UPDATE: EatBeast Roommate Moved Back In Hello shitlord, shitladies, and lurking obeasts who I hope die from sleep apnea this very eve!  IT'S BACK.  I've been regaling you wonderful human-sized humans with tales of my eatbeast roommate. She's a typical Tubblrina with over a hundred excess pounds, a list of mental illnesses, and enough whale tears emitted each day to water a small vegetable garden (where, of course, it would never tread). Anyways, it went to go live with an SJW friend for a few days when it discovered that my very presence would cause extreme triggers. This whale migration afforded me extreme joy, because I was sure I had AT LEAST another week free from Tee Hee Tessie's outbursts and stench.  I was wrong.  Today, I walked in and put my things down, made myself a little salad, when I noticed some boots I hadn't seen in quite some time. Now, I don't know about you guys, but when I picture women's boots, I picture tall, slender, leather shoes. These were stretched as wide as they were tall, with actual tears in the leather, where her calf was too big to get the zipper over.  Oh, fuck, I thought to myself. I figured I could eat quickly enough and dodge it, head back to the lab, and hopefully not see it till tomorrow, where a good night's sleep would provide my mind with ample new triggering phrases. I began to eat quickly, where I felt it. The tremor in the floorboards, a quiver in the air.  Oh...shit...  "You have no idea how bad you hurt me," came this soft and strange little moo. She turned the corner into the dining area, and I couldn't help but gape. Sure, I saw her that once when I triggered her to the point of a near-panic attack (I know, I know, I should've gone that extra mile) but actually seeing her, taking a full few seconds for my eyes to scan her entirety, was very horrific.  She was bigger. I thought that, after a few days of strict meal plans, scheduled meals, and not much access to snacks would help her slim down but NOPE. Apparently, if eating is one of your triggers (as opposed to, I don't know, a way to survive so you can do other things like rock-climb or hang-glide or HAVE A FUCKING PURPOSE) they just let you go for it. Her hair was a mess, and under her eyes were bags nearly as pendulous and unpleasant as her boobs, which were flopping about.  "Hey," I said, as I stabbed a radish with my fork, admiring the fresh, crisp sound it made which I'm sure sounded foreign as hell to her ears.  "It was so bad," she continued. I just sort of cocked my head to the side. "You caused me so much pain, and I was the one who had to leave! My doctors said I had to leave my home!"  "Then why're you back?"  "Because I ran out of options!" As much as I wanted to tell her that when her doctor probably said something like, "Maybe stay with a friend for a few days before moving back in," he didn't even kind of mean that she wasn't allowed to enter the house, I just said, "Ok."  "So I'm back. And we have to work things out. My doctor did a lot of thinking, and thinks it's best."  No, Bessie, your doctor went home to his beautiful shitlord wife and beautiful shitlord children and bought them flowers and toys with the money he earned because you don't know how to handle yourself. Your doctor doesn't give half a shit about you and all your 'problems.' He doesn't think about you off the clock. Get used to it.  "Ok," I said again, growing more and more unamused as her voice got shakier and the whale tears began a-flowin'. All I wanted was my salad and to head back to the lab. Ain't nobody got time for fatty problems, especially if you're not getting paid by the hour.  "We have to work things out," it says again. I tell it I agree, and that we should just try to deal with each other because we still have six more months.  "We're gonna talk later," it grunts as it slinks back into its bed. Why we couldn't just talk now and get it over with, hopefully ending the conversation with a massive TRIGGER and sending it back to the hospital, was beyond me.  I'll keep you guys posted.  For now, the salad and the lab.