Monday, March 16, 2015

A Letter From An Angry Fat Girl

To Everyone Who Has Called Me Fat As An Insult,
You can stuff the word down your throat and choke on it. Fat is a word that describes me, like tall, like loud, like gives good hugs, like drives her sisters crazy.
I’m not insulted. I’m just mad.

To That Sales Lady In A Store That Only Sold Clothing For Plus-Sized Women And Tried To Offer Me Diet Advice,
What the hell is wrong with you? No, seriously. Were you not paying attention to anything when they trained you into the job?

To That Medical Professional Who Wasn’t My Doctor Who Tried To Insinuate That I Was Sick Because I Was Fat,
Nope. I was sick because of germs. Who the hell gave you a medical degree? Your mom?

To The Random Asshole Who Yelled, ‘Hey! Fatass!”
I don’t actually have much of a butt at all. If you wanted to make sure I knew you were yelling at me, you should have yelled something that actually described me.

To The Lady In The Changing Room Who Told Me The Shirt Wasn’t Flattering (And Would Be If I Lost Some Weight),
Did you hear me asking for your opinion? Because I don’t ever remember asking for it.

To The Lady Who Told Me I Probably Wouldn’t Get Married Because Of My Size,
Do I even know you? No.
Also, if marriage makes me walk over to random strangers and say things like that to them, I’ll stay single forever, thanks.

To The Former Coworker Who Told Me I’d Look Great If I Lost Twenty Pounds,
I did loose twenty pounds while working with you. And you never noticed.

To The Same Former Coworker, Who Suggested I Get Surgery Because My Shoulders Were Too Big,
What on earth were you smoking?

To All Those Books And Articles On Dressing For Your Body Shape,
Thanks for nothing. “Curvy” is not an umbrella of all fat girls, and I don’t think I look attractive in “Flowing shirts and flowing skirts” because an empty bag of flour look but in all black and nasty chiffon (as you insist looks nice) is not actually flattering on anyone.

To Every Store That Has “Women’s” or “Plus-Sized” Sections Hiding In The Back Like Some Dirty Secret,
Just because it takes up more fabric to make me a dress, it doesn’t make me less of a person. I am not your dirty secret to hide.

To Every Person Who Thinks They Can Comment On My Body Because I Weigh More Than Conventional Society Has Dictated,
My body is not public property. My body is not yours to comment on, or yours to change. If I want your opinion or advice, I would ask for it. But I didn’t.

To Every Person Who Thinks They Can Comment On My Body Because I Weigh More Than Conventional Society Has Dictated,
Nope.


To Every Person Who Has Had Others Comment On Their Body Because They Weigh More Than Society Has Dictated,
I'm sorry the world sucks sometimes. I'm sorry people are rude. I'm sorry that there have been days that the world has made you hate a body as beautiful as yours. I'm sorry for every time someone has said something that made you cry. I'm sorry for all of the people who have dared to criticize the perfection that is you.

To Every Person Who Has Had Others Comment On Their Body Because They Weigh More Than Society Has Dictated,
You are gorgeous. You are beautiful. You are a damn work of art. You are magnificent, you are perfect, and fuck all the people who tell you otherwise.
Take up the space you were given. Take up the space you need. There is nobody on Earth who has the right to stop you.

To everyone who buys THIS MUCH SPACE:
Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.




Olivia is Anna Wintour’s worst nightmare, and she doesn’t give a shit. She’s wanted to go into fashion design her whole life, and nothing is going to stop her fabulous plus sized self. Not even her boss from hell, or the fact that she’s the fat Cinderella of the most exclusive lingerie store in Bushwick, Ohio. She’s sworn off dating, because she is focused, dammit, and will not get distracted by anyone in college. She has shit to do and places to go, be it on her own with the clothing she makes, or with the girls in Twelve Beats In A Bar, the all-female a cappella group she’s part of.

Why do group projects always have to ruin everything?

Thierry Acosta has it all. Shortstop on Bushwick University’s baseball team, amazing grades in college, everything he could want. When he gets paired with Olivia for a group project, things are only getting better. And then his dad loses his job, and Thierry’s life falls apart. He can’t manage to get himself to practice, to class… anywhere. He’s got the scars on his wrists to prove that this has happened before, but he thought he was better. He thought he could deal with something like this. The cuts on his thighs say otherwise.

Before they know it, Olivia and Thierry's relationship has gone from casual project partners to not-so-casual more-than-friends. But when things take a turn for the worse, can they face the growing reality of a relationship that's become much more serious than either of them expected- or wanted?
 

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