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If I eat enough, I'll grow, swelling into something altogether different, rounder, more more, more yes, more possessable.

There's this moment when I'm flipping open ring boxes and swallowing the contents, jewels just sliding down throat, scratching their way and sitting heavy in my stomach in a pool of blood, all expensive and shit, and it's really hard to sate myself, so many boxes to open, calories on fire with the effort of forcing each and every one down between coughs and sputters, and I tremble with the necessity of it all, the desperate way my paws grip at each lid, fumble slightly as I reveal, and once again swallow, ingest, and become.

If I eat enough, I'll sparkle, shining like I was worth something, like I had a claim to be, a passport to reality.

I feel it coming on again, and I let out a little whine, but it's no matter, time wasting, pounding click of hands high-fiving each passing second and minute, joy and thrill of a successful succession, and I succeed in succumbing an additional time, then another, surprised, surmised into crunching down on carats with shattering fangs, an atog fed by chucking artifacts to the graveyard with a cackling noise, a well-thought-out suicide pact to, in theory, annoy those around into dropping their guard long enough to sneak inside, and hug, muscles contracted so firmly, what you find there, small, eyes huge, something that could be swallowed, but isn't, for once, isn't on the way down, deep down, but is, for example, happy, and true, and in general kind of worthwhile at least in theory and, while many wouldn't notice, you can as I drop that guard, lumbering, hoarding behemoth, revealing glowing weak point.