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Stats & Data

July 17, 2008


You got me this time fat girl. You cornered me in the bar and sat on my heart. I let my guard down and you waltzed right into my biggest mistake.  You think I don’t see you there with your chicken tenders. And those dipping sauces. Oh, those sauces! You know how to eat, baby. Oh yeah, that’s all you know how to do, but you do it so well. Which makes me think you’re probably pretty good with your mouth. Mmmhmmm!

I get separated from the sobers and that’s when you pounce. Meow. An obese tigress on the hunt. You tell me you know the way and I believe you, because I don’t find you threatening or attractive. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, because you’re in charge. “No, no, come on, they’re waiting for us back at my place,” you chortle . And I’m drunk enough not to remember my own name, so I believe your big lies. The next thing I know, a tidal wave of sexy curves collapses on me all at once and all I can think of is... Flubber. Robin Williams. I love that movie. But I love your moves even more. Especially when you get off my hip. Ouch.

I wear you like a blanket. Made of thick fleece. A love blanket, but only in winter, because in summer it’s way too hot to use. And you loves it, fat girl, you crave it. Almost as much as you love catching those last flecks of parmesan at the corners of your mouth on Italian buffet night. Cheesy satisfaction. Not quite, but almost as good.

And we pound each other like music. Or a bass drum. Like a fist caught in an elephant’s asshole. Sweet, sweet, heavy music. I blow chunks, but you eat my cookies and keep going. We’ve come this far. And you’re still hungry. I peed on your nightstand. "No biggie," you snarl. I’ve thrown you down the fuck hill and nothing can stop your roll.

The next morning I wake up crying in your chubby mustache. You have dimples where you shouldn’t. I don’t scream, because I couldn’t stop your charge. I surrender and retreat. The only casualty, my pants, trapped beneath your thigh. And I run. I run so fast, and so hard until I sweat out the memory of it all. And I don’t look back. Cause I never want to be fat.

I won't remember this,

-Ben George