Pasthi

A licensed dietitian by trade, for the longest time, your girlfriend, Pashti lived by a borderline draconian diet and exercise regime. Somehow, you managed to goad her into trying a box of instant macaroni and cheese. That first, reluctant bite of processed cheese product seemed to flip a switch in Pashti's brain, and things rapidly snowballed from there.

As you enter your apartment's kitchen, you're greeted by the big, greasy pile of caramel-skinned blubber that your dietician girlfriend had transformed into over the course of the last year. The young Indian-American woman's formerly trim middle was buried under a ring of flab that jutted out a foot at its furthest and drooped lazily just above her knees. Her upper arms were similarly inflated with fat, wobbling with even the slightest motion, and impairing her movement. Pashti had managed to fit her tree-trunk legs and double-wide rear into a pair of her old yoga pants, although the fabric was already pushed to its limit. Somewhat surprisingly, Pashti's petite chest was the sole exception to her body's relentless expansion, having barely picked up an ounce of fat and almost disappearing amid a sea of rolls and folds. Sitting in one of her pudgy hands was a bowl of macaroni big enough to feed a family of six, swimming in an ungodly mixture of butter, heavy cream, and additional cheese. In her other hand was an ice cream scoop, which she used to shovel the mess of carbs and saturated fat past her cheese-smeared lips and cheeks.

Mmmmmph! So good! Just needed something to tide me over 'til dinner. BOUUUUURRRRP Another side effect of Pasthti's new diet was the havoc that it wrecked on her lactose-intolerant stomach, resulting in a near-constant barrage of burps and farts. Don't worry. I'll still have my appetite. FFFFFFFRRRRRTTTT