belly—I could feel myself, after nearly half a pizza, nearly half a bag of Doritos, three huge cookies, and nearly half a tray of raspberry danish, approaching Food Coma mode. I rubbed my swelling belly vigorously, intent on making more room for more food so I could grow ever fatter. I jiggled my fat thighs, urging the armada of calories to venture from my belly downward, to clear room in my belly, so I could send in another army, another massive grouping of foods and treats and calories, so that more and more and more fat would hang (forever!) off my body. It seemed, for a moment, to work: I forced another bite of sensuous, soft, danish: the pastry gave in to the powers of my teeth, and the frosting molded to the force of my tongue; the calories obeyed, venturing down into my fat belly, urging the stray lingering calories to collect in the rolls on my back, or on my bulging hips, or in my expanding ankles (are they cankles???). I had room only for half a pint of ice cream. I let it melt just slightly, just to the point of being orgasmic. And then I ate, and ate, and ate, feeling the calories dripping down my throat as I gulped hopelessly at the ice cream, nearly breathless with the thought of the calories expanding to any and every area of my growing fat body, forcing themselves into any area that needed a little extra caloric fat expansion.

I was stuffed. I could hardly move. I tried, unsuccessfully, to force another bite. I settled for a large swig of milk and headed to bed.

Today was more of the same: after work’s morning meetings, I promptly found a local donut shop for a lemon curd, jelly, and maple bacon donut. As I write this, I’m stuffing my fat body with tacos and Doritos, and the rest of last night’s leftovers: the danish, the cookies, the soda, the milk. I’ve finished them all but the cookies. I swear I can feel myself gaining weight, even since yesterday; I can feel my fat swelling more ferociously off my frame; I can feel myself giving in more completely to a desire that can never be fulfilled, to a desire to grow fatter and fatter; I can feel myself becoming more completely a slave to the demands that my fat makes of me; when I think, briefly, that perhaps I don’t need to stuff myself every single day while I’m away, I can feel the anger of my fat, and I can feel its pull, and I know that I am hopelessly lost: I know that I must stuff myself fat; I know that I have no say; I know that I am given over completely to the fat that desires only more fat. I know that my fat will never be satisfied. I can feel myself approaching 350 pounds, and I can feel my fat longing, pleading, crying for 400; I can feel myself approaching 400, and then 450, and I can feel the rolls of fat that hang ever heavier off my fat body craving 500, and 550, and 600. I know that my fat will never be satisfied being fat; it craves only to be fatter.

No matter the consequence, I know that I have no choice but to give in to the demands my fat makes of me. And so I eat, now, as I type this, more danish, and more cookies, and more ice cream, and I know that tomorrow, whatever plans I make, I will repeat: I will stuff my face with as many fattening and caloric treats I can find, giving in only to the false promise that more fat will satisfy my fat, knowing that my fat will only and forever demand more fat.


FINALLY, the holidays are over. Wow.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. I love the lights, the music, the trees, the ice-skating and the hot chocolate. I love giving presents (and getting presents!). I love, LOVE the food (especially the desserts!). I even love seeing family (though I’ll admit, it’s always better in theory than in practice).

But man, I’m glad it’s all over.

Let me start with the family. So I do, for the most part, like seeing family, especially the family we don’t see often: the aunts and uncles, the cousins, the new little baby members that have joined us in the past few years. I do, I really do, like seeing them.

But I also REALLY like when they leave. Surely, the best part about seeing your family is seeing them leave.

So we had a bunch of people staying with us. It turned out that the wild old Uncle (you know the one…) planned a little vacation with us. We were not informed of Uncle’s decision until Christmas eve, two days after he arrived at our house. We assumed, as one would, that Uncle would be staying for Christmas, like, you know, the way normal people do. Uncle had different ideas. Uncle though it might be fun to stay through New Year’s. So okay, he’s old, we get it: he wants to stay for New Years, see his family, spend a little more time with people who care about him, get a few free meals out of the deal.

Today is January 14. Uncle left us two days ago, January 12. That means Uncle was with us for 22 days, 21 and a half if you count the 22 of December, the day he arrived, as a half day (and I’m counting the 12 of January as a whole day, because it was a project and a half getting Uncle out). So let’s say 21 1/2 days; that’s 264 hours if you count the hours he spent sleeping. (Uncle snores, so I’m counting those hours.) 264 hours is 15,840 minutes, which is 950,400 seconds.

Nearly 1,000,000 seconds. That sounds about right. See, when Uncle comes to visit, and when Uncle stays for as long as he did, you really can’t overstate how looooong the time feels, and how slowly it passes. So when you look back over the past several weeks of your life and you realize that Uncle was only with you for 22 days, you start to think, “gee, 22 days isn’t that long.” So you have to find a way to make that number bigger. And when you think, man, uncle was with us for 1 million seconds, then you start to feel like yes, this is correct, this is how it feels to have Uncle stay with you for a long period of time. One second is not a long time, but 1 million seconds is a long fucking time. If you don’t believe me, just count to 1 million, 1 second at a time. Once you have finished, once you have reached 1 million (you can stop at 950,000, if you insist), then you will know how it feels to have Uncle stay with you.

Don’t get me wrong, Uncle is not a bad person. He’s old, he’s pretty lonely, and he means well. (Is saying that someone “means well” the most insulting thing you can say about a person without scoring hell-points?) Uncle is just… well… quirky?

For example, here’s the conversation between Uncle and me on December 22:

Me: Hi Uncle! So good to see you!

Uncle: How did you get so fat? Did your boyfriend dump you?

Me: (blushes and chuckles nervously) Let me take your coat Uncle.

Uncle is not actually my Uncle; he’s my dad’s uncle, my grandmother’s younger brother. Uncle, we came to find out, stopped eating meat years ago, and so refused to eat most of the meal that we had planned for Christmas dinner. The funny thing about Uncle not eating meat is that, first of all, he didn’t tell us he didn’t eat meat until we had sat down at the table for Christmas Eve dinner when Father brought out the ham (we had pizza the 22nd and ate out on the 23rd, so I guess if I’m being charitable to Uncle, the topic didn’t really come up); and the other thing that’s funny about Uncle’s vegetarianism is that he was definitely, definitely not a vegetarian when he stayed with us for Christmas last year. So when Uncle claimed that he hadn’t eaten meat in years, my little brother’s inclination was to pull up the family photo, taken around the dinner table, which clearly shows on Uncle’s plate a large piece of roast beef. Uncle isn’t looking at the camera, so perhaps he didn’t know he was being caught in the act, and when he concocted the lie that he didn’t eat meat, he was unaware that Little Brother would be able to counter this claim with fool-proof photographic evidence. Needless to say, Cousin and I were able to convince Little Brother that photographic evidence or no, Uncle would insist that it has been years since he’s eaten meat. My mother’s theory is that if Uncle believes he hasn’t eaten meat in years, and if he tells us he hasn’t eaten meat in years, that then he can blame us (read: Mother) for not remembering that Uncle doesn’t eat meat.

