An eventful morning.

Chapter 1 - Waking Up

Waking up has never been easy for a guy like me.
For some odd reason my body likes to try and soak up all the warmth and comfort it can, making me drag out the simple process of getting out of bed. Most days it takes thirty to forty minutes to finally snap into my morning routine.
I always start with a nice warm shower to remind myself of my first love, my bed. I sweat profusely in my sleep so if I skip my daily shower, I stink. It’s not a deep musty odor like you’d smell on a mechanic after a long day of working in the shop, but a salty, desperate smell.
After taking too long in the shower, I have to start the day with my first challenge: clothing.
I look in my closet and start this battle. My first opponent is a plain grey shirt. I put it on and I immediately know it’s not going to work, but I must be a masochist as I walk towards my floor length mirror.
“This shirt must’ve shrunk in the wash,” I whisper to no one in particular. The men on the posters in my room look as if they’re smirking, making fun of me with their sultry faces.
There’s about an inch of pale, hairy flesh poking out from underneath this shirt but I didn’t notice that. I only noticed the massive grease stain on the abdomen that screamed the words slob at me. I looked like a fool, standing there in my underwear and a shirt that must be two sizes too small.
I quickly threw it off, exposing my almost naked body. From the crotch down I looked fine with my thick, hairy thighs, massive calves, and large feet. But my woes lie above the belt.
Would you still call it the freshman fifteen if you dropped out of college and gained triple that amount? I was a big kid before I gained all this weight, but I look totally different now. My once average jaw is now hiding under a blanket of fat on my face, rounding out my mediocre looks with a second chin. Ive always had bigger pecs but they’ve exploded into massive furry tits that strain all of my poor shirts. But the worst part by far has to be my stomach.
To be frank, I look pregnant. I have a massive mound of flesh poking out of my once flat stomach. I don’t know how it got this bad. After leaving school I had so much free time. And that sounds great in theory, but in practice all I would do after work was sit on my ass and shovel food into the bottomless pit that is my stomach. The worst part is that I can’t blame anyone. There’s no huge trauma that turned me into this pig, nobody’s forcing these sweets into my mouth. It’s just me and my insatiable appetite.
I had no time to moan and complain so I finally tore my gaze away from the mirror to find a new shirt. After three failed attempts to cover my gut in an appropriate way, I finally found a black shirt that gave me just enough room to completely cover my gut. Now it was time for my second opponent: Pants. My job has a strict no sweatpants policy that I’ve already gotten written up for so those are out of the question.
I have two clean pairs of pants. The first pair looked promising, the went all the way up and I didn’t even have to yank at them, but the zipper of these pants culled any chance of me getting off easily. The second pair were these new jeans my father bought me. This was twenty pounds ago when he saw me pop a button at a dinner he hosted (I cried in the bathroom like a baby). These pants didn’t even get past my thighs. I even laid on my bed and pulled in vain. They didn’t budge.
I had to accept my defeat and pulled out the khaki shorts I wore yesterday. They were covered in the frosting of the donuts I ate last night. I wanted to die. Pulling these shorts up and smelling that familiar “dirty-clothes smell” added salt to this gaping wound that I’ve been festering for months.
With this added bulk in the way, getting my shoes on was a challenge and a chore. If I had any money to spend I’d probably buy a pair of those shoes old people buy after getting too frail to tie them, but I spend all of my money on the monster that is my stomach.
Getting to my car is easy, since I’m on the bottom floor of my apartment. How could you fuck up going to your car you ask? Well that’s easy, you just leave your keys in the door.
Going from my room to my car, back to my room, and then my car again should’ve been easy, but no. For some reason by the time I plopped down into my front seat I was covered in sweat and panting like a dog, but I was finally ready to leave.
Now it’s time for my favorite question of all time, “what am I going to eat?” I don’t know why I ask it, I know the answer, my car is littered with their bags, and my stomach is growling, anticipating this delicious morning meal. I pulled into McDonald’s with the joy only a fat guy or small child could have.