Money

I feel like for the last few months I've been characterizing myself as merely a tub of margarine with a keyboard. But I want you all to know that I'm so much more than that! And not just because I've long outgrown the confines of my "Country Crock" brand uterine home, but because I have flesh and blood; a soul and a heart with more bad cholesterol than you can probably even imagine... I have problems just like you and your odd little friends!

I am a full time student with enough debt to buy a McDonalds franchise. (Now there's an idea...) I work 16 hours a week at a job where I sit on my ever-expanding ass and imagine a lonely, calorie-rich forever while lusting after the muscle bound mutants that stroll through my office on the regular. (Ironically, I work at the School of Nutrition and Health Promotion at ASU.)

I make $8.00 an hour. I work 16 hours a week. To do the math for you (because I'm endlessly generous and I know you're sooooo interested in even the minutiae of my ultimately exciting life), that means that I make $128 a week. $256 a paycheck before tax. So basically I'm rollin' in it. I'm the Scrooge McDuck of the tangible world. But only if Scrooge McDuck invested in real estate juuuuust before 2008 and therefore lost everything and had to live with his mother and drive a 1993 Subaru Legacy with a crack dividing the windshield in two and an oil leak. To make this metaphor completely accurate, please imagine that whenever Scrooge drove over to his friends' houses who still live in upperclass Duckville the car decided to jazz things up by squeaking with every turn.

Because Scrooge is classy like that.

To make matters worse, I can't afford to change my oil after spending $255 at a Chinese buffets in the first three days following payday so my car guzzles gas like I guzzle the sauce covering my delicious orange chicken. And believe me... I can get DOWN on some orange chicken. Shit's like mother's milk... Damn...

Anyway, because my car loves it some oran-- oil, I get shitty gas milage. So now I'm up to my chins in credit card debt in addition to my student loans.

Mi vida...

So my problem isn't that I am in debt. I think people have a big issue with misdiagnosing their financial burdens. My main issue is that I will never, ever, have enough money to pay it all back. I'm planning to be a Social Worker. A public servant. A slave to the generosity of the taxpayers. So basically they'll bury me in a cardboard box and throw me in a ditch after I die of starvation.

(Wait! This means I'll be skinny! I knew there was a silver lining!)

(But with my luck I'll be malnourished from just eating from the Dollar Menu and they'll still need to find the biggest cardboard box ever imagined to send me to my earthly eternity.)

Mi vida...

So basically the moral of my story, now that I've gotten around to it, is that Fat Girls Hate money. Or rather, they hate that they don't have ALL the money. Not just a little bit. But all of it.

I want to be able to clothe myself in money. Individual dollar bills all sewn together by Vera Wang into the largest shrine to currency and capitalism every worn by a barn yard animal. I want to be able to buy a new car. A big car. I don't know if you've ever googled what a Subaru Legacy looks like, but it's small. And it's starting to smell like a little sour from me having to grease the sides with spray butter to get my big ass in. (By the way, we call mine Tron. It was named by my huge-boobed, disgustingly skinny, gorgeous best friend who is also fantastically nerdy. She's basically the wet dream of every man-child on Memebase.)

I want to be able to buy a house with elevators. Or better yet, those chairs you can sit in and go up your stairs...

I want to be able to pay off my student loans. There is no joke in this. That's just a straight fact. This blog is not a Kate is Funny blog. It's a Things Fat Girls Hate blog. And guess what? Fat Girls Hate student loans...

Clearly among many other things.

The moral of the story: In case you didn't catch it before. Fat girls hate not being able to buy the food they so desperately want/need/desire/lust after/fantasize about/fap to.