This, in turns out, was only the beginning; Uncle’s declaration of vegetarianism occurred roughly 40 minutes before he decided he might make a little vacation out of his Christmas visit. Little Brother actually, literally laughed out loud when Uncle said he thought he might stay through the New Year. (Little Brother, you might know, doesn’t live in the same house as Parents, and so would not have to live in the same house as Uncle; this might explain why he found laughing an appropriate response. Mother’s response was to spit half-chewed food out of her mouth onto, mostly, her plate; Father’s response was to take a long slow sip of beer from his frosty mug; my response was to gape, slack-jawed and with furrowed brow, at Uncle, the kind of look you might cast upon someone who has just turned their head around 360 degrees Exorcist-style. Even the cat, it seemed, responded with a mixture of fury and confusion; shortly after Uncle invited himself to stay with us, Kitty peed on the floor in the dining room.)

I won’t bore you with all the details of Uncle’s stay. Here are some highlights: Uncle sat me down to talk about weight gain and how men are not attracted to fat girls; Uncle posted publicly to my Facebook a diet plan for “young obese girls,” which was probably what he searched in Google; Uncle told Mother that her cooking was probably the reason I’ve gained so much weight, because I would rather eat McDonald’s and Burger King than what she feeds us (and the most surprising thing about this comment was that it started as a compliment: Uncle mentioned that the green beans were excellent, and that the celery in the stuffing was a nice touch, and that, by the way, the salad isn’t great, and that you know where has really decent salads is Wendy’s, and that has Mother ever put strawberries in her salads? No? Well, Mother could learn a thing or two from Wendy’s, because their salads have strawberries in them, and that perhaps Fat Daughter has been to Wendy’s recently, maybe a few too many times, and perhaps this is because Mother’s salad is lackluster, although, Uncle paused to consider, Fat Daughter surely isn’t getting strawberry salads at Wendy’s; perhaps she’s eating too much fast food because she doesn’t like the cooking at home?) Mother ended the conversation by standing up and walking out of the room. Father intervened, pointing out to Uncle that this was an incredibly insulting thing to say; Uncle is the type of person who always seems surprised that his insults have actually been insulting to other people. He insisted that he was not trying to be offensive, he was just trying to get to the bottom of why I’m so fat. Like mother like daughter: I ended the conversation by getting up and walking out of the room. Father and Little Brother then assaulted Uncle tag-team, Uncle, missing the point, still insisting that he meant no offense and couldn’t see what was wrong with suggesting some strawberries for a salad.

Anyway, these were some highlights. Uncle gave no presents and received many; he often suggested we go out to eat and never offered to pay; he requested Mother or I wash his sheets bi-daily, since the dust build-up in the house disrupted his sleep and the only real way to combat it was with clean sheets; Uncle never once made his bed (I made it every other day, so he would think we had cleaned the sheets; we only washed them once while he was here); Uncle asked my father everyday if they could go out for lunch and everyday my father said, No, Uncle, I’m working today. Uncle also found out, this year, that texting doesn’t cost him extra anymore, and so started texting everyone in his phone. Uncle thinks that texting is email. So Uncle would say to me, “Hey, come here, I want to send Larry an email.” When I asked if he had Larry’s email address he said yes, and gave me Larry’s phone number. When I asked if he wanted to email or to text Larry, he said “Yes.”

So perhaps you have some idea of why, when Uncle comes to stay, you number the time in seconds: nearly 1 million seconds that will never tick back the other way. So I repeat: FINALLY, the holidays are over; finally, Uncle is gone.

FINALLY, too, I can stuff myself fat. Finally, I can once again eat and eat and eat until my belly, swelling over my waistline, threatens to explode; finally, I can chug milkshakes and soda, nibble on leftover Christmas candy all day, devour my donuts with impunity. Finally, you see, I have the house to myself.

(One note about stuffing and eating during the holidays: I was able to eat a lot the past few weeks, between Thanksgiving and Christmas; we ate a lot of big meals, and I ate a lot of desserts, making sure always to get seconds. It was satisfying to be able to eat so much so publicly, knowing, deep down, that family members, especially aunts and cousins, were thinking to themselves that jeez, this must be why I’ve gained so much weight, because I eat like this. And I have to confess: I am turned on by the idea that I’m being judged for my eating and my weight. Still, though, eating in public is never as gratifying as sitting down with a box of donuts, a few breakfast sandwiches, a few bags of candy and chips, and a few pints of ice cream and knowing that you will eat eat eat, stuff stuff stuff until you can hardly move, and then eat more and stuff more. Mmm.)

After Uncle left, Mother and Father decided to head away for the weekend, leaving me, at last, alone. All week I looked forward to this, and all week I planned my feast: a Big Breakfast with Hotcakes from McDonalds; a Sausage, Egg, and Cheese Croissant from Dunkin Donuts; six donuts from DDs; a small pie from the grocery store; ice cream, candy, and chips to snack on; and hopefully some pizza for lunch. All week, I salivated; all week, I waited; at times, it was too much to handle, and I had to stop by Dunkin Donuts and stuff myself with donuts in the car, because I just couldn’t wait until Saturday, when the parents would leave, first thing in the morning.

Finally, Saturday is here. Finally, I can eat. Finally, I can be fat. Finally, I can stuff myself beyond comprehension, feel the fat rolls roll out off my body, feel my cellulite pile upon itself, feel my whole body grow more and more jiggly as the fat builds upon my frame. Finally, I can give in to my desires and give myself over the demands of my belly. Finally, I can be a slave to my belly. Finally, I can be a slave to my gluttony. Finally, I can waste my entire day, eating, lounging, resting, only to eat more and rest more and eat more and more and more. Finally, I can be hypnotized by my own fat.

It started early this morning. The parents were gone by 8; I was up at 8:30, heading out the door, ready to begin my binge. The grocery store was the first stop, and the first thing I saw when I walked in was the Christmas candy, 50% off. It wasn’t in the plan, but I couldn’t help myself: I bought four Reese’s trees and two bags of Butterfingers Bites (that are shaped to look like little pieces of coal; how fitting for a gluttonous growing fatty like me!). I picked up a bag of crunchy Cheetos, a 1.25 liter bottle of Pepsi, a quart of whole milk, a pint of vanilla ice-cream, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food, and a small peach pie. I felt the eyes of the cashier and bag boy scan my frame more than once as they rang up my groceries; surely, a girl this fat, I could feel them thinking, shouldn’t be buying ice cream and candy and pie and Cheetos and soda. This is why she’s so fat, I could feel them thinking. The bag boy seemed almost hesitant to bag my ice cream, like he felt some moral obligation to withhold such a fattening treat from such a fatty like me, like he almost wanted to intervene and show me the produce aisle, to re-shelve my candy and soda so I might begin, in this New Year, to lose the precious pounds that I have so carefully packed on over the past 10 years. (Wait—what?! TEN years?? Yes, that’s right: I started gaining weight intentionally in college, 10 years ago; I have officially been a fat girl for 10 years!)

