The Case For Former Fat Girls
First and foremost, the former fat girl does not rely on positive reinforcement based on superficiality, because she never could. Forced to develop a personality absent the praise afforded our more lithe adolescent peers, the former fat girl is often a blissful conflation of both Megan Fox and Melissa McCarthy. Armed with a compulsory stellar personality and arsenals of artificial sweeteners, the FFG’s intellect and wit are relatively inelastic to shrinking mass. The FFG had considerably more social downtime to dedicate to academia than her more buoyant, extracurricularly occupied peers. As such, GPA often corresponds proportionally with BMI, and having spent time in the upper range the FFG likely occupies the upper tax bracket. Say hello to your sugar (re:splenda) mama.
While the lifetime skinny girl is difficult to impress, former fat girls are reliably receptive to any compliment that faintly implies thinness or delicacy. Verbal adoration of her cheek bones, or even better, knobby knees, guarantees a sprint to second base. Carelessly lift her off her feet mid-dance or hug and she’s yours for life. Forgive me Ms. Steinem, but the former fat girl is often more tolerant of anti-feminist relationship pitfalls, and holds fast to her inaugural post-chub beau like she does to the last non-fat Greek yogurt at Dean and Deluca.
Furthermore, the FFG is unimpeachably groomed. After all, prior to joining the ranks of the modestly nourished, enhancing our non-caloric dependent traits was all we could do to illicit masculine response. We can be counted on for fantastic hair, expertly applied make-up after years feigning facial definition, and strategic scarf and waist belt placement.
Less existentially, the former fat girl tends to be easy on the wallet. Lightly dressed greens are considerably less expensive than the filet mignon an endocrinology gifted waif may elect for. March Madness can be thoroughly enjoyed without a pestering spouse given the month’s threatening proximity to bathing suit season. Fundamentally a glutton, the former fat girl may indulge her reformed hedonism (or, I daresay, oral fixation) more illicitly with you as the prime beneficiary. Our thighs, once best friends but now estranged, might just open generously after an average five-year delay of virginity loss.
Of course, the FFG is not entirely without flaw. Homegirl has probably forgotten to recalibrate her alcohol consumption in light of her slimmer frame and quadrated diet — which can be either extremely sexually satisfying or extremely messy for a Saturday night suitor. Emotionally, the FFG is perennially a Cinderella at 11:58 pm — always just minutes away from a former life of sticky peanut butter hands and excessive Stephanie Meyer adoration. She has synaptical reaction to an accidental full-fat latte for which you will often have to apologize. She might be a smoker, and she might have maintained a few less metabolically enlightened friends from pre-hot days, with whom your buddies may not be enthusiastic about pairing up for a double date. Discouraged by birth control’s pesky appetite enhancer, her spouse may enjoy bare back less frequently. To this end, she may or may not swallow depending on the type and nature of her points program.
All and all, the Former Fat Girl is God’s gift to men. Sure, we are perennially engaged in a game of hide and seek with our collar bones. Our bra drawer implies personality dissociative disorder (tops and pants we swiftly disposed of to sartorially prohibit potential relapse). We will roil the aggravations of every waiter in town with our special requests, and our real estate preferences prohibit anything within walking distance of a Haagan Daz. Still, our formative fat years will always humble and haunt us, and we invite all to raise your vodka sodas to the FFG.
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Describe for us the threesome with your OKCupid hookup.
If this doesn’t become the biggest video on the Internet, then I have no faith left in humanity.
I’m about to finish up my sophomore fall of college, and friends from home are getting married and having babies and sufficiently freaking me out.
He was a perfect date. I later got drunk and hacked his phone (who uses their birth year for a password? It was 1986, by the way #teamcougar). What I found was a text to a Kristina explaining his aforementioned sex dream he’d had about her while sleeping next to me in a luxurious hotel bed.