You’re nearly alone in a dingy little restaurant late at night. I’m the only other patron, and you’re left wondering just what the hell I ate. Even from a few tables away, you hear the tumultuous choir of gurgles and churns erupting from my huge, overburdened belly, interspersed with the occasional shameless belch which echoes around the entire building. I groan and moan as I push my hands into my gut as if trying to pacify it, my fingers gliding over the sensitive, smooth, stretched-taut skin. Even despite how incredibly stuffed I look, I keep shoving more food between my lips, as if insatiable. As you stare, if only for one instant, you almost could’ve sworn you’d seen a small handprint bulging out the side of my pudgy belly. But that was silly - it had obviously only been your imagination, of course. Right?