S.F.C.S (and it isn’t nom nom)

 

I work with a really fat chick.

 

She is so fat her forearms wiggle through layers of cellulite under the right lighting. The other day I saw her walking in the parking lot toward the office and her shirt was way too tight-fitting and her immense belly was protruding like a pregnant barrel over her waddling Sequoia-sized legs.

 

My first thought was that her appearance was so outlandish, so exaggerated, that it’s as if she wants people to think she is pregnant. There is no other reason I can imagine why this fat chick would so blatantly flash that mountainous abdomen at the public with such carefree, shameless abandon.

 

Her level of obesity is not metabolic in nature; it’s not that she has a thyroid condition. These are all bullshit reasons fat people use to coax out some self-justification for their gluttony and lazy lifestyle. It’s not your body, it’s your mouth and your appetite, you fat-ass.

 

The fat chick I work with is a veritable train wreck of bad eating habits and dietary ignorance. Once in a while, in a fit of some sort of fatty self-consciousness, she attempts a feeble gesture of lifestyle change, but it’s all for naught because it is short-lived, hollowly executed and mindlessly diffuse and unfocused. At her basic core, this fat chick simply leads a gluttonous existence of hedonism and excess. She loves food more than she loves herself. And she is fat as Moby Dick.

 

Today she was talking about a period of time a few years back when she was unemployed and spent most of her time landlocked at home and how she rarely ate because it just didn’t occur to herself that she was hungry. and, as she put it, “I hate eating alone.”

 

All I could think of was, “Dude, you need to start eating alone and maybe food will lose its diseased psychic hold over your mind.” And I also thought, “Dude, if you hate eating alone, you must be counting the floor as company.”