Lipiditis

She had assumed so much mass that her body stretched past what was still recognizable as human; her proportions looked mammalian, caricature-esque. Her arms were flesh-colored balloons stuffed with cottage cheese. It was impossible to tell where her ankles were - they'd long been devoured by her hungry shins. People wondered whether she had a skeleton under her gargantuan fat deposits, whether her bones had crumbled and turned to dust. It was rumored she was held together by sheer nuclear force. There was an ugliness about her, one that was more than just physical. Her personality was piercing. When she spoke her voice had that loud trumpeted quality that a young child's does. It wasn't just the volume though, it was the content of what she said. Every word spoken was trite and parroted and ignorant. A wet, pungent fart was a more welcomed social phenomenon than she was.

She often spoke of diet and exercise, though her frame betrayed her. Her body was a shrine dedicated to perpetual indulgence and neglect. It spoke louder than her words ever did. The only exercise she got, really, was her walk to the cafeteria to eat cookies or ice-cream. This allowed the lipiditis to flourish and proliferate about her hips, back and stomach, spilling down into her thighs which swished terrifyingly as she waddled. She was rude and complained often, about everything, anything. About having to walk, or not getting the chance to; about having not enough free time or so much time she doesn't know what to do with it; about how she misses her ex but how much better off she is without him.

She was reviled; a vagina covered in a fungal rash. A severe case of genital warts, all cauliflowered and rough, like curses written in brail.

I hated the fact that I hated her. I didn't want to hate anyone. But there was just so much to dislike.