Gonna keep this brief. I'm home. Logged into my web log, but I'm not doin' any lengthy entries tonight. My desk chair just broke. It made some kinda clonking sound when I first sat down it, but I didn't pay it any mind. (Heck, you should hear the barge-on-wheels protest when I get in it!) Turned on the computer, logged on, and while I was waiting for my blog template to come up, the world just fell out from under me! Two of the heavy plastic rollers decided to snap at the same time, the chair tipped and slid out from under me. And then I was sitting on the floor.

What got me concerned, though, is the sound the floor made when I landed on it. All of a sudden, that Ruth Pontico story didn't sound so far-fetched. May wanna consider moving to a building with more solid foundation.

Anyway, I have to stand to type this, so that's all for tonight. See ya at work tomorrow. . .

10/24/01
[6:30 p.m.]

Well, the big project turns out to be an apartment: spacious with comfortably wide doors and closets (any single doorway that allows me to get through it without having to angle myself or bump my hips against the frame is clearly fat friendly!) Very bright and welcoming, with furniture that's also girth worthy. Of course, I tried it as soon as I could: after sitting all day in the office, it feels as if I'm dragging about a hundred extra pounds, most of it in my belly.

This afternoon, I happened upon a website devoted to side show performers (some of the feeder sites linked to circus fat ladies). Came upon a page about Baby Ruth Pontico, a monumental woman who supposedly reached the weight of 815 pounds. Not sure how accurate that is - looking at her photo, she doesn't seem any larger than me - but even at her size, she was apparently able to get around on her own two feet. (There's a reported incident where she supposedly fell through the floor of her sister's house, but it may be apocryphal!) I mention this because it occurs to me that I've made several references in postings to feeling wiped after only walking a short distance. I do, but like Baby Ruth, I keep goin' on, anyway!

But back to the apartment: the place looks inviting (though, clearly, it could use a woman's touch!), large enough to house a family, not just a single working male professional. Apparently, it was built for the boss-man. Tripper's been living in a rent-by-the-month suite on the edge of town. Man, this company has some great perks!

Jack showed off his new domicile. Like I noted, it was slow going. But, fortunately, there were plenty of chairs and stools for me to rest on along the way. Midpoint into the tour, we came upon two rooms being used for storage. The first had a whole wall of kegs, lots of cartons with the "Ample Services" logo, and a motorized wheelchair that, believe it or not, was actually spacious enough to accommodate me. "Wanna try it out?" Tripper asked, and I didn't need to be asked a second time.

I could get used to this, I thought. Sitting in the chair, sandaled feet supported by two footrests, I feel like an empress - or is that a goddess? - on her throne.

"Looks like I'm gonna replace your desk chair," Tripper decided. "This is yours to use for as long as you want." With that, he led me back into the front office. "If you can give me another half hour, I'd love to take you to dinner," he said.

I agreed and pulled my assignment list from my desk drawer. Let's make it another working dinner, I told him, and he happily agreed.

We should be leaving any minute now: thankfully, since I haven't had a thing to eat in over an hour. Signing off from my new space age motorchair . . .

10/24/01
[4:45 p.m.]

Jack brought back a carton of subs, so between 'em and my keg, I was set for the afternoon. Went into my email service earlier this afternoon and found a buncha messages from the feeder crowd. Apparently, word of both my gain and growing capacity has been rapidly spreading through that community - with mixed reactions. Some of the writers seem to think I'm a hoax (can't blame 'em for that!) Others say simply that they wish they knew a woman like me. Still more don't care if I'm real or not. That's the Internet for ya!

I've even had some would-be feeders offering to send me money or coupons for food. Yet another offered to mail me chocolates, but I'm not sure I'd be willing to eat anything that came anonymously over the mail. (Sounds like something one of your more naïve feeder fantasy chickies would do - and, of course, the chocos would be spiked with some kind of unnaturally fattening formula!) Sent each one the office address, so let's see how full of hot air they are, eh?

Nuthin' from Ample Stuffer, though. Was it something I said, AS?

Jack's just popped his head out of the office. Says he wants to show me the back area. Will write more later!