Public Transportation

The subject of which I am about to write is particularly near and dear to my heart. But before I begin, I think I should apologize for my totally inconsiderate hiatus. I know that you all were simply DYING to read more about my unnecessarily bitter thoughts on this glorious little life we lead. The only reasoning I can explain that really contains any degree of truth is that fat girls hate sticking to anything for more than a month. Of course I am specifically speaking of diets, but really anything that requires any amount of will power or dedication reminds us of dieting and so I think you’ll all forgive me when I say that I’ve been spending the last few months eating like it was going out of style. 

I terrified myself into thinking that I may have had the slightest inkling of personal motivation which in turn gave me the false hope that MAYBE I could do other things (i.e. eat less, work out) and I was frightened back into my pen where the kind Mr. Zuckerman fed me table scraps and I woke up to Charlotte’s inspirational words every morning. It was a good few months... 

Some pig...

As usual I’ve veered off into a personal anecdote, but I simply felt the need to let you all know that even though I enjoyed my stints at the farm and fair, I missed you all. Mostly I just missed your positive feedback. Now pat me on my snout and we’ll get on with it...

Today I’m speaking of public transportation. I’ll have you know that as I write this I’m sitting on the lightrail amid a glorious sampling of humanity. This of course means that I can smell the faint traces of urine and as my eyes rove the crowd, I can see the predatory eyes of the homeless... They can smell my generosity.

Fat girls HATE public transportation. It’s a fact. I’m currently staring at a big porker, sitting alone and afraid, listening to her iPod that’s been haphazardly stuck in her bra, the cord comes out over her stretched collar, her hair’s in a bun and she’s just a big greasy mess... It seems like she’s typing something and smiling to herself... I’m sure it’s a love note to her skinny black boyfriend she met on the intern-- Oh wait... that’s a reflective surface...

Fat chicks hate small chairs. You know what’s full of small chairs? The bus. The lightrail. The metro. The subway. Most homes. We don’t want to have to squeeze, but let’s be honest with ourselves... We sure as hell don’t want to stand for the 45 minutes it takes to get to our destination. 

So as this idyllic fat girl looks around she spies an open chair. She looks around. She makes eye contact with an old woman on oxygen that’s standing next to the open chair. There is a brief moment when nobody breathes. You can hear the faint hiss of the oxygen tank. And then Petunia Pig pounces, trying to make it seem normal that the old woman is now sprawled out on the ground as she canters to her throne, breathing heavily. Witnesses swear that as she passed they heard her mutter something like, “... survival of the fittest...” However, being that not even she is so deluded as to think that any word having to do with “fit” would describe her even for a moment, it is more likely that the other theory is true. The other theory, held by most onlookers, was that she merely oinked and trudged on.

As she approaches she realized a massive fault in her plans. It is a bench seat and, of course, the only open seat is between two normal looking human beings. She can see the fear in their eyes as she encroaches on their personal bubble, but she is determined and she somehow manages to squeeze her enormous form into a seat the size of a dollar bill. The two individuals that were unfortunate enough to be seated there first have now disappeared entirely into her rolls. The won’t be found again until she eventually showers and they wash off with the rest of the debris she’s picked up along the week.

This entire situation occurs, of course, only if she makes it to the shuttle on time. Fat girls are not exactly known to hustle; they are much more prone to a malcontented amble. 

As Piggy Wig approaches the last 300 feet leading up to the station, there arises in her a very distinct fear. It is an anxiety only known to those over a size 14. She hears the train coming; she begins to ooze an acrid sweat. 

She knows that it’s do or die. She must either run for the rail or wait another 20 minutes in the heat... Either way it means death. 

A very slow, very sweaty, very public death.

In a split decision she decides to run. In a flash she tightens the straps to her backpack, hikes up her sagging jeans (They only sag because she’s been wearing them for a straight week. It makes her feel thin...), breathes deeply and begins her sprint.

I’m going to interject here with a personal little note. I think I may have mentioned before that I’m the fastest fat girl you’ve ever seen. I can guarantee it: If you line up 15 other girls of any size and put a lion behind us, I swear on everything good and holy that I will outrun all them niggas. All.Of.Them.

