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.