The thin “fat” girl

Sometimes I think that’s what I’ve become. That I am working toward something I “shouldn’t” be. That I’m the thin bitch that “thinks” she’s fat.

Or, at least, I think people may see me that way.

Along with the BS concept that everyone should look like the latest anorexic Hollywood starlet, there’s this other BS concept that “good enough” is good enough, and that you shouldn’t fucking want more. That a size 5 or 7 is plenty thin enough, and any thinner than that and you’re an anorexic bitch that every other fucking woman hates because you had the drive (or the cash) to get to where you are. That we shouldn’t want to “give in” to the stereotype that chicks should be thin.


Since when am I fucking supposed to conform to ANYONE’S standards… thin, fat, or otherwise. Why the hell do I have to fucking allow someone else to tell me what’s good enough? Why am I supposed to be happy as a fucking jiggling fool?

No. Noone is gonna tell me to lose weight. Not even my doc… because even if I’m borderline for my height/age/frame/whatever, he’s seen the damn bloodwork, so he knows full well I’m a healthy individual who mainly eats right and exercises fairly regularly. And that’s… “good enough.”

So I sit here an bitch about how the scale doesn’t seem to want to show me a number too close to 140, let alone under at all, and whine about how I’d really like it to… and yet I feel somewhere nagging in the back of my twisted little fucked up brain that people are reading and saying “What the fuck, bitch? You’re a size 5 and complaining about it? Fuck off.”

There’s this attitude that if I’m not as fat as a person, I have no right to complain. And it’s funny, because people reading this will actually think they are immune to this weird-assed syndrome. Even people I’ve seen bitch about certain “attention whores” on certain weight loss forums who were just looking for some help shedding a couple pounds and tightening their bodies so that they are happy about themselves. The you-don’t-have-it-as-bad-as-I-do-so-shut-the-fuck-up syndrome.

This is one of the many reasons I don’t like other people. They suck.

The people that say you’re thin enough. That you’re too thin. That you don’t need to watch what you eat. The people who assume that the only reason not to fucking drink is because you’re knocked up. The people that suck your fucking energy wanting you to motivate their ass and whine about it and call you a bitch when you don’t fucking give them the pity party they deserve. The fucktards who sit there and bitch about a fat person who eats an icecream cone, because if you’re fat you certainly aren’t allowed to have anything other than salads and diet coke until you’re thin. The people who sit there and basically try to knock every goddamned person they come across down to their level so they can feel better about being the lazy assed fucktards that they are.

Don’t fucking think you fit into one of those categories? I bet you fucking do. I’ll bet you’ve looked at a fat person and had a thought or two pertaining to what they are eating or how fucking close they parked to the store. I’ll bet you’ve fucking looked at a person fitter/smarter/richer than you and thought “asshole/bitch.” I’ll bet you don’t fucking stand up for someone you see getting bashed because some other asshole doesn’t like them. Hell, I’ll fucking bet you joined in. I’ll bet you’ve parked in the handicapped spot because “you were just gonna be a second.” I’ll bet you look with disdain at the person who only benches 135. I’ll bet you snicker about the guy in the showers with a loofa. I’ll bet you sit there and bitch about your wife and what a fucking nag she is. I’ll bet you look down your nose at anyone who’s had cosmetic surgery (except braces, of course, it’s totally ok to have weirdly straight teeth gleaming brighter than the fucking sun, right?) I’ll bet you talk during the fucking movie. I’ll bet you let your fucking dogs bark and kids screech and run wild in the store, because you’ve decided tuning something out is way easier than fucking telling the little ‘tard to shut the fuck up. I’ll bet you tailgate.

Basically, I’m betting you’re a fucking asshole.

We all are.

That’s why I don’t like people. You all fucking suck.

Back to my original fucking rant.

I’m sick of this idea that I shouldn’t be holding up one ideal of “what we all should be” but yet I should be holding up another. I shouldn’t be wanting to be a size three, I should be happy with a 5 or a 7, regardless of what my height or framesize are, regardless of what my bodyfat level is, regardless of how much I jiggle or how icky I look when my clothes are off. Because if I want to look something akin to the fitness model on the cover of Hers, I’m a fucking sellout.

Fuck you.

I’m not striving for an impossible standard of beauty. I’m not looking for DD cup tits. I’m not looking for a fucking six pack (although I certainly won’t whine about it if I find myself with one someday). I’m looking for the best possible ME. A small framed, 5′3″, 30 year old ME. Not you, not what you think I should be… just fucking me. A healthy, fit, fantastic looking ME. A me worth drooling over occasionally. A me that can lift heavy things and move fast and look good wearing pink.

Yes, asshole, pink. What the fuck is wrong with pink anyway? Why the fuck are people so goddamned surprised if I wear fucking PINK?

No, I am no longer the fat chick I once was. I will never be that again. I can even go years in a semi neglectful state and still not top 150, so obviously I’ll never be “fat” again. But I shouldn’t have to be fucking happy with where I am right now. I shouldn’t have to feel like I can’t strive to be better. I shouldn’t have to listen to the fucking society-induced platitudes of “you’re not fat” just because I’m not fucking happy with the way I look.

I’m happy as a person. I’m a great person. I am a joyful person. I am a funny person. I am incredibly smart. I am even sometimes nice. I take care of the people I love. I am a responsible individual. I recycle.

I don’t hate my body, but it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t strive for a better one.

Nobody ever says you shouldn’t go to college; you shouldn’t take a class; you shouldn’t get a decent paying job; you shouldn’t try to better yourself. Why the hell does that not extend to the physical realm?

I know, I know… it doesn’t fucking matter.
Except, it does, in a way.
There are sometimes all these little niggling things that tend to hold me back. Because I begin to develop the same bs attitudes: that I don’t need to exercise, or eat well, or not drink… because I don’t really want to deal with the fucking hassle of constantly fighting the barrage. Because I get tired of being a “good girl” and I’m lazy and I don’t want to make other people feel uncomfortable. Because, if I fucking bitch about being 5-10 pounds over the weight I want to be, (fat pounds, not muscle pounds), I get the nasty vibe from everywhere around me, and it keeps me from venting. Because if I can’t fucking vent a bit now and then I completely fall apart in frustration with my progress, myself, and with the need to keep my fucking mouth shut and be a good girl. Because the only people who are actually supportive of a thin bitch are other thin bitches. And then, mostly, only until you’re equal to them. If you get “better” than them, they turn on your sorry ass too. Because noone can be genuinely happy for someone’s success anymore… hell, I make it sound like people ever were.

So, yeah. You all suck.

I have to find a fucking flight to Chicago now…

4 Responses to “The thin “fat” girl”

  1. condorman Says:

    I’ll warn Chicago you’re coming…

  2. wauhawk Says:

    I could aid you in getting excited enough to cum!

  3. Aoife Says:

    dude… what the fuck are you smoking?

  4. wauhawk Says:

    Nothing why are you offering?

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