My belly, a pimpled basketball, puffed with pasta, and my chest, just a hoop and a net, swishing wine through. Spent my last *** on cookies and cakes stuffing my cheeks in backwards with gushing gobs and slushy slimes. I go mad like a fat queen. my hot mouth, now a thick, cocoa-creamy swirl, as it turns into a custard-filled pastry of its own.
I do what I can to feel bliss among ****. Try to ignore the flies fizzing like seltzer. The candy wrappers scattered wherever like broken-into envelopes. I feel a large thumb press, press, press my skull to my ankles.
Tossing chocolate chunks square into my throat like bozo buckets. After a while It stops being "eating" and turns into a factory of into me and out of me. In the end, the delicious part always gets too salty and salt over salt is trash and nothing stays an ****** for more than a couple pinches of this or that.
my body yells at me, because it wants nothing more but to **** devil-face with those teeny-tiny, delicious throbbing minutes. I can't feel my life and so I have to eat dinner on the floor.