So while I am the exception to this rule, most chubbywubbies are not as gifted in this area. As she approaches the last 20 feet of her sprint, the doors to the shuttle begin to close. The driver isn’t looking or doesn’t care, more likely the latter. In a normal circumstance the people in the shuttle would put an arm out to stop the doors and let her in. But they are stunned. They are immobilized by their awe. It’s as if they saw their first unicorn, but unlike the mythical tales they’ve always been told, this unicorn has scales, a forked tongue, demon wings. They are torn between wonder and fear as she undulates towards them.  

The doors close. She is outside. She slams her pudgey hand against the side of the door repeatedly, but the shuttle moves on. She briefly considers just lying down on the tracks and giving up on her entire existence. But then she remembers that she has Skittles in her purse and once again finds contentitude. 

Moral of the Story: Fat girls hate public transportation. Because this world is cruel and so is adrenaline. 


This post is dedicated to my dear admirer, Drew Reasor. God bless the chubby chasers.

Moving

Aside from the obvious fact that fat girls don't like varying from their sedentary existence PERIOD, the type of moving I'm speaking of is slightly different. Today I speak of the moving that implies setting up a new barn for you to be harnessed to a milking machine and have your udders pumped.

I'm talking about moving houses; getting all your shit together and migrating to some greener [or in this recession, browner] pastures. I'm pretty sure that no one actually LIKES moving aside from those who make their living out of it, and even they only like it for the monetary compensation. But as we all know, no one hates anything like fat girls hate everything. We redefine disdain.

As usual, this is a multi-faceted type of hate. We don't just hate the fact that we have to move something somewhere besides the fork to the hole in our face; we overanalyze all of the intricacies of moving and hate it all individually. We'd hate for a part of it to feel left out.

Personally, I have more experience moving other people than I do moving my own dojo. That's one of the things we hate the most: helping people. But that's just because we're bitter. There's no real reason we should dislike it. It has nothing to do with our lard. It has to do with our mental instability.

But when you're a fat girl, especially one like me where there's no part of you that is just disgustingly disproportionate to the rest of your body and you just hold your weight EVERYWHERE on a pretty equal level, people just assume that you're strong.

Granted, you probably are. You've had to lug your own body around for the past however-many years, so you're basically a trained Olympian. But it sucks that it's expected, because they make you lift the big shit.

I, for one, am a beast. I can lift a live bear off of a piece of salmon. And I would, because I fucking love salmon.

The skinny girls can lift a pillow and not be judged. She's just "delicate." If a fat girl just carried a pillow down them stairs, she is the laziest piece of shit to ever come out of the gene pool and she is thrown off the roof, Highlander style.

There can only be one.

And then even though you're lifting the most enormous couch of all time with one hand and juggling fireballs with the other, you're trying SO hard not to pant because you don't want to let on that you're actually just a fat girl. Pride is huge with hippos. We can show no weakness.

And then there's the sweat. It gets everywhere. Between the fire that you're juggling, the heavy lifting and the heat that is ALWAYS sweltering regardless of season [and everybody decides to move in the summer anyways...], you're just sopping wet and your palms are just dripping with grease. This makes it very hard to grip things, let me tell you! And then it's in chubbo's rolls, her hair, her buttcrack.

Nightmares forever. Not only for her, having been the person sweating, but for anyone who had to read about the sweat in her buttcrack.

Moral of the Story: Fat girls hate moving because they feel like a circus act. Which they are, so I don't know why they're so bitter about it.

When People Insist They Aren't "Fat"

Bitch please. If there is one thing that irritates me most in this world, it's this. Maybe this one is a little more specific to my own personal distaste, but I hate when I casually refer to my weight in conversation and people drop in the seemingly obligatory "Oh, you're not fat you're just [curvy, thick, a real woman, other random "softened" versions of the word "fat."]"

