Snackcidentally Overfed…... A bite too
many
By
an Overfed Soul, Starving Spirit
Ladies and gentlemen, gather round.
For tonight, I have an announcement.
A serious one. A tragic one. A deeply
personal one.
I... am going to kill myself.
No, no — not with rope, not with poison,
not with poorly written poetry.
I'm doing it the old-fashioned way:
With butter.
And willful neglect.
You see, I am my own enemy.
I am also my manager, my life coach, my
worst critic, and unfortunately... my personal chef.
And boy, do I cook with love.
By “love,” I mean ghee, cheese, and enough
carbs to sedate a horse.
I pamper myself like a spoiled royal pet.
I feed me like I’m trying to win a cooking
show judged by my own stomach.
I give myself rich food.
Creamy food. Food that jiggles when I
breathe near it.
Food that looks me in the eye and says,
“This ends badly, darling, but it’s worth it.”
And rest? Oh, rest!
I give my body premium rest.
Not just sleep — Olympic-level doing
nothing.
My sofa knows the exact shape of my soul.
I do so little, the word “lazy” filed a
copyright complaint.
Even my muscles have sent me a formal
resignation letter.
“Dear Sir/Madam, we no longer feel needed.
Sincerely, your glutes.”
I make me fat. Proudly. Consistently.
Not by accident, no. By strategic
overfeeding.
I make me lazy —
By convincing myself that every day is
“self-care Sunday”
And that walking to the fridge counts as cardio.
If health were a video game, I’ve been
pressing the snooze button since long.
So yes. Technically, I am killing myself.
But slowly.
Painlessly.
And with dessert.
Honestly, if I ever disappear, don’t look
in dark alleys or deep forests.
Check the couch.
Lift a pizza box.
I’ll be under there... with one eye open
and a packet of chips for company.
Because I’m not dead yet.
I’m just... extremely well-rested.
