A point by point vivisection is in order here:
Probably sugar cravings.
Edited for accuracy.
Because "stigma longhand" is too much effort.
Die Qual der Wahl.
She didn't have this in her head at all. Pure lies. I trust this woman as about as far I can throw her.
Everyone knows what you are, hambeast.
Impossible.
It wasn't a naive assumption - it was an entitled one - and plain stupid.
All you had to say was:
The dam buckles under the pressure and bursts with bile and insulin.
Tried? What, you want a cookie? You probably do.
This is the phase where the woman hates herself even more and she either A) Works out or B) Doubles down on her hate for thin-privileged freaks of nature like Mr. Smug.
Furious because not even lesbians will dump a fuck in you.
Can't stop thinking about the big bad wol-- I mean, Mr. Smug?
An understatement.
G
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The man behind us on the train had been ranting for nearly 10 minutes, and my patience was waning.
Probably sugar cravings.
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My friend nodded back as if to say, "I know," his [fat] cheeks flushing red.
Edited for accuracy.
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We were using what I call "stigma shorthand" — a silent language of winks and nods used by the hyper-vigilant to keep each other safe.
Because "stigma longhand" is too much effort.
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"I might have to say something." I finally said out loud. He nodded again. I took another deep breath and thought about whether or not I could live with myself if I didn't.
Die Qual der Wahl.
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What I’d meant to say was: "Hi! I'm a real live fat person. You maybe have never met one before in real life? I'm just assuming that 'cause no one would ever say the things you’re saying about someone they actually cared about. But just so you know, I’m up here in front of you being an actual human being, so if you can't stop yourself being hateful, maybe you could at least have the courtesy to do it elsewhere?"
She didn't have this in her head at all. Pure lies. I trust this woman as about as far I can throw her.
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Except I only got as far as, "Hi! I'm a real live fat person," before I realized that the bearded bully in the blue sweater behind me knew exactly who was sitting in front of him
Everyone knows what you are, hambeast.
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I was thrown.
Impossible.
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I'd naively assumed that basic human decency would kick in once he realized an actual person of the variety he was maligning was within earshot. In my imagination, he'd looked surprised, mumbled an awkward apology, and that had been that. But that was totally not that.
It wasn't a naive assumption - it was an entitled one - and plain stupid.
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Mr. Smug was all worked up in a self-righteous lather and he was spoiling for a logic-based fight about fiscal responsibility and the "obesity epidemic." All I wanted was to enjoy my day trip without listening to someone endlessly hate-wank about my right to live. And his complete lack of remorse was so disarming that, for the life of me, I couldn't think of a single damned thing to say in my defense.
All you had to say was:
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I tried — bless me, I did — but 20 years of activism, education, and insight just evaporated in the face of his pompous entitlement. I flailed blindly. I maybe got in a good one-liner or two — but when he asked me if I had Type I or Type II diabetes (not having diabetes at all was apparently not an option) and then proclaimed "Yet!" when I said I had neither, I utterly lost my cool. I reverted to my elementary school bully-defense tactics, called him a "Fuck" and told him to shut up.
The dam buckles under the pressure and bursts with bile and insulin.
Tried? What, you want a cookie? You probably do.
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[b]I retreated into my iPhone, my hands shaking, my stomach sick with the conflict, doing my damnedest not to give him the satisfaction of tears. My partner helplessly patted my leg, my friend tried to calm me with cute dog videos, but I was gone — turned inward and busied with the work that those of us who face this kind of discrimination every day are far too familiar with — the work of not believing that we are intrinsically worthless.
This is the phase where the woman hates herself even more and she either A) Works out or B) Doubles down on her hate for thin-privileged freaks of nature like Mr. Smug.
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And when the tears inevitably came, despite my best efforts, I was absolutely furious. Furious that I failed to defend myself, furious that some random man on a train was able to reduce me to tears, and furious that I couldn't find any compassion for myself about either.
Furious because not even lesbians will dump a fuck in you.
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[b]It's been three days now since that blue-sweatered bully got off the train and I've been thinking about that interaction almost nonstop.
Can't stop thinking about the big bad wol-- I mean, Mr. Smug?
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As a 5'8", 350-pound woman with blue-streaked hair, and, as I'm told, a "big personality," I don't move through the world quietly
An understatement.
G