I am not taking that job at the Krispy Kreme. In six months, I'll be so fat that I won't fit out the door. That nice manager, Christine, who has somehow retained the figure of a wheat stalk, will have to call for the jaws of life to pry my fired ass out of her store, only 911 will laugh her off the phone, and my coworkers will have to break me out with sledgehammers.

I'll be living on my porch by then, as my front door is narrower than the door to the Krispy Kreme. In this economy — any economy? — there will be no work for someone so fat, so I'll have to just sit out there and starve. And freeze. Fortunately, starvation takes a while when you're that big, and blubber is an insulator. With luck, I'll fit back inside by the first hard frost, and eventually, I'll be thin enough to get a job again. In retail, at the mall. Hot Topic would be nice.

I'm going to promise myself to get thin by Halloween, so I can dress up as a bat by stretching out my loose-hanging arm skin. Only I won't look so much like a bat, more like a flying squirrel, but I'll still win the costume contest at the mall and receive all manner of bizarre sexual propositions, most of which I will accept, and that's how I'll meet you, my love.

No one will understand us, no one will accept us. You'll ask to move in with me, but since I'm eight months behind on rent, no sooner will you set down your guitar case and your "special" black bag than the Sheriff will show up to kick us out. Every night, we'll be screaming at each other and throwing beer bottles. "You don't love me!" I'll sob. "You just love my sagging arm skin!" To which you'll respond, "So what?" And I'll say, "If you loved me, you'd pay for me to get plastic surgery. Why won't you pay for my plastic surgery?"

Then I'll get pregnant. Or maybe you'll get pregnant. I've lost track of which one of us has the uterus in this scenario, but it doesn't matter. One of us will have a baby, and since we'll have been camping in the old pesticide factory and living on medical waste, the baby will be a monster. Within hours, it will rise up on on its taloned feet and kill us both. Or maybe just you. Sorry babe.

My god, what will I do? It's all your fault, I'm glad our demon baby ate you. How will I protect her? She's no different than me, too strange for this world; I can't even blame the world for hating her, but nor can I blame her for hating it back. We'll see who destroys whom first. I'll take care of her as long as I can, luring saggy arm skin fetishists back to factory to feed her. But the day is coming when the torch-bearing villagers will arrive at the gates. May God have mercy on their souls.

Jeffrey David Weitzel has had work published in Other and Farthing Magazine. Jeff is a graduate of the Clarion West Writers' Workshop, and outside of his writing life, he lives and works in Silicon Valley.