If  there was a microphone in its house: "Oh little Timmy, thank god you're here for me. You wouldn't believe the nasty things said by that skinny bitch at the office. She said fat was caused by overeating! I nearly broke into tears because she just can't understand how terrible my life is, because it isn't about my eating! I only eat 1200 calories per day! Aboo hooo hooooo." Little Timmy just lays there, far beyond any hope of being able to run free through a maze or perching on a high ledge with tail twitching. A slow hiss escapes him where his stomach's fur has rubbed away and split open. Poor Timmy's glassy eyes don't have to see the rolls of fat lurching towards him anymore. Little Timmy has escaped, ran far away into the hand of the long, dark night.