10/24/01
[noon]

Tripper just popped in, apologized for being unable to take me to lunch and offered to go buy some sandwiches on his treat. I was so relaxed at my desk that the thought of leaving the office wasn't that appealing, anyway. So I nodded my head, told him that I'd have whatever he was having and continued perusing the feeder sites. Tripper grinned, headed for the door then turned to ask, "So how is it?"

"'It'?" I asked, then I realized he was looking at the silent food pump. It'd emptied maybe forty minutes ago, but you could see droplets of the liquid supplement scattered throughout the length of the tube. "Oh," I blushed. "Very good. I don't know how anybody could resist it!"

"Got another in the back, if you'd like," he told me. And, I swear, as he said this, my entire body started quivering with anticipation. (Yeah, that's a whole lotta quivering!) I looked at the image on my monitor, a real-life photo of a smallish 500-pounder tipping a milk shake into her mouth, and I thought bet you wish you were me, woman!

Sure, I said, so Tripper left to retrieve a full version of the Ample Services food pump.

He remained to watch me turn it on, watch the liquid nutrition wind through the tubing and into my mouth. I swear I've never seen a man look so happy with anything I've done before. And, even better, I loved doing it! Once I post this entry, I plan to sit back, increase pump speed and do some serious imbibing until Tripper gets back.

He can take his time.

10/24/01 [9:51 a.m.]

Ugh, the alarm went off way too early this a.m. Hit the snooze button and went into a meal fugue; when the alarm buzzed a second time, I'd mentally re-devoured all the main courses and was into a gallon-sized bowl of banana pudding. Feeling irrationally disappointed, I rose, washed up and inspected my new Ample Services order.

My dress has no size label in it. (What goes beyond "super-goddess," anyway? "Circus freak"?) But it slipped over my huge self without any difficulty. Only drops to mid-calf, so I show a lotta leg when I'm sitting. Didn't realize how much my calves bulged in front now.

The dress is pretty lightweight, which is fine with me - I generate plenty of body warmth on my own, thanks. Heck, just walking outside to my car, I could taste the sweat on my upper lip.

Hit the drive-thru at MacDonald's on the way to work and filled the passenger seat. Two blocks out of the parking lot, I had to pull over. The food smelled so scrumptious that all I wanted to do was dig into it. Parked by a Kroger's and ate like I hadn't been fed in days. Got a bit of egg on my dress, but, fortunately, the floral pattern masked it. As a result of my excursion, I arrived at the office forty minutes late.

Tripper was understanding, however.

"Patti called," he said, after I'd puffed out my apology. "Said you might be tardy - wanted to apologize herself for keeping you out so late."

"Totally my fault," I insisted, noticing that Tripper'd restocked the snack supply. "Hope I didn't miss anything," I added. Tripper moved around me, opening a box of coffee cake muffins and placing it by my keyboard as an offering. In so doing, his leg brushed against my pendant paunch. The feeling was electric.

"Received some product from Ample Services today," he told me. "It's in back." He clicked and swiftly left the room, only to return with what looked like a pony keg on wheels with a large fish tank pump where the spigot should be. I asked if he was planning on throwing a kegger.

No, he explained. It wasn't a beer keg at all, but a pump designed to help the bedridden receive nutrition. A boon for nursing home or hospice situations, he said; it delivered a liquid mixture of vitamins, proteins and carbohydrates to those unable to eat.

"Sounds unappetizing," I said. I flashed on an old college roomie who used to three meal it on SlimFast. She'd talked me into trying the stuff once. Really nasty.

"I know it does," Tripper agreed, "but word is the food techs up north really outdid themselves in the flavor department. Could be bullshit, of course." He turned to head back to his office, leaving the pump by my desk.

"Anything you need me to be doing?" I asked, before he could disappear behind the door for the rest of the day.

"Just mind the store," he said cheerily. "Maybe we can do lunch?" Before I could answer, he was out of the room.

