Now I’ve got no beef with fat chicks modeling- hey, there’s money to be made in ugly clothes! But this site just makes me laugh http://plussizemodelsunite.com/.
Now what is the purpose of going to the gym? To lose weight. My best friend just joined a new gym ($40 fee and $20 monthly dues) the same day she dragged me to some designer underwear boutique to buy some special bag and detergent ($20) to wash her special French import bra ($129) for her gigantaur boobs, 36 FF. She was so thrilled to find out that the shop carries her brand and size (price between $88-$165) and has made it her #1 bra stop since she’s had to toss her 40-odd Victoria’s Secret bras out since her boobs got too big on account of her birth control, weight gain, and drinking.
It hurts me just to spend 2 for $35 on Lilyette minimizers in Macy’s, and let me tell you fuckwits something, my 38 DDD (technically I’m a 36 DD in every other brand) is THE AVERAGE which is why I can’t find my size regardless of the color or design! When we left the shop I just asked her point blank, “Why don’t you just get a reduction?” According to her logic, since she’s not in any pain and the bras she’s throwing away fuckloads of cash on will help with support (they’re push-ups the stick-your-micro-dick-between-my-chest-behemoths bra). At the same time she wants to have at least 2 kids in 5 years.
This is just to keep her fiancée happy and she’s an attention whore- like her insane-o mother.
There are things fat women should never wear (like the majority of my best friend’s wardrobe):
1) Kimono-muumuus make you look like a whale.
2) A-line dresses make you look fatter- your lower half especially!
3) Bustier bunched mini dresses in tropical colors are a NO NO!
4) Halter drape camisoles over jeans (whether they cover your hips or not) you can’t get away with them (they highlight how big your ass is).
5) Pencil skirts weren’t made for fatties. If you don’t look like one of the Pink Ladies from Grease 2, you don’t wear them!
I can’t stand idiots who preach the same damn product pushing pseudo-philosophy that’s found on the backs of Snackwell’s boxes: “It’s all in your attitude!” Well my “positive ‘tude” with my fat ass isn’t getting the hot guy, the great job, or the cool friends that everybody on this planet really wants. So we trudge onward to the next crash diet and the treadmill- don’t like what I have to say, then you deny reality. The only reason why the fat chicks are in catalogs is because their faces are rather beautiful, and if they slimmed down to a size 10 they’d be perfect.
I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m hopeful for a better life when I get down to my ideal weight. In fact, I know I’ll get one. And I honestly don’t know what my friend means by me dumping all over my womanhood by losing weight and getting smaller boobs. I’m still a woman even if my tatas aren’t udders!
P.S. I feel I should tell you why I’m so fucking evil on weight issues (I’m not telling you because I want to be PC or apologetic, but this was my MAJOR wake up call). When I was 17 I was at the library to do some research for some fucked up project for a pretentious bastard for an English teacher (he was a junior high art teacher before he came to our pseudo-school) that I knew I wouldn’t get the proper grade for because I didn’t lick his balls and call them ice cream. A-ny-way! After I was done digging through Ebsco (remember this was before we got online) I took a swing through the fiction section to see if there was anything interesting. I settled on one of my favorites until this day, Junk by Linda Yablonsky, the sordid tale of a New York heroin addict/dealer during the horse heyday of the late ’70s and ’80s. I also did a quick sweep of sci-fi (yes I’m a fucking geek OK!) and then I checked out and proceeded to leave. Well as I was searching for my student Metrocard I heard a voice:
“Excuse me. I just saw you walking around, and I thought you were really cute. I’d like to take you out.”
Well visions of Sergei Grinkov lookalikes flooded my unprepared brain I looked up with an ill-thought out flirtatious comeback on the tip my tongue- luckily I bit it when I saw what was directly in front of me. A four-eyed, balding, 5’5″ mamma’s boy virgin. I wear a lot of rings, my friends call them my knuckle dusters, and with good reason. I glanced at the bored security guard at the revolving door and wondered at my chances of making a quick getaway after I brained this ugly midget and decided to take the legal route.
“Excuse me, are you like 30?”
“Well,” the blush on his bloated face made him look like he had rosacea, “yeah, sort of.”
“I’m 17.”
“You’re legal.”
I spun around and stomped off. I didn’t bother waiting for the goddamn bus, I was ready to explode and might take it out on the first person that brushed up against my coat. I cried all night and the next day I skipped class, Mom didn’t ask and I didn’t tell her until I was around 25 after we threw Dad out. I told some of my older friends (at the time) and they said I should’ve knocked him out- in retrospect I should have taken the opportunity. It wasn’t until then that I realized how ugly I was, and just what kind of man would want me and I had to make a change. It hurts when you get made fun of, regardless of what anybody says. They’re liars when they say you’ll get over it, and that you need to embrace your thunder thighs, huge ass, and big hips. Yeah, tell that to the murderous pain in my knees asshats!
When I was 16 this girl who was the daughter of a nice woman (can you believe that?) Mom knew called me “butt-ugly” from the inside of her gate. I never spoke to the bitch in my life and didn’t even know who the fuck she was until after I told Mom. A year later when I made myself over she stood there slacked-jawed at my nice dyed red hair, better clothes, and face free from glasses I shouted at her to say something to me. And I was ready to swing my fists. She wisely kept her trap shut. The last time I saw her she was outside her mother’s gate with her two brats from her ghetto baby-daddy. She was the epitome of white trash with her now fat ass squeezed into pink running pants, a black tank top that was riding up on her pot belly with a visible thong over her lower back tat (the fuck-me-because-I-need-attention tattoo). I laughed in her face and told her to take a shower (all that gel in her hair made it look filthy). Even though that sideshow of a family pulled up stakes and left a couple years back I still wince whenever I pass their gate.
Oh yeah, I have since never gone near the sci-fi section again (’cause that’s where the virgin mamma’s boys hang out).
In The Third Decade... 