I am FAT.
Huge, in fact. If I walked in front of you on a sunny day, you would think there was an eclipse. My arse has it’s own orbit. I have to brace myself to bend down and tie my shoelaces. ‘Yo Mama so fat, even Dora can’t explore her.
You get the idea.
On one hand, it’s in my favour because I will live far longer than you after the apocalypse. When you have all starved to death, my gargantuan thighs will still be nourishing me for months to come.
On the other hand, if it’s an apocalypse that requires me to outrun anything, I will the first one to die.
Swings and roundabouts.
I know I am fat. I know it’s shit, so please, stop telling me it’s okay.
So this is me.
No, I am not the incredibly thin, beautiful one who used to be in Liberty X. I am the fat, dishevelled, scruffy one, badly in need of a haircut, shouting at the toddler over a fifteen year old pushchair behind her.
I look fucking terrible in that photo, so of course, it was in the Mail Online.
I tweeted about how shit I looked and Michelle Heaton was very sweet about it.
Everyone was nice about it. I got a lot of tweets and DMs from total strangers telling me how amazing I am. That all women are beautiful, that I should be proud of my curves. Even that I am a ‘strong, inspiration of a woman’ (ironic really, seeing as I was reading that while stuffing a donut into my face after having a huge anxiety attack, I am neither strong, nor am I an inspiration), all from people who had seen one shit photo of me.
I look like a fat sack of shit.
You know I look like a fat sack of shit, you are so thankful that you don’t, and if you are one of the people from my past who is a little bit of a cow, you are happy that your once skinny friend is now massive because it makes you feel better.
Please stop telling me that I should be proud of myself (however proud I am that I can eat half of the Greggs pastry display in one sitting), that I am a ‘proper woman’, that I am strong and all number of things you think you should say to a block of lard like me.
I don’t like being fat, but I like prozac, I like lager and I like pizza, so that isn’t a good combination for a start.
But please, please stop telling me it’s okay to be fat, because nothing will put me in that McDonald’s drive through faster.