Silently scolded by the bag boy, I waddled to my car, intent on finding more fattening, caloric foods for my growing belly. I pulled into the nearby McDonald’s for a Big Breakfast with Hotcakes, which tops the charts at a whopping 1330 calories. (The website says 1100, but the sign in the store said 1330; it was like little Christmas morning surprise, finding an extra 200+ calories where I didn’t expect them!) At Dunkin Donuts, across the street, I ordered a sausage, egg, and cheese croissant (700 calories!), half a dozen donuts (jelly, glazed, vanilla frosted, Boston Bruins [chocolate and yellow frosting], winter frosted, and coconut flurry), and a medium coffee. I got home and could barely haul my feast into the house: I had three bags from the grocery store, a big bag from McDonalds, a bag from Dunkin Donuts, plus my donuts and coffee. I almost had to make two trips, just hauling breakfast inside!

Alas, I didn’t finish it all just for breakfast. The McDonald’s Big Breakfast, though it looked easy, proved to be more than I expected. The three hotcakes were large, and smothered in butter and doused in maple syrup they were a challenge; the biscuit was more filling than I anticipated. Still, I forged through, stuffing all 1300 calories into my swelling stomach: the salty hash brown made my mouth water, the fatty sausage bubbled into my bubbly arms, the eggs padded around my hips, and the buttery biscuit, layered in more butter, built itself into the fat that surrounds my face.

While working through the breakfast, I chowed through the glazed, Bruins, and winter frosting donuts. I felt the sugar rush through my veins and settle into my body, making me softer and softer with every bite. A glass of whole milk and my coffee helped me through, and before 10 am, I had consumed a staggering 2,160 calories, 101 grams of fat, 206 carbohydrates, and 57 grams of sugar. Again that’s BEFORE 10am! I had eaten more calories than is recommended for a day, twice the amount of recommended fat, roughly the daily recommended amount of carbs, and more than twice the recommended amount of sugar. I am such a fat glutton!

That was, of course, only the beginning of the feast I had prepared. By 11:30, I had finished the croissant sandwich, the vanilla frosted donut, a Reese’s Christmas tree, plus a large glass of Pepsi. Totals for noontime: 3300 calories, 176 grams of fat, 297 carbs and 92 grams of sugar. I was completely stuffed; my belly rolled out over my waist and plopped itself on my thighs; my thighs shuffled out over the edges of my chair; my arms propped themselves against the rolls that hang off of my sides; my love handles explored the edges of my sweatpants and my shirt slipped up my bulging belly, no longer able to contain the swelling masses of fat that were protruding further and further out beyond my body. I entered, officially, the food coma: I couldn’t move. I jiggled over to my bed and fell backwards, plopping down, feeling my newly formed fat readjust itself around the pre-existing fat. I slept, at noon, trying to digest the massive feast I had consumed, the excess calories that would soon be turned into even more fat to hang off my fat body. I slept, sort of, knowing that I would wake up with more feasting in front of me.

By 4pm, I had eaten more donuts and more candy. I quickly devoured a milkshake. I ate nearly all of the peach pie. I felt my massive body swell, my belly ache from stuffing too much food into it. I salivated, knowing how the fattening treats would pile fatteningly upon my fat body. My totals, before dinner: 6175 calories, 330 grams of fat, 313 grams of sugar, and 664 carbohydrates. Now, to rest, so that tonight, finally, I might eat.


*NOTE: I wrote this post a few weeks ago, but only just got around to editing and posting. Sorry!


Infinitely Addicted

I am so fat. And I am so addicted to my fat.

Today I had the day off, and I ate a big lunch at a charity benefit: steak tips, bbq chicken, potatoes, rice, salad, bread, soda. I gorged myself in public, in front of friends and family. But it wasn’t enough; my addiction kicked in, whispering in my ear, “eat, you little fat pig, you know you want to.”

No, no, I said, not today. I can’t, today. I have too much to do. I can’t waste the whole day just eating.

My addiction, though, is a subtle beast. “You know you can’t help it,” my addiction told me. “You know that you have to eat now. You know that you can’t resist the fast food, the donuts, the milkshake. You know that you have to get fatter.”

And that was that. It was decided. I would eat, now. I stopped at McDonald’s almost instantly. A McChicken, a medium fry, a chocolate shake. Then a stop at Dunkin Donuts for a chocolate frosted, a vanilla frosted, a glazed, and a jelly. I summoned a bag of M&Ms from my backpack. I plopped myself down in front of my computer and I ate.

And I ate, and ate. The food went far too quickly—I could easily have managed another few donuts, or another chicken sandwich, or more fries, or all of those things. Still, the nutritional value of my two lunches added up: 3790 calories, 165 grams of fat, and 188 grams of sugar. And that’s not counting the sausage, egg, and cheese bagel for breakfast, or the fattening feast that is sure to come tonight.

Through it all I felt my fat body melting off of me. I watched my arms settle against my sides every time I lifted a donut to my mouth. I felt the weight that pours off my hips shift as I reached for more fries. Every time I got up to get a drink, I marveled at how my thighs rubbed together with each step, jiggling to get away from each other and yet trapped, by the fat in which they are enveloped, stuck together like identical twins struggling and yet unable to distinguish themselves one from the other. I rubbed my swelling belly with every new bite of fry, of chicken, of donut, wondering when the dangerous tide of my hunger would finally ebb. It didn’t, and it hasn’t; instead, my addiction has fully taken over.

I crave calories. I crave sugar. I crave more and more and more fat, to stuff into my mouth, to hang off my body. It is as if my mind switches off in these moments, cedes control to another commander who decides that yes, today I am going to eat as much as I possibly can. Today I am going to stuff myself. Today I am going to eat junk food, candy, McDonald’s. Today I am going to maximize my caloric intake so that my body can maximize its output of fat. Today my belly is going to flop over my waist, hang out onto my thighs, and bulge even closer towards my knees, ever closer to the floor. Today I am going to give in to my hedonistic tendencies, to please myself with fattening treats, to gorge myself with every desire. And my desire is to eat. My desire is to grow fat.

I wasn’t even planning to write this today. In fact, I’m working on another blog post, and had thought I could possibly finish that one. But my addiction took over, took control of my typing fingers, demanded instead that I confess: I cannot control myself. I have no say in the matter: I have to eat. I have to gain weight. I have to be as fat as I can possibly be.