And I worried about coming in late for this? I couldn't help thinking. Sat back in my ample chair, rolling back and forth on the floor until I was within arm's reach of the pump. A long translucent tube was attached to the motorized casing, I saw. There seemed to be a single on and off switch, plus a dial for regulating pump speed. Without thinking, I flipped the pump to "on."

The sound of the motor nearly shocked me from my chair. Quickly, I reached over to shut it off. A stream of liquid nutrients had started to snake through the tubing, I saw. Damn, I realized, now Tripper'll know I've been playing with his machine. I rolled away, but was back beside the pump almost immediately. Without giving it a second thought, I'd turned the machine back on and lifted the tube to my lips.

Haven't taken it out of my mouth since. Here I am, sitting at the keyboard, with a steady flow of liquid nutrition being pumped into me, and I'm like one of those cartoon characters you see on feeder sites: sitting massive beyond real-life capacity, being tube-fed into even vaster size. When I first saw those jpg.s, I remember feeling pretty uncomfortable with 'em, but at the moment I can imagine how blissfully happy these fantasy women must be. It's like some form of sensual inner massage. The fluid comes in at a steady rate, but so slowly that it takes minimal effort to swallow it. It's creamy, with a trace of graininess - a little bit like an incompletely mixed malted. Can't really describe the flavor that Ample Services' food techs have come up with. Every time I try to focus on it, it seems to be something different. But it's definitely addictive.

But, then, I already said I had an addictive personality, didn't I?

10/24/01
[1:12 a.m.]

Didn't get home until after midnight. The Dorians sure know how to put on a spread!

Followed Patti D. out to their house in the country - soon as I hit the driveway of their brick ranch house, I could smell the grillin'. The scent of cooked beef and chicken wafting through the air was enough to get my stomach rumbling. I parked behind Patti's SUV; she led me through the garage into the house, and we both collapsed onto a pair of sturdy couches.

"Eric's serving tonight," she indicated, raising a large cheese tray onto her globular forefront and efficiently lifting cheese and crackers to her lips. There was, I saw, a twin platter on the table to the left of me.

As we noshed and chatted, I could see Patti's hubby through a glass sliding door. He was tending to a two-shelved gas grill large enough to accommodate three humongous steaks, plus a side of baby back ribs. Nearby, a second kettle grill was smoking happily: I was guessing it contained the chickens.

I was right, but in addition to three five-pound roasting chickens, Eric had managed to cram in some large Yukon potatoes and portabella mushrooms. Away from the restaurant, Patti had spent the day filling their double-wide fridge with fresh salads. When we finished our cheese trays, she took me into the kitchen ("We eat all our meals at home here - it's close to the Source," she explained, but before I could even say huh? the woman was holding a warm stuffed mushroom to my lips.) Four large stools were set around a stainless steel island, I saw. Both stools and counter had been designed to allow even the largest belly optimal access to the grub.

We'd timed our arrival well, it seems. Soon as Patti had distributed all the side dishes, Eric entered the room with his first tray of grilled steaks. The smallest 'un had to be a good 30-ounces. I wasn't given the smallest.

I'm afraid I wasn't much of a conversationalist that night: I was too focused on the food. Neither Patti nor Eric seemed to mind; they both seemed to get off on describing how they'd prepared each item. At one point, I made a point of asking Patti why - when she spent so much of her working life in the food biz - she didn't just do something quick 'n' easy on her day off. "The Law of Return," she answered. "We both get pleasure and benefit from good food. It's incumbent, then, that we use food to give pleasure to others. Like you."

Clearly, Ms. Patti has a New Age streak in her. "Close to the Source. . . Law of Return." Maybe she's a member of the Fat Majicke club, eh? But, who cares, if it helps spark such divine cooking? Wound up eating all night: rib-eye steak, a side of b-b-q ribs, a whole chicken, plus Patti's side dishes and a layer of chocolate cake with homemade ice cream that was indescribable.

I can barely remember the drive home. Getting out of my car, I was so exhausted that I fell back against it, slamming the door shut and ripping several seams as I did. Took me a half hour to get to my apartment - a walk that used to take two-three minutes, tops. When I arrived, I found an Ample Services package waiting for me. Now that's fast service!