Kelly was blessed with a hard-working metabolism.
She could eat what she wanted, when she wanted; ice cream for breakfast, two ice creams for lunch, and a gargantuan plate of steak, fries, lobster, butter, mashed potatoes, eggs, bacon, and caramel syrup (or as the diner called it, the “Dead Trucker’s Special”) for dinner without gaining a pound. She did this, on multiple occasions. She usually followed her dinner up with two servings of ice cream, for Kelly was a big fan of supporting the local ice cream economy.
The problem with a good metabolism, though, is that it doesn’t fully defend against diabetes. After ten years of eating like Santa Claus, while she was still divinely slim, her vision was fading and her digits ready to fall off. Kelly’s doctors prescribed massive amounts of insulin to try to lower her blood glucose levels (somewhere north of 80 on the mmol/L glucose scale). This, paradoxically, only made her want to eat more desserts.
Though they saved her vision and most of her toes, Kelly’s life became beholden to an insulin backpack. It kept her alive, though she grew more and more gaunt, and her need for sugar was insatiable. She was no longer delighted by a godly metabolism. Rather, she was driven by saccharine need.