My addiction is so complete, so total, so absolutely consuming, that I cannot fully understand the mentality of one who is not addicted as I am to my extravagant and fattening lifestyle. I know that not everyone craves sugar the way I do—that much is obvious, because the average person, male or female, is half my size, even one third of my size. I know that most people would be mortified to wake up one day and look in the mirror and see my body, with my love handles parked permanently at their sides, with my hips bulging out over the underwear that can’t fully contain me, with my belly jiggling as I put my weight first on this foot, then that. Most people would be ashamed of themselves if their bodies looked like mine. The only thing that I am ashamed of is that I’m not even fatter. I am ashamed that my belly doesn’t swing even lower, down near my knees, when I stand up. I am ashamed that the padding on my arms hasn’t limited their range of motion. I am ashamed that by butt doesn’t spread even wider out off the ends of my chair. I am ashamed that my double chin doesn’t drop lower down off my chubby little cheeks. I am ashamed, when I see my fat-but-not-fat-enough body in the mirror, but I am also motivated. I am motivated to eat. I am motivated to gain. I am motivated to grow.

I know, in a theoretical way, that this is not what most people feel. I know, in a theoretical way, that most people are genuinely attracted to thinness. I know that most people feel a genuine desire to lose extra weight, to be more fit, to be more toned, to have bodies that are hard, that don’t jiggle with every step. I know, in a theoretical way, that most people don’t want their gait to be characterized as a waddle.

Perhaps I know this because this is what I am attracted to, in my partners: I want a man with a body that is hard. I want a man with muscles. I don’t want my man jiggly or soft. Perhaps I want these things mostly for the comparison. I want a man with a body so hard so that I feel that much softer, that much fatter, that much more jiggly by comparison. I want a man with tight abs and solid arms so I can feel my massive belly press up against him, when our torsos grapple with each other, and I can feel how squishy and soft I am.

So I know, in a theoretical way, that fit, lean, small, hard is what most people desire. I know, too, also in a theoretical way, that a lot of people love treats, and a lot of people struggle with their desire to eat treats. I don’t think, however, that most people feel the uncontrollable longing, the rage of addiction that swells up within me at the thought of a donut, a french fry, a milkshake. I don’t think that most people, when they feel a craving, gorge themselves to the point of exhaustion with two lunches totalling almost 4,000 calories. And I certainly don’t think that most people, when their snacking is all said and done, feel only a satisfactory craving to do it all over again.

I know, in a theoretical way, that most people don’t feel a longing deep within their souls to be as fat as possible, and they don’t heed the powerfully destructive voice that demands they attain that longing. And yet, because my addiction is so consuming, because I am so completely in the thralls of my cravings, I cannot fully believe—I cannot fully understand—how other people can live their lives not feeling what I am feeling. I know, in a theoretical way, that not everyone craves a massively and grotesquely obese body. And yet, because my desire is forceful, because my desire dictates so much of my life, because I so badly crave more milkshakes to make my fat belly even fatter, I cannot fully relate to those who don’t experience these cravings. The milkshake sends such shivers down my spine—all I can think of are the extra calories that are being stuffed into my body and making me just that much fatter—that I cannot, in truth, believe that others don’t, won’t, or can’t feel the same satisfaction. When the milkshake hits my tongue I feel the way young lovers feel when they believe, however passingly, that perhaps they have truly found love: I feel almost like infinity, when the milkshake first hits my lips, passes through my mouth, glides over my tongue. The sugary chocolate, with its calorie-laced promise that more fat will finally make me happy, casts a spell over my taste buds and hypnotizes my mind, body, and soul. And then, as the sip finishes, I pass from infinity back, haltingly, to now; I transition, in a flash, from the young lovers who believe their two lives have become one to the jaded old married couple, realizing, finally, that their love has ended and they must now part—it is not so much that I am ripped, as my sip finishes, from my only true love, but that I realize that this wasn’t the lover I thought it was. I am not jaded, however, because the next sip promises to match me with my love yet again: the cold touch of chocolate against my lips transports me back once again to a young and flowery hopeful, trusting, again, that this sip will be different, and then I am yanked, once again, breathless, from the lover-that-wasn’t. The cycle is so vicious, so intense, so painstaking and yet so thrilling, that I cannot fully believe that others, too, don’t feel the crippling desires I feel as I cram my body with sugary, fattening treats. I long for more, more, more: more donuts, more french fries, more cheeseburgers and sandwiches, more ice cream, more pie, more M&Ms, more Reese’s, more candy, more mac and cheese, more pasta and pizza and cupcakes and muffins and mashed potatoes and sugar and calories and fat, more milkshakes milkshakes milkshakes, to fatten me so fat that my fat will fall fatteningly off my body, and I, myself, will be enveloped into a pile of fat and then, once I have become nothing, finally, but fat, I will eat and eat and eat until my fat spills endlessly out beyond myself, and I am no longer just myself but I am you, too, I am the world, because my fat has no end and my fat, like god himself, is the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, and once I have become infinitely fat, once my cellulitic fat rolls hang infinitely off my body, once my massive fat jiggles so intensely that time is measured not by the setting of the sun but my the passing of one of my rippling fat waves—once I have become so fat that I have become time itself—then I will drink more and more and more milkshakes, until the end of all time.

What I need, then, is an infinitely large milkshake, so that, when the half-frozen collection of caloric chocolate touches my lips, that flash of true love that swells from the bottom of my spine straight up to the deepest reaches of my brain can stay, forever, infinite.

Meet the Parents

So. Wow. I haven’t written in *so long*. There is wayyyy too much to say, I can’t possibly update you with everything that’s been going on. So I’ll stick to the most important stuff.

I recently had to move home. As in, with my parents.

I was having some issues with my apartment and, more seriously, with my landlord. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to find a new place — rent has gone up dramatically in the last few years — and I had to resort to moving home. It was supposed to be very temporary, but I’ve been here now since mid-April.

It is torture.

Well, okay, I’m being dramatic. There are some nice things about it: I’ve gotten to spend some quality time with my parents, especially my dad. He’s amazing, and it’s always great seeing him. I feel like we’ve been more family-ish than we’ve been in a long time, having meals together, watching shows together, even going to the movies together. My younger brother, usually absent from family adventures, has even tagged along here and there. Maybe the best part? I get to play regularly with my cats.

But let me tell you: it has not been good for my waistline.

I’ve mentioned in the past that my mother has, for the most part, been mortified by my weight gain. We used to run and go to the gym together; now I get out of breath just thinking about the gym, and the only place I’m running is to the donut shop. Ha! It’s almost as if my mother treats my weight as one of her own personal failures. Or, probably more accurately, she fears that my weight will somehow infect her, as if it might be contagious, that if I eat too much, the extra calories might somehow transmogrify into her own excess cellulite. Probably, too, she fears what people will say about her. “Have you seen so-and-so’s daughter? Yeah, she gained a lot of weight in college. Yes, she’s very fat now. No, we don’t know why. I’m sure they’re trying all sorts of diets.” These types of comments, real or imagined, would be a little miniature version of hell incarnate, for my mother.