Are you kidding me? First off, don't interrupt my story to shut down such a minor point. Clearly I'm ok with it, or I wouldn't mention it. I'm not looking for someone to pet my ego. I've got enough of it already. And if you want to make me feel good, don't fucking interrupt me. Ya dig?

Secondly, I'm a really big fan of words, specifically adjectives and the actual meaning behind them, and how it connects to the mental picture that's being portrayed in speech and writing. And every single word, regardless of how "synonymous" they are has a different actual meaning in the language it's a part of.

The Greek language has four different words to express love and the varying degrees and actual emotions that it brings to the recipient. Many other languages do the same. Personally I feel that the English language is rather limited when it comes to words describing emotions, because white folk aren't down with that. Except for 19th century poets, because they got heavy on the passion.

I've read some letters men wrote to their ladies. I may or may not pretend they're written to me and have a drunken pity party alone in my room, while I listen to music of the era and spray men's cologne in the air to convince myself that I'm not alone in this world.

Oh the poor, lonely life of a fat girl...

But even they had to use metaphors and occasionally drop in some Latin to fully express their "love" and eventually get underneath some petticoats, if ya know what I mean... Heh heh heh...

But I digress. Sorry I got all up in your business about things I'm sure you don't care about if you're reading this completely non-literary blog.

Anyway, what I mean to say is that there is a limit to what can be referred to as "curvy," "thick," or "a real woman."

Let's be real. Roseanne Barr circa 1990 wasn't "curvy," that ho was fat. Scarlett Johanson, for all of her lack of talent, is "curvy." Girl got T&A for days. People with hourglass figures are curvy. Bitches shaped like a 300 pound pumpkin aren't curvy. Women shaped like linebackers aren't "curvy." So back off with that word.

Another one I don't like is "thick." Not only do I feel that this particular word makes me sound like I'm just dense as fuck, but once you breech 200 pounds you're not "thick" anymore. The modern perception of "thick" implies that there is some semblance of muscle underneath your layers of lard. Beyonce and all of her sexy, sensual, seductive body tissues is "thick." Venus Williams is "thick."

Let's just face it, only colored girls are thick. Ain't no thang. And the occasional white girl who slipped through the fingers of cold, hard genetics. Stupid whores...

And the one I hate the most is "a real woman." I was pissed as fuck when that movie came out with American Ferrara, "Real Women Have Curves."

Oh really? That's funny, because I didn't know that all of the naturally thin, healthy women out there were holograms or hallucinations from the depths of my self-depreciating mind. My inner skinny bitch is SO offended when people say that shit.

My own, personal definition of a "real woman" has something to do with the fact that they identify themselves as a female, are tangible and able to be seen by others with the gift of sight. But maybe that's just me. I could be wrong. But I freaking doubt it.

But of course, in the case of most fat girls, if you refer to them as straight up fat, they tear out your heart, dip it in butter and eat it. You can't win with these women. They expect you to just ignore the fact that they can't fit in a PT Cruiser unless you grease the sides with Crisco and throw in a Twinkie.

I'm sorry, but if I can't see around you and I can smell the cheese fermenting between your rolls, you're fat. Own it. And don't be offended when I call you out on it. I understand that society has conditioned you to believe that there's nothing socially unacceptable about being an orca in PersonLeather, but there is. Unless you've got an awesome personality and are otherwise socially acceptable, you're busted.

Moral of the Story: Fat girls hate when anyone even hints at their weight being anything other than what they have defined it as themselves, delusional as they may be. Also, I'm bitter about the English language and its lack of sufficient adjectives.

Summer

Swimsuit season. Heat waves. Shorts. The obligatory "weight loss" season. None of these words or phrases sing anything but death to the fat girl. And I don't mean a literal, dramatic, tear-filled death. I mean the metaphorical, soul-munching, crippling death that leaves you wanting to lie face up in your bed wearing nothing but your underwear, with the fan on high, just dying for a bite of some fresh, cool ice cream, but not wanting to get your huge ass up to get some. Of course during this time you're also looking down at your stomach, wishing it away, pining for it to just slide off like the third scoop of ice cream from the waffle cone you're dreaming about.

