chapter 1

BANG BANG BANG "Sophie, time to wake up!", yelled my mom from outside my door. I groggily roll over to see the time on my alarm clock; 12:18 pm. Why did she have to wake me up so early? It's not like I have anything to do today. She can be so annoying sometimes.

Since I was so rudely awakened from my slumber, I guess I might as well get my day started. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I go to roll out of bed, only to find a mostly empty bag of Doritos wrapped up in my comforter. This was far from the first time I found leftover food wrappers in my bed, but they were usually completely empty. I must have fallen asleep before I could finish it. I can hardly remember. All my days go by pretty much the same way. Why get caught up in remembering the little details?

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, I stuck my hand into the bag and pulled out a handful of chips. There were barely any left, but it should be enough to hold me over till breakfast. I placed them one by one on my eager tongue, sucking out the flavor before crushing them on the roof of my mouth. God, they were delicious. Before reaching back into the bag, I licked off every speck of cheese dust I could find on my hand, then wrapped my tongue around my lips to get the rest; some of which I suspected was there from the night before. The rest of them went down just as smoothly.

Before getting up, I placed my hand on my tummy, at least the part I could reach, and gave it a quick rub. The orange traces from my fingertips were clearly visible on my flesh, but I didn't care. As I sat up, I let out a decent-sized belch before moving out from under the covers, which was no small task. By the time I'd moved to an upright position, I could already feel beads of sweat dripping from my forehead and accumulating in my folds. As I sat on the side of my bed, I saw my now bulbous belly pool in my ample lap and spill over like a creamy white waterfall, covering up my equally bulbous thighs and utterly useless knees. I sighed at the sight, but pushed myself up to my feet and waddled my way to the bathroom. I could feel my thighs rub against each other with each step I took, chafing more and more as I squeezed through the door.

I hate coming into the bathroom. Not because of the tacky seashell decor or the cold linoleum under my feet; but because of the mirror. I hate mirrors. All they do is mock me, forcing me to recognize how much I've changed. I grab a hold of my globular gut and lifted it up. It was so squishy and soft, like bread dough trying to ooze between my fingers. The forced movement of my stomach gave me my first view of my underwear today, even though they were still mostly obscured. They were pink. I don't know what I was expecting, considering I hadn't changed them in a while, but like I said, little details. The back was swallowed up by my moon-like ass and the sides were covered by my drooping love handles. I only knew I had them on from the feeling of fabric digging into my supple flesh.

I let my stomach go and let it slap against my thighs. The sound of flesh hitting flesh seemed louder and sloppier than usual. I quiver every time I hear it. That sound makes me sick. I look into the face of my old enemy and see my haggard reflection. Part of me wants to cry and the other part wants to smash the mirror into itty bitty bits. But instead I follow the pattern of behavior I've been exhibiting for the last couple years and do nothing. My face is so different now. My angelic cheek bones are buried by puffiness. My sharp jawline is coated in a triple chin and jowls. Even my lips look fatter, exaggerating my natural pout beyond the realm of classic beauty, while being pursed up by the sea of flab around them. My skin shines with a buildup of excess grease. I can see blackheads around my nostrils and a few stray pimples on my cheeks and forehead. My hair is just as greasy and lays limply over my face and shoulders. I slowly run my fingers through it, feeling them get tangled in the knots. As I continue to comb through, I see a rain of crumbs sprinkle down upon the white tile floor.

I don't shower as much as I used to. I just don't see the point. It's not like I go anywhere. I spend most of my time inside, only going out when my nag of a mother drags me somewhere, which she's been doing less and less lately. I think she's ashamed of me and I honestly can't blame her. I wouldn't want to be seen in public with me either. My thin, athletic mother was once so proud of her thin, athletic daughter. And why wouldn't she be? I was co-captain of the cheerleading squad, an honor student, and homecoming queen both junior and senior year. She always bragged about me to her friends, but she can't do that anymore. Why would any woman brag about giving birth to a whale? She always told them I was going places and for a while I was, but then came college.

I went away for college after being recruited to cheerlead, but they didn't tell me they usually recruit more girls than the team needs. I had to compete with some of the best in the country and unfortunately didn't make the cut. Between that and not having any of my friends to support me, I fell a bit off the wagon. I was sad and started finding comfort in food. It made me feel better. By November, I had already put on the Freshman 15 and then some. I had always been really thin, so I was far from fat then. My thighs got a little thicker, hips grew a little wider, and my butt filled out a bit, but I definitely wasn't fat by any standard. When Thanksgiving Break came along, I found out my old friends and boyfriend had unusually high standards.

My friends all said I was getting fat and started making fun of me: calling me names like porker and lardo. Whitney, my best friend and former co-captain, was the cruelest; poking my slightly softer middle and making pig noises. Since she was now the undisputed leader of the group, she banished me, saying that they don't associate with cows. I was devastated. I went home, locked myself in my room, and cried my eyes out. I pinched at the barely there flab on my hips and chastised myself for being such a hog.

Since I didn't have any friends left, I tried calling my boyfriend Ryan. I kept calling, desperately needing someone to talk to, but he didn't pick up. Having no other options, I drove over to his house that night to find him. I saw his car in the driveway, so I knew he was home. I rang the doorbell but got no response, so I turned the unlocked handle and went inside. To this day, I wish I hadn't. Right there on the living room couch, I caught Ryan doing it with another girl. Only after I shrieked in surprise did I see her face. He was f*cking Whitney! With tears in my eyes, I asked him why he did it. Most men would usually try to talk their way out of it with 'This isn't what it looks likes' or 'Babe, let me explains', but he was very blunt and to the point. Without getting off the couch, he turned his head and said without a hint of remorse or empathy in his voice, " I don't f*ck fat chicks". Whitney then chimed in by saying, "Do you mind? We're kind of in the middle of something here. Don't you have a farm you can go to piggy?"

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. I simply walked out with my head down and my spirit shattered. I couldn't even scream or cry or fight back. There was no point. I felt completely defeated. What had started as mere sadness at school was now full-on depression. So I fought the misery the only way I knew how; with food. I went to McRoger's and ordered a 1/2 lb. Button Burger with a large fry and cherry coke. I devoured it all, messily shoving meat and handfuls of potatoes into my mouth like an animal. Maybe I really was a piggy. The food was so good I got seconds. The guy at the counter seemed surprised, especially when I added a milkshake to my order. I didn't care what he thought. All that matter was the food on my tray. If I was going to eat my feelings, they might as well taste good.

I had trouble moving when I was done. I had a food baby the size of an actual baby as my belly bloated out over my jeans and beneath my crop top. I had to cradle it in my hands as I waddled from my seat to the exit. A loud burp drew the attention of the other customers and I stood still in embarrassment, blushing with my hand over my mouth. The boy from the counter, whose name was Jeremy, came out and helped me to my car. I told him I was ok enough to drive, but that was a lie. Shortly after sitting in the driver's seat, I passed out with both my greasy hands on my swollen midsection.

By the time I came to, it was already morning. I felt nauseous, but as the memories of yesterday flooded in, I knew I had to eat. So I ordered more food than I care to elaborate on off the breakfast menu and went home to eat my woes away. My mother found me in the afternoon surrounded by wrappers for McSausages and hash browns, my belly sticking up towards the ceiling fan.