So she exacts her revenge: we eat spinach salads with strawberries and grilled chicken for dinner, and my piece of chicken is markedly smaller even than hers. Dessert is mostly watermelon. A few weeks ago we had rice pudding, the most indulgent dessert to date, and my portion was enough to feed a large caterpillar. She prepared carbs this week for the first time since June, when she made her famous baked ziti for a dinner party, the same baked ziti she’s been making for dinner parties since at least the mid 90s. I imagine this time she regretted having to make baked ziti, because she regretted that the carbs she was preparing would collect on my hips, and each of my wobbling steps would remind her that she has contributed to making me into the fat monster I am.

Of course, all this measured eating has meant that I have lost some weight recently. Not a significant amount, probably about 15 pounds. I had been up  to about 315-320 after the holidays, in late February, and I’m now back to around 300. I know this with some certainty because not long after I moved home, into the very bedroom in which I used to stuff my pre-teen self with candy, a scale appeared underneath my dresser. I did not ask for a scale, and no one mentioned it. Probably my dad doesn’t know it’s there; I think he would be very angry if he knew, because, in his fatherly blindness,  he sees no fat on my body. He sees me as the same pretty little girl he’s always seen. But my mother has kept a hawkish eye on my waist. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already purchased some clothes of smaller sizes, in anticipation of the day when I will shed my precious pounds and slip into that size 18, 16, 14, 12. I have watched, mostly with regret and horror, as the mysterious new scale in my bedroom dipped lower, to 312, 308, 305.

I have, of course, still been eating, but it is *far* more difficult when you can’t hide yourself in the privacy of your own house. Mostly I’ve had to eat Wendy’s in the car on the way to work, Dunkin Donuts on the way home, pizza salvaged from work parties. My dad, I think, feels bad — he knows that my mother’s ridiculously healthy dinners are a direct result of my bulging belly, a sort of silent challenge to me to become “healthy” again — and one night, when my mother was out of town visiting a friend, he ordered us pizza and we went out after for ice cream. My mother had prepared a menu and shopping list for while she was gone. I think he might have thrown it away.

My dad, I’m sure, doesn’t want me to gain weight. But until I express to him that I am unhappy in my body — which I will never, because I cannot, do! I adore and glorify my body! — he will support me. He wants me to enjoy my life, and sometimes, enjoying life means eating pizza and ice cream. Even if your daughter, who is 6 inches shorter than you, eats more pizza than you do. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

My weight has consumed my mother. She pities me. Probably she pities herself just a little bit more, that she has to look into my fat in search of her daughter. Of course, she doesn’t really look at me anymore. Even when her eyes are cast in my direction, I can tell, she’s not looking at me so much as through me, as if her determined glare may pierce through my fat and get to the real me. As if I’m hidden under a layer of fat, and if she stares hard enough, the fat might fall off my body and my skinny self, that unfulfilled, unsatisfied, unhappy self, might return. As if my fat is not so much a part of me, but is rather a piece of clothing, that might be shed at any minute. As if my fat is but a costume, disguising the real me.

But she’s mistaken. My fat is not a costume, nor an article of clothing, nor something that can (or will ever!) be shed. My fat is me. It is not just a part of me, it is itself me.

I am fat. *I* am fat. I *am* fat. I am *fat*.

I feel, in my fat, those parts of my identity that had remained hidden from me when I was skinny. I feel, in my fat, those most cherished parts of who I am. I feel, in my fat, my purpose in life. If the universe bestows on each of us a direction, a goal, what Aristotle called “eudaimonia,” the good life — “happiness is doing well and living well” — then I am certain that my purpose is to be fat, to eat junk food, and to grow fatter. Doing well for me is not so much doing well for others as it is doing well to my body; living well is not living healthily, but living fat. Living well is perhaps a euphemistic understatement: living well, for me, is never going hungry, never skipping dessert, indulging every desire and every longing I feel, maintaining constantly the feeling of being overstuffed, such that my body has no choice but to convert the caloric energy I ceaselessly consume into new fat, piling fat upon fat, rolls upon rolls, cellulite stacking up upon cellulite. As my belly begins to process the sweet and fatty foods I’ve just consumed and sends a tentative message up to my brain that it is ready for ever-so-slightly more, I know that those calories are being sent outwards, to my thighs and hips and arms and boobs and belly and butt. To fill out the little pieces of fat on my fingers, to flush out my cheeks with fat, to send my back rolls spilling ever further behind me. As my body processes the calories — it’s too many! I can hear my body screaming, it’s too much to handle! and the other voices deep within me cheer, it’s never too much! give us more! more and more and more! we love being overloaded with calories! — I can almost feel my body expanding outwards, taking up more and more space in this room, spilling ever more off my chair, jiggling more aggressively every time I take even the smallest step. This, friends, is living well: never going hungry, never getting skinny, and watching with paralyzing admiration as my belly flops over my waistline onto my thighs.

Of course, this post is in part about how these desires have been tempered and interrupted in recent months, as I’ve been unable to fully indulge myself since I have been living with Mother. But this post is also about how today was different: for the first time in a looong time, I had the house to myself. Finding private time is immensely difficult: I work M-F, my mother doesn’t work full-time, and my father is home most weekends. Today the fatty gods allowed their fatty stars to align for a trifecta of fat fulfillment: my mother is in another state for a few days, my father had a business trip and won’t be back until tomorrow, and I was granted a sick day for what I described on my call into work as “a weird little bug that I can’t seem to shake.”

That weird little bug, of course, is not really an illness per se so much as an unfulfillable urge to watch my fat body grow fatter and fatter. That weird little bug that I can’t shake is a bug that is demanding of me: eat donuts, eat fast food, eat ice cream, eat and eat and eat. This weird little bug, the bug of insatiable desire, kept me up almost all night, knowing that my mother would be leaving in the morning, that I would call in sick to work, that I would finally, after months of silent longing, have this house to myself. (I thought I would have it to myself last week and was thwarted; perhaps I’ll write about that, too.) As I tossed and turned last night, grabbing my belly in an effort to quell my longing, all I could think about were the donuts that would stuff my fat belly, the fries I would stuff into my mouth, the double cheeseburger that would immediately upon consumption morph into newer and bigger and better fat rolls, wherever my fattening body deemed needed more glorious fat.

And of course, donuts and fries and burgers are exactly what I did: as soon as my mother had left (later than planned, alas! I was supposed to be stuffing myself by 930, but when she didn’t leave till almost 11, my plans were nearly thwarted!), I was in the car on the way to Dunkin Donuts. I bought two glazed, a jelly, a chocolate creme, a chocolate frosted cake, and a powdered. I scuttled over to Wendy’s for a double cheeseburger, a medium fries, a four piece chicken nugget, a medium cherry coke, and a medium frosty. I sped home and prepared my fattening, gluttonous, and overly-caloric feast:


I would consume it all, I thought to myself. I even feared it wouldn’t be enough. The smell of the donuts was intoxicating; I swooned with the thought that soon, so soon, these donuts, chambers of sugary and caloric heaven, would be added to my bulging frame. My breath got heavy as I tasted the first salty, fat-fried fry, and the first chicken finger made my heart sink deep into my belly with desire. I longed to consume these donuts, this fat, this sugar, these calories, and my body twitched with an unspeakable fever to feel them traverse through my digestive system, to feel my body pulse with the shock of fat overload.


