Turns out, I don’t like keeping my silence. I am unable to stand idly by with an umbrella in-hand while bullshit is being thrown all over the innocents. I enjoy coaxing out the hypocrites, the insane, the blustery, the annoying, the misinformed, and the assholes, just so I can poke them in the pudge and run away in high-pitched giggles. Inevitably, I always get bitten in the process, but whatever, the wound heals and in the end they’re the ones that end up looking like idiots. So, for your enjoyment, I am now including an argument (dated late October 2012 and held on Facebook, of course) that I would classify to be by far the worst and most annoying argument I have ever been involved in.
Fittingly, The Love Song by The Cure is streaming from Pandora – “Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am whole again.”
I have wanted to write something about my beloved for awhile now, but at the risk of becoming too saccharine and ultimately boring, I have so far avoided the joy-filled topics in favor of the dark and gloomy; it’s much more entertaining to read of the demise of my sanity than the rebuilding of it. But on this Valentine’s Day, I am feeling the call to pay tribute to the biggest blessing so far in my life: The Boyfriend.
This post is not about fat acceptance. It is not about fat shame. This post is about the pain that we all feel. It’s a post of solidarity.
In my widened child eyes, Wal-Mart is a candy-coated carnival of amazement. Fluorescent lights stand in for the shine of the ferris wheel; there’s the wafting scent of McDonald’s hamburgers in place of popcorn; but the Carnies nevertheless remain the same. A trip to Wal-Mart is a rare and special treat, and this time it is made more significant because I am with my Granny, who is taking me shopping for new school clothes. There’s nothing like the excitement of having someone else pay for everything. After dawdling for a bit in the toy section, gazes of longing tossed over my shoulder like salt, Granny coaxes me into the little girl’s clothing section. As any child does when given free rein, I immediately rush forward like the front row mosh-soldiers at a rock concert and grab any clothing item that is neon, impractical, and/or hideous. With a heap of clothing in my arms rising to just under my pupils, I make my way into the dressing room. Continue reading