Spent time visiting my first "feedee" site tonight: a super-sized woman who calls her ongoing intention weight gain "body-building." The chick had a photo of herself in the strategically fuzzed-out nude, guzzling cream as an unseen hand poured it into a funnel. She looks about my size.

I'm sorry, but cream? Where's the fun in that? Where's the joy of dining, of chewing on a tasty cut of beef, of cutting into a moist slice of chocolate cake? All this tube-fed nonsense: is it me or does is seem sort of, well, infantile? I swear, there are some things that I'll never understand!

10/18/01
[5:21 p.m.]

I cheated. Phoned Bea and asked her if she'd be willing to do an errand for me. I told her I'd pay her back if she'd go to the dress shop and pick up any color "empress" tank dress (500 - 550 pounds range). The one she returned with was a lot more colorful than I would've chosen, but at least I could move around in it. We went to Sinorak's for lunch, and I treated her. For a girl her size, she sure eats like a bird.

Outdid myself at Sinorak's: stayed after Bea left to go to work and into the evening. Thought of doing a new assignment, but I'd left my list at home, and when I got back there, I felt too wiped to go back again. So here I am, at the computer again, typing this new blog entry. Started it an hour ago but got distracted between paragraphs: reminiscin' about today's lunch again, I guess. Think I'll order some pizzas tonight. . .

10/18/01
[7:14 a.m.]

Work up an hour ago, but I wasn't feeling hungry yet. Instead, I just lay there and once more mentally revisited my meal at the French restaurant. Like I had in the parking lot, I went through each item in turn - faster, of course, since this was a meal of memory - but, even so, I could still feel myself getting full, fuller, fullest. Lying on my back, it almost looked as if my breasts and belly were growing more substantial, felt as if my chins were rubbing against my neck more than they had before. When I went to don my dress, I could barely fit it over my body.

So I'm typing this quick post in the nude again. I know if I try to sit in that much-stressed "super" dress, it'll be all over for it. The question to ask now, of course, is: can I drive to the boutique without a mishap? Inquiring minds wanna know. . .