The donuts glistened with the promise of newer and better fat; the sugary frosting and glazes whispered sweetly that they would fulfill my desires, that if only I would consume them, my most sincere wishes and longings would subside, and I would become contentedly happy. They shed their savory goodness and taunted my olfactory senses: eat us, and you will get fat! Eat us, and you will be happy! Eat us, to live!

I got started as quickly as possible. The burger melted in mouth, its greases dripping quickly into my belly. A gulp of soda and a mouthful of fries followed. A chicken nugget, then a donut, made their way next to the grease and cheese of the burger inside my body. As my belly swelled, I imagined my body redirecting the fat away from the stomach so more could be consumed. I relinquished all control to my inner feedee, who ensured that I would eat as much as humanly possible. The Fat Demon inside me, reigning completely over my mental, physical, and emotional state, dictated from on high: eat eat eat! Consume consume consume! Shuffle the greasy burger outward to the thighs, make room for incoming donut! Scoot the soda out to the fatty arms! Let those fries fill out the back rolls! More donut, these bits to the hips! We must grow, we must expand, we must allow the fat to take over completely!

I made my way, sometimes slowly but always with fierce determination, through the initial bites:


Half the burger, half the fries, half the chicken, probably about half the soda, and two donuts, all of them down into my fattening belly, to be redirected to their eventual fatty homes. My belly was beginning to moan, but far too quietly for my Fat Demon, now my ruler, to pay any heed. All I knew was more; all I desired was more. The donuts failed, so far, to live up to their promise: they had sated nothing, and the promise that more donuts, more sugar, more calories, might satisfy rang ever louder inside my head. I rubbed my belly feverishly and almost giggled with delight at the thought that it would only expand, only grow more jiggly, only hang lower and lower over my thighs.

I kept eating as I started working on this blog post: more burger, more fries, more soda, more donuts. The food piled inside my belly, spilled into my hips and thighs, swelled in my chest. My heart became very slowly dislodged from the grip of the Fat Demon inside me, yet I longed still to grow fatter and fatter. I longed to consume all of the food in front of me; I was caught in the grip of my addiction to my food and to my fat.

I finally swelled; my belly groaned, I could hardly move; I hit a food coma, where to move is uncomfortable and you desire only more food, yet you find that you can no longer process. I started in on a new donut, and found it difficult to push it down; I chewed, I savored the taste, yet it was as if the donut had nowhere left to go; I chewed and over-chewed, and finally it slipped into my belly, probably through some backdoor so as not to be counted among the official spoils of my gluttonous feast.


The double cheeseburger: gone. The medium fries: gone. The chicken nuggets: gone. The medium soda: gone. Three donuts and a half donuts: gone. I looked at the greasy wrappers of paper and the crumbs and imagined my belly swelling with that same grease, that same fat, those very calories. I imagined my Fat Demon, from his home deep within my spine, directing those calories outward, clearing my belly for later, when I would finish these donuts and finally turn to my precious chocolate frosty.

But as I looked on that last precious half of a donut, I felt the Fat Demon roused to action. Would we leave this lonely half of a donut all to himself? Could we make no more room at all for a new companion? Would these calories really be wasted? My Fat Demon roused his fatty friends, the cellulite gripping my thighs, the rolls stacked upon my belly, the pounds of flesh hanging from my arms, the fat packed cutely around my face, to action. Yes, this half of a donut will join us, the troops cried! I imagined an old Uncle Sam poster, pointing at that lonely half of a donut: I WANT YOU! Those last few bites were practically impossible; there was simply nowhere for that donut to go. I swallowed it practically without chewing, almost writhing with the feeling of being so overly stuffed, and yet grateful with the the thought that I might, because of this little precious donut, expand with even more fat. I was done.


That last half of a donut: gone. I licked a patch of powdered sugar off of my shirt, where it had collected on my chest. I was stuffed; I could hardly move. I have two more donuts to finish, and I will, soon, but for now: the couch. I laid back, swung my (now fatter) legs up below me, and rubbed my pulsing belly. I was short of breath. The thought of more food made my stomach churn, and yet it also made me smile ever so slightly: soon, I thought, soon, I will have more room, and I will eat more, and I will grow fatter.

As I write this, now, I’ve cleared some room: I have started in on my chocolate frosty. I kept it in the refrigerator, not the freezer, so it has mostly melted: perfect for drinking, slurping, chugging; perfect to consume as quickly as possible, to add the extra calories to my bulging frame as efficiently as possible. As I gulp it down, the Fat Demon resumes his post: yes, eat, you fat little pig, grow fatter, swoon with your own fat, give in to your most addictive and destructive desires. My breath grows short as I feel the cool chocolate calories, soon to be converted into precious new mounds of fat on my growing body, press against my lips. I watch the chocolate drain from the cup, knowing that my body will hoard the added calories, and my heart pulses, beats with desire, beats so hard it feels it will pulse right out of my chest. Yes, I think, this is living well. The frosty gathers on my upper lip as I gulp it back as quickly as possible; I feel as though I might black out with longing, with desire; it’s not enough, I think, as I chug another gulp, it won’t do, and I need more! Another gulp, and another; I put the cup down for a moment, lick the frosty off the top of my lip, and grab a layer of fat swelling from my hip. This needs to hang lower, sag further, jiggle more, the Fat Demon whispers. He’s serious now, the Fat Demon, he’s not barking orders, he’s not directing; he has sat back in his chair, leaned his head upon his chin to let me know he’s being serious: you need to finish that frosty, or that heaping mound of hip fat you’re grabbing will never, ever grow, even one ounce. With a new determination, eager to please my feedee Fat Demon, I pick up my frosty cup; I tilt it back to my lips; my heart skips a beat as I watch the frosty drip down towards my lips. But I was over-eager, and my gulp was too big for my mouth, and the frosty collects again on my upper lip. I am such a fat little piggy, my Fat Demon tells me, a sloppy fat mess, and my calories are now spilling onto my face, making a mess of my lips. I am nearly out of breath; frosty has spilled onto my body; my heart is pounding in my chest and a familiar longing deep within my pelvis cries out. I feel, where my spine meets my pelvis, a tightening that promises to me it will loosen with just another big gulp. My heart beats excitedly with the thought that this desire lodged deep within me might dissipate after another gulp and I rush the cup back to my lips — all I have to do is finish my frosty. I lean my head all the way back and take my final gulp and — alas! — the tightness remains. I long for more. I lean back and feel my belly gurgling with its new fat. I crave my next stuffing, and feel contented to have finished, at least, my frosty.