The worst death of them all.

Fat girls hate the summer. And it really does make sense when you think about it. All of your friends want to go lie out by the pool, sipping margaritas and eye-raping the man candy that walks by. But all you can think about is how the swimsuit skirt that covered you so well in the bathroom mirror this morning has magically shrunk in full view of the public.

When a skinny girl slinks into the water, she looks graceful and as she kicks off in a perfect breaststroke jaws drop and hearts flutter. When Fat Girl hauls her ass to the side of the pool and hops on in, you better BELIEVE that every single person is mumbling the word Shamu under their breath. Or maybe out loud. I know I yell it out when I see one of my kind flopping around like a walrus.

I'm a terrible fat girl. A treacherous snake to my kind...

But water is not the only elemental threat to the fat girl's happiness in the mid-year. Fire (more generally speaking, heat) always comes to vanquish the last remnants of happiness that the fat girl holds dear.

We've already covered the whole issue of fat girls sweating constantly, but I want to reiterate the magnitude of the situation in this little postlette. Fat girls are ALWAYS hot. Always. Time, place, climate, altitude, temperment, they always be sweatin' it. So clearly summer just makes it worse.

Luckily I live in Arizona, and I'm relatively free from humidity and the greasy mess it turns me into. HOWEVER there is no escaping that in 124 degree temperatures, I'm lookin' fierce. And not in the good way, like Beyonce. I'm lookin' Mama Cass, pre-ham sandwich fierce. Sometimes even post. It gets real.

There is also the issue of shorts. It's pretty much mandatory in any casual situation that you put on some booty shorts and get to workin' it. But for the Heffa' it's a nightmare. Most chub-o's are pretty self conscious about their legs. Except for those of you shaped like apples, with tiny little chicken legs that are delicate and pretty. Us bottom heavy (or just all over heavy) girls hate you, stupid tramps. Go on with your anklets, I'll be here with my cankles, wishing evil upon you and generations of your offspring.

That's why the good lord invented burmuda shorts. They go the knee, they cover the more disgusting looking parts of your thighs and they almost look like you made an intentional purchase as a fashion statement. Boom.

But since everybody got this memo, all they freaking make in a size 16 and above are burmuda shorts! (Or straight up booty shorts, which are just rude.) God forbid I want regular length shorts! Bleh. Blehblehbleh.

But everybody makes a resolution every year that "this summer I'm going to start working out. I'm going to eat salad and I'm going to buy a shakeweight and play with that phallic little badboy until my arms are Michelle Obama hard."

It never happens. And of course you've told all of your coworkers and friends that you're going to actually do it this year, and then September rolls around and you're still bustin' out of your jeans... So you're judged. Not only by them. But by yourself... and by God.

Alright, God doesn't really care. But you feel like he does. The shame...

Moral of the story: Fat Girls hate summer because it exploits every negative aspect of their lives.

Theme Parks

I know what you're thinking: "Kate, how the hell does ANYONE hate theme parks? They're wonderful!" And yes, you'd be right if Fat Girls were anything at all like the normal population of human beings. But God knows we're not. We could find things to complain about in the pre-apple Garden of Eden.

And even more strange is the fact that this post was inspired by my trip to Disneyland. That's right. I'm bitching about the Happiest Place on Earth. Don't get me wrong, I fucking love Disneyland. Within two steps into Downtown Disney my hands were shaking and I was gritting my teeth while quietly screaming to myself. Clearly I don't show joy like the rest of humanity...

But then the day goes on and I found things to complain about silently to myself.

First off there's the walking. We all know how much fat girls hate walking. And no matter where you go in ANY theme park, that freaking attraction is uphill and you have to scale the Agrocrag to get to it.

