I AM beautiful.
And I'm tired of you people telling me I'm not.
You know who you are... the one who wouldn't help me in the
store because it's not acceptable to wear a 38D (sorrry..I'll have them reduced
next week, ok?), "Oh, we don't have very many of THAT size."
The ones who tell me that, "you had such a pretty face.. 30lbs ago."
The ones who dare to sneer if I forget to order my salad dressing on
the side.
What is your fucking problem?
We are all women. I don't think it's the men we can blame for the
deaths from anorexia, bulemia, and obesity. We put this contest on
ourselves. We treat each other as nothing if we do not each have the
Naomi Campbell bod.
We treat each other as whores and decoration... to be judged
soley by our ability to wear a size six and still have a breast that's
grope-able. We have taken the "male fantasy", internalized it, and use
it as a weapon against each other.
I refuse to play this game.
You see that woman, shopping in the Lane Bryant? Yeah, the one with
the size 22 pants. She is more beautiful than you will ever be. It's
an soul thing, baby. Inside she glows, and outside she shines.
Healthy, neat and pretty.. and yeah FAT. See... she's secure enough to
accept herself; something you, in your size 6 forever-diet, pick-the-fat-off-the-chicken-breast,
run-6-miles-a-day-CK-jeans, don't see.
So go ahead and sneer if I'm five foot two and a size 16 (excuse me, I
don't do that scale thing) and dare to wear a mini and heels. I know
what I've got. I'm pretty, I'm sexy as HELL, I'm hot, I'm smart and
I'm a helluva woman. And anyone worth knowing sees that.
Including your date.
