...you desperately type in a new entry.

{I was always this fat.}

You don't have the dexterity to maneuver the mouse in time, don't have the wherewithal to see if you can use the keyboard to navigate the program. You can, however, type over 100 words per minute, which gives you just enough time to slam in the short and desperate entry before hitting the enter key. You slump back in your chair as your mind fogs up and you can't help but feel so much more comfortable than you did a few seconds ago.

The door slides open, and you hear the crinkling of fast food bags as your mother steps into the room. You look a lot like her, except whereas you're nearly half a ton, she's slim and curvy. "I just wanted to let you know your food got here. Do you want me to set it on your desk?" It's only then that you realize how hungry you are, palming your massive stomach like you have many a time before.

"Oh, sure. Thanks, mama." You say, not thinking anything of it as she walks past you to a higher, more accessible desk and sets the food on top. The desk is a standing desk your mother and father had modified for you, with little swing-out spots to either side that you can place one half of a split keyboard on and a mouse so you can type despite your size. You slide forward in your motorized chair, not even thinking twice about its presence as you shuffle up to the food.

Your mother doesn't so much as glance at your monitor, which is comforting, but when you do you're a little confused. 'I was always this fat' stares you in the face, which feels silly because you have been this fat for as long as you can remember. Sure, it was proportionally less, but you've always been way too big for whatever age and height you've been. You can deal with that after eating, maybe.

"And I keep telling you, Sarah." Your mother pats your bare belly. "I know you get warm in your clothes, but it takes a lot of effort from you to get dressed. You need to stay clothed in case you have to go somewhere fast." You look down, seeing your hyper-supportive bra fit perfectly to your chest while your massive panties, more like a curtain wrapped around you, hold snug to your body. On the floor, the clothes you vaguely remember discarding earlier sit in massive bundles of tangled cloth.

How did you pull them off so easily?

"Right, sorry." You mumble with fat, red cheeks.

"It's fine, sweetheart. Enjoy your meal, okay?" She pecks your cheek, and leaves as quickly as she came. Of course, she leaves the door cracked as all parents tend to do, which means you have a few options at hand for what you can do. Move to close the door, eat your food before it gets cold, or figure out why there's RealityShift entries about your weight now.