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Little Diabetic Debbie
🕑 Added 2021-03-19 01:55:45 +0000 UTCContent Warning: In-depth (only somewhat medically accurate) discussion of diabetes.
Little Diabetic Debbie
As long as I’ve known you, I’ve discovered the true extent of your weight problem that stems from your addiction to sugar. Sodas, chocolate bars, ice cream, cookies are all treats you gobble. Yet, nothing compares to a snack cake. My nickname for you is Debbie. I know it pisses you off, but what else are you going to do? You can’t get up and fight me, and you certainly can’t piss me off because I’m the only one willing to bring you decadent treats. Everyone else abandoned you because they can’t sit here and watch you eat yourself to death. Hell, your living room even smells like death. It makes anyone who would see you terribly depressed and disheartened by what you’ve eaten yourself into: an immobile diabetic blob. That’s why I call you Debbie; You’re my Little Diabetic Debbie pounding down snack cakes like your life depends on it, which is ironically what is swiftly killing you.
At first, I thought you were joking about getting the summer snack cakes three years ago that reminded you of your childhood and taking your porky ass to the beach years later as a ‘grown’ adult. Next, it turned Fall, and you were hooked on these calorie-laden lard cakes with their assortment of designs and flavors. They had unique pumpkin-flavored ones for Halloween, and then a new design came out for Thanksgiving. Before you knew it, Christmas rolled around with Christmas tree cakes. In February, heart-shaped cakes hit the market, with March following with St. Patrick’s day cakes. The trend repeated itself, and now we are here again in March three years later. One thousand eighty days of snack cakes damage a body, which is coincidentally the same number that shows up on the bed scale you’re on.
Your father, Jason, is probably to blame, not that I’m complaining. Happy? Sad? Angry? You’re conditioned to need these cakes from your childhood because it was sweat your father gave you to calm you down. Or reward you. The spectrum of emotions reminds you how good it feels to eat them with abandon. The Little Debbie’s are all you think about. They are more precious than life itself. I’m almost certain all you eat are these cakes now, and you’re getting your just desserts.
It’s brutal to see you in this state, even for someone as extreme as me. Yet, that’s what turns me on and convinces me to keep bringing you the cakes over celery sticks. It’s the reason I get off during the day and then mercilessly fuck your belly at night. I can’t get enough of how much abuse you’re putting your body through for mediocre sponge cakes filled with a thin layer of cream and coated in crumbly icing. It makes me sick to eat a pack of them while you slam down entire packs in half an hour. Honestly, it’s god damn disgusting (and sexy) seeing you plow through whole boxes of snack cakes for breakfast, knowing you’ll want more with a gallon of milk for lunch. You’ll practically be begging and screaming for more like a petulant child.
I remember the first time I saw your eyes light up. I mean, really light up. I thought you lit up for me during sex, clapping those fat cheeks, but I wasn’t prepared for this level of addiction and excitement. “Look at this new snack cake,” you beamed at me. You told yourself you didn’t need it, contemplating and pacing the store, but you still bit your lip in anticipation. I bought them for you as a treat, but I didn’t expect you to eat them before I could even pay for them, prompting you to pick up several additional boxes. Your weight problem was prominent before, but it only got worse. I can’t deny that I loved it. I still do. First, you couldn’t fit through the door, leaving you homebound. Then, you couldn’t get out of bed anymore, leaving you bed-bound. Now your body is deteriorating fast. None of it is enough to stop you. You constantly crave the sugar.
A few years ago, I would’ve said it was possible to lose a lot of weight. If you put in the time and effort to eat right and exercise, you’d have a lot of life left to live, but now I’m singing a different tune. All that sugar turned into a lot of pure fat that continues to sculpt your body out further and further. I know your health is becoming a concern, but it doesn’t stop you. Actually, forget it becoming a concern. It’s beyond the concern level. You’d either be ignorant or maybe just plain stupid if you thought there would be any way to reverse your bad habits now; Destroying yourself with sucrose is too ingrained into your biological composition now.
Do I need to remind you how bad you let it go? Remember when the fire crew had to move all 800 pounds of you to the hospital when you knew something was wrong? I knew for awhile by the smell of your fruity breath, excessive need to use the restroom, and constant thirst. Your pancreas went on strike. I mean, what was your body supposed to do with all that sugar? What did you think would happen? That it would all just go away? Wrong. All that extra sugar made you store more fat. It caused your blood sugar to spike out of control. And it made you burn through your insulin at such an alarming rate the doctor almost refused to help you. It’s expensive for us, but it’s worth it.
In the spirit of honesty, I want you to know that bed-bound people sugar-boarding themselves with processed treats don’t live long; the body can only take so much, and we know your health is almost gone completely. You’re on borrowed time, sweetheart. You know that. Given the historical context and how you are now, you don’t have long. I mean, look at you. It went from bad to worse once you stopped getting around.
How do you not notice your a few cakes away from death? Your limbs are puffy, rolls off fat, and sag with every pathetic attempt to lift your arms. I didn’t know a belly could be so massive, but here is yours dangling off the sides of your bariatric bed and spreading your legs so far apart it looks like you’re doing the splits. Your thighs retain water, and between them and your belly, there’s no cock to be found. Your whole body is covered in dark stretch marks in varying shades of red and purple, cottage cheese cellulite, and discoloration from the lack of oxygen and blood flow. It makes you even more gorgeous. Any normal person would gag at the sight of you mixed with the smell of decaying broken skin. You lost your right foot to complications with your diabetes. You can fight all you want, but it won’t be long before your left foot is just a nub from another disgusting amputation. Your wounds stopped healing, so j have to put in a lot of work, so you don't become septic.
“Another box?” I ask deviously.
Your glazed-over eyes blink, and the weight of your chins choke you, causing you to snort like a pig in response. It’s charming that you can’t just eat one cake like an average person. One leads to two, and two leads to even more until you’ve eaten one box and cry out for another. You cram each cake into your mouth, hardly able to breathe. Crumbs travel down your chin like an avalanche and into your chest hair. You don’t care that you eat and gasp for breath causing you to snort like a pig. All that matters is getting more sugar in your bloodstream until you go from feeling high to feeling like shit and wanting to die.
Another box down, your third this morning, but it’s still not enough to satisfy your ludicrous cravings. I pass you another box as your mouth waters. You don’t even open the box correctly. You tear at it like a beast dissecting its prey. Sometimes I worry you’ll just eat the cakes with the plastic still wrapped around the morsel.
When you’ve finally had your fill and need a break as you feel your body start to give, you feel the actual consequences of your gluttonous intake. Your blood sugar constantly spikes. The poison rushes through your bloodstream. You can’t think straight and need to nap from the sugar crash. Fuck that. I’m going to max out your overtaxed body. This fetish is killing you. Your addiction is killing you. Snack cakes are your kryptonite, and mine is watching their effects on your blimp body. I love your delicious, crippling obesity. “Want another box of Little Debbies, sweetie?” That’s right, I know what you want, and no one is going to take your sugar away as long as I’m around.
