I cannot abide to hear any super-morbidly obese person talking because the sound of them struggling for air as they speak is so fucking awful. There are a handful of reasons why a person in their 20s should be struggling to sit and talk and breathe at the same time and not feel ashamed - cystic fibrosis, horrible panic attack, freak case of lung cancer, extremely bad anemia likely caused by some form of leukemia, asthma, for example. To be unable to stand up or speak 10 consecutive words in a row without sounding like you've just done a sprinting trial is shameful and it's foul to listen to it and it angers me that even with a million jump cuts she cannot hide how bad she Darth Vaders yet is still eating for six daily.
Her recent inability to keep her mouth moist, constantly thrusting her tongue out and smacking her lips, is a close second to listening to her breathe. It's the diabeetus, Amber Boo Boo. She's not gonna take care of it or get it sorted but I still feel the need to remind her that the physical manifestations of her utterly fucked metabolism have moved past discolored skin, sallow complexion, inability to wash and wearing all her clothes backwards.
Also how she thrusts her tongue out as a sort of landing strip for the food she's cramming down her maw is "triggering." Chantal does it, too. It's like over time their brains adapted to the fact that they will be shoving so much food so quickly into their mouths that they need to have some sort of flesh tarp to catch any errant crumbs or spoon-spillovers and it's now an automatic response whenever they eat. Sort of like how the remaining Hartley Hooligan roots whenever anything comes near her face - it's an autonomic response for them both.
I also resent how Amberlynn is basically a farm animal at this point except she lacks the purpose and charm of most large land mammals yet receives far better care than the average sow, which is unjust on a very fundamental level. She lives in a house and thinks she's people but really there are dairy cows who can keep themselves cleaner and smell better than this greasy mound of adipose held together by those tortured leggings. If I were one of the fags it would be all I could do not to get a can of Lysol and just spray her with it every time she tried to leave her room. As a warning to stay put and as a way to contain the odor, kind of like spraying a cat when it gets up on the kitchen counter except she won't be able to flee quickly so they could really dowse her. Just set up entire cans of Glade and Febreeze and Funkaway to go off like bug bombs every time she moves around enough to set them off, like one of those interactive water fountains kids run across at parks. I know they have candles and meltaways or whatever all that crap is Eric gets at B&B Works but this feels more direct and effective when dealing with livestock.
Damn. I'm really not feeling our girl today.
ETA: Jesus, sorry, I clearly need a nap.
