insecure

To-ta-lly Unfair.

Why do it? Why expose every fear, every trepidation and every god damned insecurity of every fat girl in this world? Why lure them into a seemingly sympathetic and understanding plot and then dash our already fragile egos by turning into the very enemy - - - those patronizing perfect people who just mean you well.

F**k Jemima Jones. You, Jane Green, you freaking genius. You manipulator of every one of these fat girls most secret dream - - - to be perfect. No, not god damned gorgeous, some of us would actually be content to be just pretty or cute. But perfection is often times mistaken for beauty and oh, so far from our grasps.

Why tell the world that every time we ride the bus, we face quandary because a lot of buses have f**king small seats and everytime we sit down we have to pull ourselves in, to compress our thighs, our bodies, our esteem and hope to God who ever sits down beside us won't bitch about not having enough space to sit on. If you know, really know that something as trivial as riding a bus could kill a fraction of our soul, why mention it - - - and then turn patronizing?

Why mention the urges which shames us - - the war that rages on inside us everytime we pass a doughnut stand - - and turn traitor by shunning this shame and making it even more pathetic as it already is?

Why describe our secret lives and then in the end try, the operative word is try, to make it up to all the fat girls reading your book by seemingly presenting a fat girl one-upping the by-then-beautiful Jemima Jones. But it isn't funny. It isn't funny. You see the world laughing, even all the fat girls are. We're laughing because - - we have just turned ourselves funny, amiable, game, hohoho, just so to endure being who we are. But if you really knew who we were, then you would know it's actually the bitterest kind of sad.

Oh, I hate you. And I love you. But I hate you.

How can you show - - an image of me - - - by holding up a mirror crafted through words and then leave me in the cold, silent, sharp cutting truth that anyone of us could be so achingly beautiful if only we could find the determination, nay, the obsession (and not to mention the moolah) to exercise, to join clubs, to cut back our gorging. Just wanting it doesn't make it happen. Nope, nada. I walk with the air of someone content in the bubble, but I have wanted perfection too. Wanted it so much that I could fuel seven nuclear plants with the burning it creates in my soul.

You pretended to be like us but you had always been one of them - - those pretty ones, those f**king concerned ones, so sympathetic to the pathetic and yet not knowing anything. Not one thing about us. About them. About me.

You are nothing but Fr**king Chick Lit. I cried over a god damned Chick Lit. Hemmingway couldn't move the mountains inside of me, but you f**king made me cry.

F**k off. Leave me alone.

My bubble's burst and I am vulnerable. Tender.

Just let me Be.