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.

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.