Piggy
Piggy.
Admit it, you like it when I call you that.
It is pretty fitting, unlike most of your wardrobe. That’s right, don’t think I haven’t noticed! I mean, how could I not when you get so out of breath every morning trying to put on your jeans. It’s so cute watching your fat ass squeeze into those things. At this point they look like they’re practically painted on. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if they were, you’ve grown quite a bit!
Remember when I told you I accidentally threw them in the dryer and they shrunk a little bit? Just kidding! You owe all that to that big, fat gut of yours, darling.
Well… I may have helped a little bit with that actually.
Remember when I clumsily dropped all those dishes? That was actually just an excuse to buy new plates. If you had any hope of losing weight maybe I would have gotten smaller ones, but of course, they, just like you, got bigger.
Remember all those leftover cookies, cakes, brownies, and pies I brought home from those new ‘productivity boosting office meetings’ I told you about? I just brought those all home from the bakery to keep you tempted and full.
How about those times where I promised I would make dinner but then “forgot”, forcing us to order out?
But hey you enjoyed stuffing all those pizzas in your mouth right? You always looked so content with your pants unbuttoned, mouth stained, and tummy bloated. Of course that didn’t stop you from waddling your tight panty clad ass to get a late night snack. I’d always clumsily order two pizzas, but it’s not like they would be there in the morning. Especially now since you’re looking like we better upgrade to three.
Let’s not act like most of this was my fault though. Knowing your appetite, this was bound to happen anyway. I never forced you to eat those entire sheet cakes or pans of brownies. I only rubbed your belly to make you feel more comfortable, how was I supposed to know you would just eat more?
Besides, just face it. You’re a porker, a hog, a full blown fat pig, and you know it. It’s so cute when you try to hide the fact that you get out of breath just from standing up. Your face already red, and just getting even redder from embarrassment. It’s okay to be gaining weight, just be a good piggy and own up to it.
You might even enjoy it more, the reckless abandonment of dietary restrictions. All the unhealthy, caloric, sugary junk you could imagine. Anything you want. All the time spent on your fat ass loading up on carbs just for it to be converted to more fat. The relaxing, increasingly slowing rhythm of your waddle. No need to prove a point, just succumb to the huge hulking mass that is the true you.
Accept those chubby cheeks that are waiting to be filled and to become tired enough to switch over from chewing to milkshakes.
Accept those extra chins, burying your face and neck in blubber as immediate notoriety for your utter gluttony and appetite.
Accept those doughy arms, weighing your next mouthful down and begging me to take away their job, eventually for an early retirement.
Accept those fat fingers, surprising you with your own lack of self discipline and fading dexterity.
Accept that huge belly, constantly pulling you forward and serving as a permanent monument, never letting you forget that you’re a fat pig.
Accept your gigantic ass, testing the strength of every piece of furniture you ever sit on and making creaking, collapsing, and crashing a constant soundtrack.
Accept your collasal thighs, hiding predictions of your even fatter future in their dimples, destroying every fabric that meets its path on top of everything edible that meets yours.
Accept your fat feet, bloating up to resist and turn the slow waddle into a crawl, inevitably making a scooter or rather bed your ass’s new home.
Accept yourself as a piggy, letting the pounds ooze onto you, the breaths escape your catch, and your gluttony win.
Piggy.













