The housewarming party was a success. Like the Open House, it also was catered by the gang at Sinorak's. The Dorians brought in four portable heating tables, set 'em in the front room and kept 'em regularly replenished for the partygoers. Patti and Eric; Bea and her boyfriend Alec; an unfamiliar plump couple (by "plump," you know I mean somewhere in the area of 600-700 pounds by now, don't you?) named the Hues; Doreen, the boutique owner; plus a host of other plus-sized men and women - many of 'em customers. Lots of fun.

I managed to surpass myself in the gorging department: it was as if the presence of all these other dining fat folk had released some kind of binge-inducing pheromone or something. By the time the last guests left, there wasn't a part of me that didn't feel too stuffed to move: even my toes felt too swollen to wiggle. Don't know how Tripper got me into bed, but he managed.

So, here I am, typing another quick entry: with my bed angled, I'm able to two-hand the keyboard - only if the shelf's raised enough to rest on my breasts, that is. (Thank goodness, I was schooled in touch typing, eh?) Trip's still up, doing last minute clean-up, but he was kind enough to roll another keg into my bedroom before he started. Think I'll post this puppy, log off and have a few small swigs before I go to sleep. And if I conk off without shutting down the pump, well, that's my mistake, isn't it?

10/30/01
[4:03 p.m.]

As expected, the office Open House was a bust, though I had a good time chatting with Patti Dorian. Tripper had contracted with Sinorak's to provide the usual toothpick food (a tray of meatballs, cubes of cheese and processed meat, veggies and dip) plus a Pepsi dispenser. Patti came to supervise the delivery - and decorate the apartment for tonight's party as well. She thoughtfully set the Open House trays and pop machine within reach of yours truly.

At one point, I tried pinning her down on the mystical jargon she'd been spouting last week. Asked her if she was familiar with the Fast Majicke site, and she smiled knowingly, indicating that, yes, she was a regular visitor. She was raised more traditionally, but her experiences over the last few years had broadened her viewpoint.

Well, I can understand this broadening thing, at least.

10/30/01
[8:51 a.m.]

Needed Tripper's help to get out of the bed this a.m. Lying on my back, my weight spreads against the bed so much that I have to motorvate the mattress into a forty-five degree angle and then let gravity plus my forefront pull me into a standing position. I can feel - though certainly not see - my lowermost belly settling against my bare feet. Unlike many of the extremely fat, my paunch hasn't divided into dual dangling bulges (you can see this on some women and men when they venture out into the world wearing sweatpants), but if I lean to either the left or right even slightly, it'll swing toward that direction. Used to have to just worry about being pulled forward, but now I'm at a size where - well, fat goes where it wants to go.

I should probably describe myself a little more thoroughly, so let's mentally return to the bathroom, okay? Picture this:

I've just dried off after a shower, and Tripper has helped me off my bench. I hold myself standing for as long as I'm able, raising my arms so my slip can be pulled over my head. My upper arms sag, pressing against my ears and draping a good eight inches down the side of my torso. I quickly lower 'em as Tripper pulls the slip across my torso. Even in a resting position, my arms remain nearly perpendicular: my sides are too wide to let 'em go any lower.

Once my slip has been eased across my body, I gratefully crumble onto my motorchair. One last flash of my standing self shows my lower belly edging out under the hem of my slip; once I'm seated, it rises from the floor and shows even more dimpled skin. My lower legs and bare feet are just barely visible in the shadow of my paunch, but you can see my calves drooping over my ankles, see the puffy balls and heels of my feet.

Sitting, my belly becomes so prominent that it keeps me from using both hands at once on the keyboard. Atop it, my breasts rest. Refusing to be dwarfed by my pre-eminent paunch, they mound before me imperiously, creating a gap in my slip large enough to store a twelve-ounce bag of chips. (Not that I'd want to, of course - it'd be too scratchy!)

My hair's still long, ponytailed since it keeps getting caught between my back and the chair. Pulled back, it shows off even more of my face. My cheeks look like my mouth is perpetually full (not too far from the truth): they bulge far ahead of my nose and mouth, only to be surpassed by my chins, the largest of which drapes an inch beyond the rest of my face. Use a little light lip gloss but otherwise am makeup-free. The gloss doesn't usually last through breakfast.

Today, I weigh in the range of 1,500 pounds. I'm not the largest of Ample Stuffing's staff - and definitely not the biggest of their regular customers - but I'm part of a special minority. Gazing at my reflection, I see the monumental woman I've become. I wouldn't change it for anything.

As for "concreat" measurements, I'm not sure how to give 'em these days. So much of my extra belly weight, for instance, is devoted into moving floorwards not outwards, which makes it difficult to gauge my true circumference. Last time I tried holding up my front while standing, I only was able to keep my belly up for about half a minute. When it slipped free and dropped back down toward the floor, the metal tip of the measuring tape nearly put Tripper's eye out! Seated, my breasts take up 132 inches, but the rest - well, let's just say that my hips and waist passed 132 some time ago.

Working up front, it's easier for me to reach the circular reception desk by approaching it sidesaddle. We're having an open house today and an apartment warming party tonight. Don't expect a lotta folks at the former, but hopefully our friends'll show for the latter.