I, Eric Theodore Cartman, am a fatass.
Yeah, it's past the point of denying.
Pathetic
really, how long I pretended I was
something I'm not. It
doesn't
really affect me anymore,
even
when the mirror makes it plainly
obvious. I don't
cut
myself off from the universe, no, I
have a better way to cope. There's
no need for self-pity when it's easier
to just shut up and deal with
it.
My name is Eric Cartman and I am fat. You can go on and on about how it doesn't define who I am, but it kind of does. In a shallow world like ours focusing solely on appearance, ugly people, crippled people, overweight people; they're all looked down upon. I'm not one to talk, of course, since I am the shallowest person you'll ever meet. Misogynistic. Racist. Anti-Semitic. Sadistic. Blah, blah, blah, I know my diagnosis. I don't really give a fuck, because my opinions are correct and nobody can tell me otherwise.
I am fat because I am empty.
Depressed, maybe, but I'd prefer not to consider that. Depression is for the weak, for the attention-whores. I may like attention, but not enough to start slitting my wrists. I'm just… hollow. There's nothing in my life that fulfills me, nothing that truly brings me happiness. And so, I fill the void with food.
Food, yes food, lots of it. That satisfactory swelling of a stomach that can't handle anymore, the dancing of taste buds as they absorb explosions of complex flavors. It soothes me, it distracts me. And most of all, it fills me. Even if the fullness is a false one, it's something to hold onto if only for a little while.
I can't remember the last time I was hungry. I never really allow myself to get famished, because it just makes me feel emptier and also it's uncomfortable. Peckish is the furthest extent my belly ever stretches.
Not a lot of people notice, not that I particularly want them to. Concern in general is something a human being craves to shine on them, so yeah, it'd be cool if someone suddenly started caring, but I don't expect it. There's not much to take note of anyway; all I do is drown my sorrows in food and then act like the asshole I always am. My mom is the only one who truly detects my lack of high spirits. She's a fucking slut, but not a stupid fucking slut.
She tries to do things for me to make me feel better. Her attempts are futile, because I don't think anything she could do would diminish my desolateness. That's okay though, because at least she puts forth the effort.
It's okay.
I don't know what could possibly fill my void. Money? No, I've obtained plenty of that in several of my insane schemes, but it hasn't really made me feel complete. Power? Please, I have power in the palms of my hands, meager human minds no match for my skillful levels of manipulation (okay, so maybe Kyle's immune, but he doesn't count because he's a Jew). Love? Hah, maybe, but I think Ben Stiller will become funny before anyone could ever fall in love with me. Not because I'm fat, some people can look past that, but because I am a legitimate bastard and there's nothing I can do to change it.
It really is okay.
I can keep living the way I do. I'm no pussy, and I can certainly take things like a man. Maybe one day I can achieve true bliss, but until then I can't give up the food. I just can't.
But it's okay.
Kyle and Stan and everyone else
can call me what they want.
They will never
really get it. Their close-minded
brains can never
understand
what I'm hiding underneath,
what
it means when I act like an
absolute jackass constantly. See,
it's
like this; their cruel insults
are just about level with my
inhumane remarks, though I act
like
they go right through me,
and I refuse
to
ever flinch or display my emotions.
It's just the way I am, how I insist
I have to
be
in order to manage.
I'm a fucked up person.
I'm far from normal.
I can never be like everyone else.
And because of that, I am inevitably
a
complete and utter
fatass.
…It's okay though.
It's okay.