Little Pig

      Poor girl. Where'd that bikini body go? As you prepare for another summer vacation, trying on all your old swimwear, isn't it sad to see that none of it fits quite like it used to?

      High school was great. Lots of boys liked you. You were thin, but your boobs had grown in a bit early, and that full chest was like catnip for horny teens. Other girls were jealous of your slender, busty form, your tight ass and your thigh gap. Back then, a fit body translated to a lot of power among your peers; power which, I'm sorry to say, is no longer yours.

      Look at you! Look what college has done to your figure!

      The freshman fifteen struck you like lightning, didn't it? Fast food and junk food, day in and day out. You didn't miss mommy's cooking until the first pair of jeans didn't fit. You figured it was a phase, that you'd shake it off by summer break. And then, before you knew it, your sweatpants were the only thing you could hike up over your wobbly thighs and squishy butt each morning. Hell, even packing those creamy cushions into your own panties was a challenge.

      Whatever. You shrugged that off too. But no matter how much you didn't want to admit it to yourself, your friends certainly noticed the extra jiggle in your cheeks as they swayed around beneath ill-fitting sweats. And even then, the junk in your proverbial trunk hardly held a candle to your disgustingly engorged belly. Remember when your belly was flat? How foreign that must seem now, now that it's long passed your breasts in the race out in front of you. Fast food made the butt and parties built the belly. You soaked up booze like a sponge on Friday nights, and your tummy took the brunt of the force. You looked so silly, a skinny little girl with such a big, jiggling gut. You may have put on some unflattering weight elsewhere too, but the beer belly stole the show.

      You were patient in your wait for that little phase to end. You knew it would come. In fact, you were so certain that you would just magically return to your previous state of being effortlessly skinny that you never felt the need to put any effort in to get back to it. I mean, you'd never had to try before, right?

      Wrong. The semester ended and mommy and daddy's precious daughter had to confront them with a bouncing beer belly dangling right in their faces. And even back home for the summer, back in a world where mommy could feed you healthy meals, you still managed to pack on more and more cargo. It was such a surprise at the time. Still, one would be pressed to see any reason why it wasn't your own fault. You kept eating out with friends, you kept raiding the fridge, you kept being lazy and you kept ignoring the growing tightness of your own clothes. Mommy's cooking won't help you if you skip dinner to hit McDonald's with the other girls; you did that almost every night.

      Speaking of your friends, weren't they getting fat too? Softening up, these ex-cheerleaders had all let themselves go. They'd all gotten hit by the fifteen. I suppose that's why you never felt like the fat friend; none of them were skinny anymore either. Still, if you'd payed attention as you shoveled one Big Mac after another into your makeup-slathered face, you'd have noticed you were always the fattest one there. Your belly took up more space on your water-balloon thighs than any of the other girls. You were the greediest and the laziest, and it was showing all over your body.

      The bigger you got, the worse it looked. Some people's fat packs on firmly, but yours was just so loose and soft. As unflattering as possible. Absolutely no tone or shape to any of it, sans some roundness in your face and your gut. You weren't curvy; you were chunky, jiggly, covered in cellulite. Your boobs, which had seemed huge when you were skinny, had hardly grown at all; now they seemed small as they were parked on top of your big, pillowy belly.

      If any of those shallow high school boys you'd used to date saw you now, they'd either laugh their asses off or puke. The ones who'd fucked you would feel cheated, and the ones who had broken up with you would feel satisfied with their decisions. Those boys remembered you as you once were, a piece of eye candy with a personality that seemed to run just about as deep as that very label. Now that you'd lost the "eye candy" title, you seemed to have been stripped bare.

      You were so thin once. Where did it all go? When did your sexy, Barbie-doll figure melt away into the sloshy, jiggly body you live in now? As you sit there, fat ass hogging up the couch, warm belly spilling over your chubby legs, flabby arms fluttering as you pick up the TV remote, do you even care? You're not quite obese yet, but I know you'll get there in due time. You've lost the one thing you used to be proud of, and now you're too wrapped up in denial to try to get it back. As you rub your aching beer belly, you don't think of it as anything more than a phase that's yet to pass. You don't realize that no shirt will hide that tummy; no makeup will hide that second chin. At this rate, a third one might be on its way.

      Poor girl, I'm afraid the extra weight is here to stay. And if you keep moving at this rate (that is, not moving at all), you're only going to continue to expand. You'll grow and grow, getting fatter and fatter, gaining weight until you're so comically obese that every reality TV show fights mercilessly for the sole right to film your gluttonous existence as you flounder clumsily around in your own body mass, eating, sleeping and consuming entertainment with the weight of six people attached to each action. One day, you'll get there, little piggy. But in the meantime, the beer belly, the bingo wings, the thunder thighs, the saddlebags; this ungainly, chunky, human body is yours. It's yours to fill with copious amounts of food, to decline moving with at any opportunity and to drag off to bed each night to masturbate it and fall asleep beneath its weight.

      You poor pig... You've gotten fat. You've gotten really fat, and you've earned every last pound of it.