as small as a world and as large as alone

5:49pm August 24, 2014

fatnutritionist:

When I was a certain age and looked a certain way, I couldn’t walk down the street without someone loudly, aggressively, terrifyingly expressing approval of the way I looked. I was white, I had an hourglass figure, I passed for thin, I had large breasts, I had a face that did certain things and not certain other things, you could have run a Normative Standards of Beauty checklist down me and ticked every box except “small feet and slender ankles,” but those were easy enough to conceal.

There are still men who like to insist that the fact I looked this way for approximately six percent of my life is the most significant thing about me, my most amazing accomplishment, and they are bewildered and sad that I would seemingly crumple it up and light it on fire, like I burned myself in effigy or locked myself inside a wicker man by becoming fat.

They are so bewildered by the loss of such perfect t&a, such a pretty face, such unique erection-hardening material that made them feel so special, like their purchasing habits make them feel special, as though those normative standards of beauty weren’t targeted specifically and calculatingly to their demographic, the greatest marketing campaign ever perpetrated on terrible people.

I enjoy repulsing them. I enjoy disappointing them. Making terrible people angry is the greatest source of comedy in my life.

I know exactly what you mean.

I was never perfectly conventionally attractive.  I was always too hairy and too autistic, among other things.

But I still have this creepy stalker dude who creepily stalks a lot of women, who has publicly made comments to the effect that the worst thing that ever happened to me was that I got fat, that it was tragic, that I “wasn’t always huge” (I’m still not sure how huge these people think I am, I’m under 200 pounds, but they always make it sound like I’m over 300, not that it should matter), and that I used to be quite attractive and blahblahblah.  And I don’t think he realizes how happy I am not to be jerk-off material for him anymore.  (Although I can’t really hope for that.  He’s saved every photo he’s ever taken of me, and I’m sure he still jerks off to teenage!me at times, disgusting as that is.  It’s the only way I can explain his obsession with ruining my life.)

But seriously I love grossing out people who can’t stand fat or body hair or things like that.  They think they’re the ones in control because they are taunting me about it, but I’m the one in control because I’m the one who makes them react to me.

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