You know that feeling you get when you eat too much? That uncomfortable pressure that just makes your throat feel like a pipe ready to burst? I wish I could feel that. Stuffed, full. I've never said the words, “I can't eat another bite.” I always could. Bite after bite after bite. Twelve plates of pasta and sausage at one Italian place, open and close a buffet on my days off, and still wrap up the night with three full ice cream cakes. It didn't matter how much I ate. I'd stuff my face until my stomach ached but still it wanted more.
Now I know what you're thinking: How do I even fit in the car? Hell, how do I even type with hams for hands? I'm skinny as a rail, a sickly-looking 120. A stiff breeze would kill me, snap me like a reed. It's as if my belly was a furnace that burned everything up before it could be of any use.
