A little smooching in the back of a cab.
Episode II, again, but digital this time. The Greek hadn't seen it yet.
"Don't knock masturbation -- it's sex with someone I love!"
So much herb-roasted chicken at my residence that I'm going to turn into a chicken, specifically an herb-roasted one.
After the movie, there was a line out the men's room door, but I walked right into the women's bathroom. That could only happen after Star Wars.
Fang left me a voicemail while I was in the movie which she ended by saying, "I love you...hang in there, and not by your neck."
My ambitions and hopes of just 2 years ago.
The Sidebar coincides with the original time of this entry...I have not reunited with the Greek. A week later and, obviously, my writing to him about sex was more important than the actual sex. Men!
astounded at what people will say to you when you're fat.
"Fatso!" the woman dressed entirely in yellow mumbled as she almost bumped into me. I was veering off Seventh Avenue to enter the subway and she was following entirely too closely, since I could hear her mumbling. But that's my fault, because I'm fat. Which is also my fault, because I obviously sit around eating bon bons all day, while watching soap operas and eating cake and ice cream with the other hand.
Why, I don't even taste it, right? I just stuff it in my big, fat maw, because I am not only mindless and slovenly, but I must be emotionally unstable and use food as a crutch.
I detest the presumptions made about people who are fat. All the people I know with such highly developed and twisted relationships with food are thin. I don't think about it all day or get into any weird, food-related behaviors. When I get a scritchy feeling in my stomach, I eat. When I start to feel full, I stop. Call me crazy.
Now, mind you, I didn't stand there and cry. I told her to go fuck herself, which she claimed she could not do because she lacked a penis.
"Then you don't know your body very well, you cock sucking moron!"
I may be fat, but I refuse to be jolly. . . .
"I was really hoping you were diabetic," the doctor told me, as he looked, disappointedly at my blood test results last Tuesday*. He was anxious to put me on diabetes medicine, because it would make me lose weight.
My cholesterol is higher than it should be, but not at panic level. I'm still anemic. I could've told him that. He ordered more tests to find out what kind of anemia it is, because "a certain form of anemia is common to people of African descent." Oh, please. No one in my family has Sickle Cell Anemia to my knowledge and I understand that it causes constant, excruciating pain. I do have unexplained pains now and again, but I don't think it's that severe.
He gave me one info sheet on anemia, which is an actual health problem, and 3 on weight reduction, which I did not state was a goal of mine. He kept giving me weight loss tips for gluttons, like not to slather my bread with butter, but to have it with olive oil instead. I responded that rarely eat bread any more and don't generally put butter on it because the bread is usually cold. I much prefer olive oil, cracked pepper and balsamic vinegar to butter, actually. We had a long talk about my diet, which he agreed was quite healthy. Yet, he continued to make suggestions based on such assumptions.
I just don't appreciate the smug, condescending attitude I encounter in such people. I'm fat, I'm not stupid, inferior, lazy, gluttonous or ignorant. I don't sit around on my ass all night eating bon-bons, for fuck's sake. What really chaps my hide is the smokers who get self-righteous when I have dessert. I'm not the one addicted to sucking in toxins with utterly no nutritive value and paying handsomely for the privilege. But do I lecture them about it, like they are morons? I'm better off eating a balanced diet with desserts thrown in than they are skipping meals, never drinking water and inhaling poison all day.
But what do I know? I've only done a health family tree and saw a pattern of fat women who lived long and smokers who died young. I needn't look that far these days. I still have a fat parent, I no longer have a thin one who smokes.
What I found especially annoying about the information sheets, beyond the assumptions about how and what fat people eat, was not only the assertion that fat people overeat, but that they tend to eat due to emotional issues. For the zillionth time, the only people I've ever known to "stuff down" their emotions with food were thin and very fucked up. When I'm angry, I express it. When I'm sad, I cry a river and moan into my pillow. The last thing on my mind and lips when I am depressed is food. Indeed, when I'm really depressed, I have to climb out of it long enough to eat so I don't make myelf sick. . . .
By far the worst thing about being fat is that you never get a day off. Even people who claim to be your friends bring it up randomly in conversations that have nothing to do with weight, food, health, etc.
A few months back, I was sitting in a bar having a drink with the woman in the next room when she blurted out, "Why don't you just walk to work, so you can lose the weight?"
I hadn't asked her how I could lose weight. Not that the lack of asking prevents buttloads of unsolicited advice.
The woman who is trying hard to be my friend right now seems obsessed with it. It comes up almost every time I see her, even more than her casual use of the word nigger. So my choice is between crushing lonliness and fatphobic racism. Delightful. It's frustrating that I bring out so many ugly sides of people, just sitting there, minding my own business. Sometimes, I just want to eat my dinner in peace.
I know I was made to do something with my talents and surely the fact that I bring so many salient issues to the fore is a significant large part of that. Nevertheless, sometimes I just want to be Erica.
[Next entry: "Reminded of Me"]
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