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.