MY HUGE FRAME COLLAPSES BRIDGES. THE MASS OF MY FAT ASS SINKS ROADS. MY GROTESQUE, ORGANIC, AND FLABBY ROLLS SUFFOCATE THE VERY FABRIC OF POLITE SOCIETY.

I'm writing this from my toilet seat.

I've been glued here for the past 40 minutes, squeezing out a mess that even the IDF would struggle to cleanse. Pure clay consistency with the unending staining capacity of a Sharpie. Every squeeze burns and my waning kegel force is barely enough to stop the splashback soothing my piles.

I don't understand why this happens to me when all I ate today was one slice of toast, 4 pieces of bacon, and 3 eggs - nothing about that should be a problem. But here I squat, gaping, browning out a butchers conundrum - a sausage that can't be snipped off.

As hungry as I am, the thought of food right now just pisses me off. Not because I'm not hungry, or put off by the toilet, no. But I am too heavy to make it to the kitchen. One week my doctor says I have body dysmorphia; the next they say I am indeed so fat that I could have a heart attack and die. I could be so lucky. My suffering is not to be ended, but to toil through it. I am the sort of unlucky bastard who could try to eat himself to death with chicken burger and fries 9 times a day, and would live to the ripe old age of 84, bound to a modified forklift, enjoying not a minute of it. If I want to live by that sword, I want to die by it. Promise me, dear calorie, you will be the one to clog my arteries before the doctors can plunge it clear.

I think it's a damn shame that the morbidly obese don't get what they wish sooner - a quick, epic death, after a good meal. That's what I want. I would hate to be fat for so long and not have it stop. As of right now, I've only really been in my fat phase for about 2 years and I don't review it highly, and I think I might stop because it's clear I don't have what it takes to make it to the big leagues.

Sometimes I cry when I'm alone.

My therapist told me there is always an exit to every problem, we just have to navigate through more exit signs than others, but they always point somewhere. Unfortunately I'm trapped in Ikea and the signs are all in fucking Swedish or whatever the fuck - I've been following signs one euro hotdogs and now I'm morbidly a beast. The more I eat, the more the ground cracks, and I'll make my own exit through the warehouse. No building can hold me for my dimensionality of problem solving is at least 1 greater than that of the prison builders who aim to trap me.

This is my confession.