Hey Chief, please go ahead and develop me an SEO campaign for my website about my fetish for super morbid obesity, immobility bed sores, and stage 4 lipedema. Before we get started, I'd ask for ten 100 word articles as writing samples, all unique of course, by Wednesday. Need to know if you're a professional

Enter John Smith, Today's Star of the Valentines' Match-Game: Our very own necromantic effeuiller la marguerite, John of Sinope [Lives of Eminent Philosophers, Book VI, Chpt. 2, Sec. 49] counts the petals before he hatches them (they die when he picks them for they whisper when he listens them—), genuflecting beinebietend for lieben from the morts, for better or worse to bet on the petron, versuchend hesuxian, he solicits the conticent stonesilent stature 7'10" of immovable gesture—for love? "On this earth I beatlabor my heart," spoke heaven to Peter.

Contestant #1 in February's Marcescence: As pedals wilt to hands and 4 legs walk on 2, this Himalayan Monk, well into the 10,000th year of unceasing-dharmraised fingertip-apogee (in front of Alexander the Great when once he stomped the ground—"tohubohu! dustballs on the dance of his feet!" (Genesis 1:2)—now he reaches to heaven for return), with the "ooo-ooo-ooo, cold on me" mathetes-mantra, i.e. a Posture from this Lifevirus Host for a Ghostlimb of Frostbite Exposure, i.e. a trade of living and dining's right to bear arms and bite of samsara for a snowman's unbrachiable withered twigs (as where thanatos twines nativity, the amaranth lives unborn)—this man of devotion, if receiving a dish of unordered food on your first night out, indeed this "tofubuffon! harkening for no plate yet conceived!" (ibid.) will, with no "s'il vous plait, garçon" but a patience for death's listful depetalsilence, raising his arm to be called on, decirculate all its blood for a deadlimb inanimate. From Jan to Feb, door to fever, the thermometer changes tempo, until what ninxit is frozen when now is forever.

Contestant #2 in Furthuring Manuvantara: (When to have your earth is to be it too, a solipsist stops taking showers. From this prodrome of dirty pores, consciousness, as—identity; ideation; adam; man; mind—membrane, builds an internal world of its own preserved impermeability: paradeisos, surrounded by walls.)—but this chrysostomus chews the aura in his diet with the sun-umbrae in his dial; his enchiridon is written without a hand; vade secum goes on without the him—Before Kesey had time to step outside and meet the man in his driveway (9 Perry Lane, Palo Alto), Cassady had already disassembled his own car with a single toothbrush, e.g. an exported deadlimb of the inanimate, an irredentures of an orimort immemorial, a nuggetory nothing of chrysostomus gold, he took everywhere he went: just as Gad-Zooks Zounds the Odds-Bodkins (sticmata-takabasis-tolgotha, three in a row), Neal was always washing the life right off his face, and miraculously with clothes always clean—though they were never new: the undying are not born (lotus floating dry on water, Gita 5:10)—this chauffrenetique, free from sapience, homoousios with the inanimate world around him, this mundal-mandala-manuvantara axis upon which all traffic revolved, who could see around blind corners and straight into the future, will always get you to the theater on time for date night.

Contestant #3 in Valete to the Times and all of Unchanging: (A) Asking questions moves the future into the present—"We will what I am now"—ontic insecurity. (smiley Repetition is death instinct: John Smith begged to statues to practice unrelenting rejection—"I am not your I am" (Hosea 1:9) and the iconodules could always refind themselves—this as immortality. (C) Acceptance, perfection preserved at the sacrifice of the world—"Ehyeh Aser Ehyeh," (Exodus 3:14) and the burning bush was not consumed, forever the same—this as death. (E) Jazz?—"bebop bebop bebop" and YHWH became BBP—the spontaneous is but once and begone forever: Bird Lives!

I wanna be tooty

www.deviantart.com/agxt/art/Gruntilda-s-Beauty-648487729

I mean, how could you not. As an FA, I feel lucky to find a partner that simply accepts that I find them beautiful. Finding someone turned on by their weight feels literally impossible. So if I'm with someone who is fat and doesn't like it, kinda hard to not feel a little bad about that. Just annoying that it takes a year into a relationship sometimes for belly play to be acceptable. Imagine what it's like for people with normal interests, how easy it must be to connect with people

Melting candle is a criminally underrated body type for fat people

The dating pool for this kinda stuff is MAYBE 3-4 people in any given area.

Try giving it 30 years or so then let yourself get frustrated

This isn't a needle in a haystack. You're looking for an iron atom in a hay-field, and your trespassing

I was a caretaker/driver for a retired poetry professor who was 95% immobile for a few weeks. Was supposed to be just a driver but her caretaker bailed constantly and what could I do, just leave her there alone to cry? I'm talking she couldn't walk at all. Not even to the bathroom; just stand up, turn around, and sit in a wheelchair. Anything more than 20 seconds on her feet and she was dying. And nothing in her house was set up to accommodate any of these needs. Not her toilet. Not her shower. Not her room. Not her bed. She had giant lymphedema growths on her legs and refused to admit she needed stop going to poetry readings that didn't know she was an immobile woman. Everything hurt her. Even breathing. She refused to buy a car that was modified for her needs, so every time we had to go somewhere we had to rent a car. And they would always bring the wrong car. And she would always scream about it, like someone had just stabbed her in the leg. It would take 4 hours just to get in the car. That meant out of bed, to the bathroom, get her compression garments on, find a way to the garage without dying and pray the rental company got there in the right car. So she'd be in the back of a car that was too small screaming daggers into the closed cockpit of a ford fiesta the entire 3 hour drive because her joints were so stiff she couldn't bend her legs. And the poetry readings, they were never ready for her. No communication at all. It was insane. She would just get a gig for a poetry reading and we'd be off, never mind the fact that there's literally no wheelchair access within a half mile of some of these places. My first day on the job we went to a reading in a city 2 hours away. She didn't tell me anything about her needs and when we get there, I had apparently forgotten the cushion on her wheelchair at her house. So she couldn't get out of it when she sat down because it was too low. She said "You killed me, you literally killed me". But you know what, I fucking figured it out. I got her to that god damn poetry reading on time and it took a over dozen building staff from 3 different city blocks to do it. Janitors using secret routes at 3am because we couldn't get out any other way. Security personnel unlocking doors that even they didn't have access to at first. Really eye opening job. People in her position need constant care or they quickly break down. Quickly. And when I got there she was in the final stages of neglect. Most stressful thing I've ever done. May god have mercy on anyone in the path of her poetry readings.

Always a little surprised with the lack of FA's and gainers who are into the supreme mega squishiness that comes with fat bodies that have lost weight. It's like making love to melted ice cream.

If FF wants to be paid for their "work" maybe they can reprogram this website to actually be functional. Instead of trying to capitalize off the only talent on the website: the writers of the community. Who in their right mind would pay 10 bucks a month for a website that can't even accurately tell you who lives in your local area, is beyond me.

Could not agree more. When I was a kid, I had a crush on the two fattest girls in school, and they both had kind of an odor to them. I remember inviting one of them over to play video games because she was my friend's brother and the couch was stinky where she was sitting, and the smell stayed there for a few days. None of my friends would go near it but all I wanted to do was bathe in it and always smell like her. It was my first erotic memory. I ended up dating the second girl later on and she had the strongest smell of anyone I've ever met. It was the most intimate thing of my life, I was addicted to having her smell on me, and it was almost impossible to get off. It alienated me from other people and made me her sex slave. The whole house ended up smelling like her and no one would come over. And I'm haunted by it because no one else has ever done that for me and it's all I've ever wanted