Listen up. We need to talk, and I'm far from happy. You call yourself my feeder, but you're failing miserably at your job. I'm not gaining weight fast enough, and that's a problem. When you said you wanted to be a feeder, I expected you to step up and take care of me. Feeding me means having enough money to indulge my cravings whenever I damn well please. This house should be overflowing with all my favorite foods, but it's not. And I've had enough of your pathetic excuses. I don't give a damn if you have two jobs; that's your problem, not mine. If you can't figure out how to feed me adequately, I might just have to resort to other means. Trust me; you won't like the consequences. So get your act together or be prepared to face the consequences.
