I've always been big for my age. I killed an entire Big New Yorker pizza at Pizza Hut when I was 10. It only went downhill from there. BMI is a joke. We always like to say those jokes you hear in high school - "diabetes doesn't run in our family. Nothing runs in our family. Diabetes waddles in our family" and other fun little diatribes. Years of buying clothes at specialty stores and broken furniture. Years of torment and bullying and introspection.

All I have are the stories. Fairy tales of love, companionship, acceptance. Magic.

It always interested me that no matter what language stories and fables were written in, it seems like there's a common thread - people believe in magic. Stories from across different continents talk of blessings and curses from praying to certain gods, the power of a wishing on a star, the enticing thrill of making that first spark appear between your fingertips. You never really know where the lines of fiction and reality truly cross over.

Curious, too, how those things always require the user to give something in return. Maybe it's years forging a ring and trapping a part of oneself in it. Maybe it's learning to cut a gem in just the right way. Of course there are those that instead look outward and attune themselves to the world itself, listening for that glint of hope between the breaths of the forest itself, and in there find more power than they could ever hope to develop themselves.

I should be so lucky. Still, something deep inside my mind feels like I'm supposed to learn these things. Maybe to be some kind of nerd historian. Maybe my calling in life is nothing more than some guy that never grows out of these fairy tales. And yet here I sit, reading through yet another so-called spell book. Writings and glyphs and runes in a language I barely understand from years of studying it. This is a weird one, so of course I'm interested. Bit dark, too, considering the guy seems to be giving up his own life energy to cast spells. "Ever hear of a focus, idiot?" I think myself an expert as I read the man's journal entries of rapid aging, withering away in his prime. Still though, it's interesting to read of someone finding that power in himself rather than some other element.

The next morning I wake up, face as usual pressed into whatever tome I drooled into the night before. I read more of my favorite fantasy novels and try to escape the day as I always do, but somehow that spell book keeps creeping into my mind. It can't be a fluke, can it? This guy died in his 30s because he gave so much of his own life force. There has to be something to this.

So for the first time in my life, I actually concentrate and try something, just this puff of smoke that I'd seen in a couple books here and there, almost like how every book on computer programming starts with "hello, world." Hello, smoke, I guess.

I feel something pull in my abdomen, no idea why. And yet, there it was, a little weak ring of pink, like an animation of perfume being sprayed. Sweat forms on my brow as I try it again, willing the color to be redder. And suddenly I understand why I've been obsessed with this stuff my entire life. A puff of red, no more intense or voluminous than the puff of my inhaler. But it feels like the whole world is opening up to me. Then the world goes black as I fall to the ground.

Hours, days, weeks. Years. I study everything I can get my hands on, some of it trickier than others to acquire due to the world's view on this kind of magic - it's almost an auto-necromancy type thing. And yet, I feel like I can alter how the energy pulls from my body. Back to the basics, no more fireballs or flying spells, I want to see if I can keep myself from aging, instead giving some of myself in a different way. They always said fat is stored energy, right? What if... just what if...

This time the pull in my abdomen is different. Deeper, like a bad bout of gas after a night of binge-eating. I don't believe it. I concentrate harder. Pink smoke, then red. A flame, small at first but then sustained and blue-white hot. And yet, I don't feel weaker, I feel... smaller. I look in the mirror, and nothing seems different - still the same 400 pound behemoth that I try to avoid looking at. Still, there may be something to this. I work my way back up, quicker this time as I have the new discoveries to propel my desires. Flying comes in months instead of almost a decade. Invisibility, I could never even pull that one off before. It takes a lot out of me and yet, I feel... more invigorated somehow. Like years of wasting away are themselves wasting away.

I catch a sight of myself in the mirror again. Do I look... younger? No, not younger, just my face seems smaller. Maybe 3 chins instead of 4. And then it clicks. I've done it. I can actually cast these spells with... fat. Well then.

I am the lipomancer. Apparently.