So it is done. I can hardly breath, because I swell both with calories and with the desire for more. Here’s the final tally:

  • Wendy’s double cheeseburger, 790 calories, 51 grams of fat, 8 grams of sugar
  • Wendy’s medium fries, 420 calories, 19 grams of fat
  • Wendy’s 4 piece chicken nugget, 180 calories, 13 grams of fat
  • Wendy’s medium soda, 320 calories, 66 grams of sugar
  • Dunkin Donuts chocolate frosted  cake donut, 350 calories, 19 grams of fat, 20 grams of sugar
  • Dunkin Donuts glazed donut, 260 calories, 14 grams of fat, 12 grams of sugar
  • Dunkin Donuts chocolate creme donut, 320 calories, 19 grams of fat, 14 grams of sugar
  • Dunkin Donuts powdered donut, 320 calories, 19 grams of fat, 14 grams of sugar

And last but not least, a medium chocolate frosty, 460 calories, 12 grams of fat, and a whopping 63 grams of sugar. Woof.

The totals for today’s lunch? 3,420 calories, 166 grams of fat, and 197 grams of sugar.

Now it’s time to lay around and rub my fat belly so I can finish my last two donuts and then figure out what’s for dinner.

Living well, done right 😉

Fat Bodies!


Haven’t posted in so long, in part because there is so much to tell! From the horrors of my holiday season (spoiler alert: familial confrontations re my size) to the spoils of my recent weight gain (yes!), I have too much to say here. So in lieu of a proper post, I’ll celebrate myself and my body!

Lonely Sad Hungry Fat

In my last blog post I said that I was torn between my attraction to and flirtation with a boy I met recently, on the one hand, and my addiction to food and fat on the other. I wrote about how, while Boy was obviously attracted to my fat body, he was also interested in helping me lose weight. I suggested that he would probably not support me if I told him I wanted him to feed me fatter and fatter.

I was right.

We haven’t seen each other in several weeks. We’ve barely spoken since I told him how much I love my fat,  how enamored I am with food, how addicted I am to fat. (I didn’t tell him these things explicitly; read on.) Yes: I told him that I am proud of my body. I told him how badly I’ve struggled, since I was little, with being unable to conform to what society expects of me and lose weight. I told him that I knew how much he loved my body, that I could tell by the way he touched me that he loved my fat. I told him that I really, really didn’t want to lose weight, because I had worked so hard for so long to be okay with who I am. Because it took me nearly 20 years, but I was finally ready to live the life I had been craving since I was a young girl. Because I wasn’t willing to conform, not for society, and not even for him.

He responded with a deafening silence. He gave me no immediate response. He stopped looking me in the eye, fidgeted with his fingers, was visibly uncomfortable. He stammered a few times, said something about his health and my health, made very little sense, and asked if he could go. He needed to think about some things, he said. His response rattled me; while I suspected he might have reservations about feeding me, I didn’t expect him to leave, suddenly, after I expressed to him my love of my own body. I didn’t even tell him the whole story! I held back on some of the more grisly details, about my late night stuffing sessions, the sexual fat-fetishism with which I engage, about the deep-seated pangs and longing I feel when I imagine my donuts expanding my fat belly, when I feel my milkshakes collecting in my cellulite, when my french fries jiggle into the fat building along my hips. These details and more I left unsaid! I merely confessed to being okay with how I look! And he was rattled.

We spoke on the phone the next day. He told me that he valued our friendship (the word, friendship, was one that hadn’t been used to describe our relationship; it was used to devastating effect here). He told me that he liked spending time with me. But, he said, he couldn’t agree to helping me participate in what sounded to him like an unhealthy lifestyle. I stuttered, trying to lie, trying to tell him that my lifestyle had to do with body acceptance and not with an unhealthy relationship to food (this is a lie, of course, because my lifestyle has everything to do with an unhealthy relationship with food, with an unhealthy relationship with fat). My lie didn’t work; he called my bluff. He said our conversation, my confession, made him uncomfortable. I mostly forget what else he said. I mostly stopped listening. I do know that at no point in the conversation did he confess to finding my body attractive. He never admitted to being attracted to fat girls. Like I said last time, guys his size (probably 150-160 pounds) don’t end up with girls my size (300+) by accident.

And like I said: he loves my body, my belly, my thighs, my hips, my butt. I have been with guys who are curious about but not committed to girls my size; their touch is tentative, exploratory, naive; they are unsure of how their body will respond to my body. They don’t immediately touch my belly, since it’s a part of my body that they haven’t been exposed to before; the skinny girls they have been with have boobs and thighs and butts, but no bellies. Thus, the curious kisser tends mostly to stick with areas with which he is familiar: my boobs (larger and more jiggly than those he has seen before) and my butt (larger than any he’s ever seen). But men who know they are in love with my body, who are stricken by my fat, men like my most recent and now former Crush, approach my body with a certain knowing: they know they will love my fat because they crave my fat. Unlike the Curious, the Knowing reach first not for my boobs but for my belly; not for my butt but for the fat pooling above my hips. Their touch is not tentative but sure. They are not exploring their own desires to see whether their body will respond but exploring my body, the fat that has built up upon my frame; they are not exploring unknown ground but mining that which they know to be a rich and lucrative field. They are not searching; they have found.

Despite Boy’s fondling admission of his love for my body, he would not confess verbally. His words cut, severing our bond, severing our future, severing himself from his own desires, severing him from the fulfillment of my desires. While I know that he loves my body, he will not claim his desires as his own; I would need to transform my life, shed my precious pounds, to be his. In what may be the most fitting use ever of a terrible cliche: I cannot have my cake and eat it too.

Since our “breakup” (the scare quotes are meant to signal my admission that we were never officially “dating” in any formal way), I have found myself longing more than ever to bury myself in my fat. I am lonely and sad; food has been my comfort. I am eating, and eating, and eating, more and more and more than ever. While my bingeing is usually confined to my apartment, alone, late at night, I have been stuffing in public more than ever. Lunch at work Friday: 2 slices of leftover pizza (the other 6 were Thursday’s dinner), two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, half of a large bag of potato chips, two cans of soda, a 1/4 of a pumpkin pie, and two king-size Reese’s pumpkins (Halloween, alas! I eat your precious gifts alone, alone…). A skinny and beautiful female coworker, ever concerned with the affairs of others (to cover up, of course, the affair she is hiding from her husband), stopped by to ask if everything was okay. She noticed, she claimed, that I had been rather quiet. (Mostly she wanted to judge the growing bulge that swelled over my waist, the snide at the arms I had squeezed into sleeves much too small, to reassure herself that she was more desirable than me. I saw her survey my trash and desk, silently spying the empty candy wrappers and the paper plate bearing the spoils of pie. Yes, I assured her, everything was fine (I bit, then, into a Reese’s pumpkin, savoring her disapproving gaze, imagining her disgust as my body spilled further and further out of my chair).)

