So I don’t have to worry about being hit on at bars, because men will talk to my gorgeous thin best friends over me.
So I can truly embrace my archetypal role as the “funny fat friend” with the great big laugh and the witty comebacks and the leopard print maxi dress, because I might as well embrace mocking myself before anyone else gets to the chance to.
So I can live my lonely, lovely, hardworking existence peacefully and without disturbance, so my perpetual lack of boyfriend/social life/good feelings can be excused without question.
So I can wear campy lipstick without it being taken as a pursuit of sex.
So I can eat hot dogs with béchamel and French fries cooked in duck fat and an entire large pizza and queso dip and all manner of fatty, lardy substances without guilt.
So I can fulfill the prophecy that has been laid for me since my mother’s childhood: fat and nothing you can do about it.
So I can ignore the disordered eating I grew up perpetuating. Passing out in hallways and crying over a Hershey’s kiss and 500 crunches over a few Cheez Its.
So I can tell my skinny friends to shut the fuck up and wear the short shorts or buy that eyeshadow or go dance with that guy, because as a fat person, I don’t deserve to do the same.
So I can avoid going to pool parties. Or being a bridesmaid. Or shopping with my friends. Or giving my coworker my number.
So I can finally shut everyone out, just like I’ve always wanted.
So I can finally be alone, and in peace, and in sorrow. And in fat.
So when I finally tell myself, “You don’t deserve love,” I can actually believe it.
Sincerely, and in truth,
A formerly overweight, formerly thin, currently overweight girl.