So then after huffing your big ass up the mountain you have to wait in line with a million other people, and it's about 600 degrees around you because of the pure energy that the mutants are exerting and there you are, sweating like Shaq. And there's nothing you can do about it.

And then while you're in the line there's prepubescents all over the place, fondling each other, pissing you off even more because you have and never will have anyone to fondle, you lonely bitch. So you take a bite of your fried chicken and deal with it.

After you FINALLY get to the front of the line you must wedge yourself into the tiny seat provided for you and stretch that mandatory piece of nylon over your rolls. You look like a freaking muffin regardless of how you try to suck it in. There is nothing cute about a sweaty muffin.

OR you can get on one of those rides with the bench seating. On most normal rides you're supposed to be able to fit three people across the spread with room to breathe. And you know in your mind as you're approaching that there is no way in HELL you're going to be able to get on that motha' with your skinny friends. But they INSIST that you all get on together because they "know" you'll all fit. They know this because three of their kind would fit with plenty of room to lie down and twirl, but the second Fat Girl sits down they realize the error of their ways and you see the shock in their eyes as they begin to comprehend the sheer size of her ass.

So inevitably the one in the middle ends up sitting half way on your thigh and you're pinched by her bony little posterior for the duration of the ride.

What a freaking nightmare.

And then there's the matter of amusement park food!

We all know that fat girls like to get as much food as possible for the least amount of money and then they want to shovel it in before anyone notices that they used a backhoe to carry their shit to the table. You can't do that at theme parks.

First you have to pay like ten dollars for a glass of water and a crust of bread, and then because it's completely packed in the restaurant AND outside on the little seating areas everyone can see that you just paid $800 for 80 times the amount of food they're enjoying.

There's no privacy in a sardine can, which is what the amusement park is to the Fat Girl.

Moral of the Story: Fat girls don't like theme parks because they're exposed as the enormous trolls they are.

Confident Black Women

Once again, we are just consumed by crippling jealousy...

It's about to get real up in here. This is not a racist post, this is a honest post. Here's the deal: Fat Girls hate Confident Black Women because they steal our prospective mates. It is a socially realized fact that there is nothing Fat Girls love more than a scrawny, 6'2" white man. MmMmMmMmMm... Pasty.

Of course, it's not just the skinny white men that we love. We love us some skinny black men too. Deeyam. We'll get down on that like a piece of strawberry/rhubarb pie. But the nice thing about this is that these itty bitty black men love us too. So it's nice and there's nothing to complain about for now.

But the fact of the matter is that skinny white men don't want us... Some of them do, don't get me wrong. But the only thing on the planet that rivals how much we love skinny white men is how much the object of our affections love confident black women.

And let's be real here, who wouldn't? They've got moves, they've got looks, they've got the style we all wish we had... They're just better. I swear to God, I wish I were a black woman at least once a week. I once saw the most beautiful African American Princess walking down the street wearing high heels and sweatpants and I couldn't take my eyes off of her. And not because she looked like a fool, like the rest of the population would have, she looked FIIIIINE. So fly, so fresh, like a delicious piece of chocolate standing strong in the sun. So of course I had to follow her three blocks just to attempt to master her swag.

Obviously not all black women are supremely confident and worthy of our envy-rich hatred, but once again... we don't hate them. We befriend them. We're in cahoots together.

But anyway, I digress...

The reason we hate them so much, beyond their ability to wear something that would make us look like a three ring circus, complete with lions and shit, is that our most desired entities in all of this enormous and delectible universe love them. And they don't love us. So we have to settle for less...

We want Poindexter and we get the left over, knockoff Paindexter. And by that I mean we die alone and our hearts burst from the pain of our loneliness and high cholesterol...

Moral of the Story: We hate Confident Black Women. Even other black women hate them. And as usual... we're just jealous.

Don't be offended by this post, Afro-dite... I'm just expressing my deep love for your kind.