Saturday, all day, was a feast: I went out early for a dozen donuts, 6 of which I ate  almost immediately. At home, I made 4 eggs with cheese, 4 pieces of toast and two sausages (Irish bangers! the large kind! not dinky breakfast sausages: ick). I ate steadily the remaining donuts. In mid-afternoon, I frequented a local burger place (Tasty Burger!). I ordered a sack of five burgers and three large fries; I sat there and immediately ate three of the burgers and two of the fries, a large coke, and finished with a large chocolate milkshake. I almost never eat this much in public, at a restaurant, having just ordered all of this food. I envisioned myself swelling so large that I wouldn’t fit in the booth. Eventually, I dreamed (taking another bite of burger, another bite of grease and melted cheese) my belly will spill out of my clothes and over the table; I will have to rest my food on my fat, and I will be too fat to keep my mess from spilling down my chin, collecting in my cleavage; I will need to ask an employee (another handful of fries stuffed into my mouth, another gulp of chocolate shake) to reach my drink for me so I can wash down my calories. As I waddled out of the restaurant, sucking stuck to the straw which fed me my chocolate, I imagined those working there silently chiding me for indulging in fatty burgers and fries when, at my size, with all of the fat already poring off of my body, I should be at the gym. I should be trying to lose weight! they were thinking; and here she is, eating, eating, eating; burgers and fries and milkshakes. This is why she’s that fat, they said to each other, agreeing upon their mutual disapproval of my unhealthy addiction to fattening foods. Their disapproval rang, echoed deep within me: yes, I confirmed, this is why I am so fat; yes, I claimed, I love to eat; yes, I owned their disapproval, yes, I should be trying to lose weight, and here I am eating, and here you are serving me the fuel for the rolls that have grown around my middle; yes, I cheered, I will continue to gorge my fat, to give in to my desires. I slurped my milkshake loudly, contently, knowing that I had no room left for the thick chocolate. I remembered, as I squeezed out of the door, that I had two more burgers and more fries to eat when I got home, and I smiled.

It took me a long time, after so much stuffing through the early parts of the day, to get hungry again. In truth, I wasn’t really hungry again at all. I kept picking, at a bag of chips, a few bites of burger, a few fries, throughout the night. I ate some leftover candy, some ice cream, a small bit of pie. I eventually finished my last two burgers and the remaining fries. I went to bed swelling, my stomach stuffed, my desires subdued but never, never arrested: at 2 am, I forced myself out of bed to finish a mostly-full pint of ice cream.

I ate not because I wanted to. I hadn’t really been hungry since before Tasty Burger, and hadn’t longed for a fatter body since leaving. I ate because I was lonely and sad; I forced myself out of bed in the middle of the night to eat because I wanted a cure for the sadness I felt. I ate because I didn’t know what else to do. Back in bed, I assured myself that tomorrow, Sunday (today), I would try to have a normal day.

I woke up and had half of an apple pie for breakfast. I made pancakes and eggs. I had a two donuts and a chicken parm sub for lunch. I ate another two donuts (these ones gourmet, from the local artisan donut shop: amazing). I went to the grocery store and bought a carrot cake; I ate half the carrot cake. I ordered a pizza for dinner, ate 6 slices, and then had another large piece of carrot cake. As I’m writing this, I’m eating the leftover pizza. Throughout the day, my cravings for a fat body crept back; my love of food swelled stronger as the day drew on; this writing is continually interrupted so I can indulge myself, stuff fattening foods into my face, caress the rolls spilling out over my lingerie, massage the calories pooling in my growing belly, helping them settle to make room for more and more new fat. I just finished the carrot cake; I am left, now, to lick the icing off of the container.

Over the past few weeks, in the time since Boy broke off our communication, I have felt my loneliness slowly fade into hunger; I have rejoiced as my sadness has been replaced by fat.

And through this experience, I’ve learned two things. First, I’ve learned that my addiction to food is closely connected with my emotional stability. Recently, in this state of rejection and loneliness, my craving to be fat and my longing for food has been stronger than it has been in a long time, probably as strong as it was way back when, as a young teenager, knowing I loved fat, I denied myself, binging on fattening treats only to crash diet and remain thin. Since college, when I finally allotted my desires their proper place, those desires have remained ever strong but not as severe. When I was young, as a closeted fat craver, I would swell with desire for fat and food; recently, too, my longings have been all-consuming: I have been totally unable to control my eating. Morning, noon, and night I stuff myself as much as possible. I imagine I’ve gained several pounds, perhaps as many as 10, in just a few weeks, a very difficult task for a girl my size.

So I’ve learned, in the past few weeks, that my desires for food and fat are not only sexual, they also emotional. I’ve known for some time that the longing I feel lodged so deeply within me, the longing that demands I eat and eat and eat and grow fatter and fatter and fatter, has been a sexual one. But I’ve recently learned that this sexual desire cannot be totally severed from my emotional state. (Perhaps my emotions need not be sad and lonely to dictate my eating: I eat to celebrate and when I am happy, too, I think. Though perhaps not with the same fervor I have been eating recently…)

But the second thing I have learned is in many ways a more devastating realization. As I said above, Boy has refused to confess his desires. I hinted that he wasn’t ready to present the world with an admission of his love of fat; he has not gone through what I’ve gone through in accepting his desires. Like so many men who are attracted to fat women (so many! so many!), he will hook up with me but not date me, not unless I can get myself down to a more presentable weight. (I suspect that this was why he tried to get me to exercise: I suspect that, if I could lose several pounds, perhaps get down into the 220 range, he might be able to present me to his friends and family; he would admit to liking “bigger” girls without having to admit that he wanted to fatten me, without admitting that the fatter I grew the more attracted he would become; he would be able to continue to deny his desires, even while, to some extent, he would be satisfying them.)

But this is not the second thing I’ve learned. As I said, this I knew: many men want to fuck but not date fat girls, something nearly every fat girl will tell you. This is the second thing that I learned: I learned that his refusal to date me was not his fault. I learned that he was right to sever our budding relationship. I learned that our end was my fault.

But wait! I can hear you sing: don’t say that! It’s not you! It’s he, the pervert; he who will not own his desires; he who wants you but won’t claim you!

But no, I say; it is me. This is the second thing I have learned: I have learned that I am so in love with my food that I cannot possibly love him. Perhaps he is not ready to present the world with his desires; but I am not ready to present myself to him, and this he could tell: he knows that I am addicted to my fat, even though I didn’t confess that part of my desire; he knows that I crave food more than I crave him; he knows that I love to feel my body swell with unnecessary and excessive calories more than I will ever love him. I have known for some time that I am addicted to my fat; but I learned recently that my addiction reigns supreme, that I cannot disobey my addiction, that my longings will not subside just because I met a guy. I learned that my hunger and my fat will always win out over my loneliness and sadness.

I learned that, for me, to live is to eat; that to be is to be fat. This is a devastating realization, particularly in the face of the enormous sadness that I feel. I want him to call me. I miss our late-night chats, our early morning texts. I miss making out with him on my couch. I want him to want me.

And the only thing I want more than him is my food. The only thing I want more than him is my fat.