I eat to full capacity. Not bloated or overflowing my seat pockets, nor spilling through the stitching of a shrinking costume; neither a whale ballet or a lipid tsunami, much less a creosote pajama, and hardly the alarming realization that one's contentious behavior has become a soapy bloated figure, a sallow sow waddling along sniffing its unable-to-reach flapjack arms, wicked-like as in the cinematic pan over a field of corpulence, carbohydrates compounding into a dizzy autopsy report, what's your cholesterol questions, what-are-you-some-kinda-lard-dump, all that and all this, but wait, think a minute, if possible, and, wait for it, yep: enzymes, body shock, and a slow bubble emerging. The original assertion is a lie. I eat like a teenager, fourteen sandwiches, forty ham & cheese rolls, ninety jars of mayonnaise sipped through straws, unspeakable gallons of vegetable oil, fed intravenously and showered through the eyes, nostrils becoming siphons, imagine an overeating aardvark, a chubby anteater, becoming a sucking machine and also resembling its prey, a pulpy termite, beige purple-headed grub, the size of a school bus, Noah's ark, the state of Arkansas, a world-sized shopping mall buffet, shoved down my esophagus, waiting for the nitrates, the dairy products, the grains, raisins, muesli, yoghurt, pâté, breaded goodies, eggs, lactose, mustards, and caffeine to blend and or send me to the doctor.
(wait for it)
eyes used for tooth support
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