In the stagnant country of his little bedroom, on the island of his gigantic bed, with two curtains sewn together to clothe his body, Paul Mason decided that he didn’t want to die. Three years had seeped in and out of the room, with his head at the same angles, the mass of him pooling outward, the banal sensation of the air-conditioning breathing onto his urine sores. By then Mason had been dubbed the world’s fattest man, perhaps the most ridiculed person in the United Kingdom, trapped on a 10-foot mattress, everything he’d ever collected on shelves within arm’s reach. He was also weary of his appetites; he no longer wanted to consume his daily intake of nearly 20,000 calories. He was exhausted of wondering what it might be like outside his house.
Justin Heckert in GQ.