Fat.
Fat.
Fat.
That was all she could hear. All the millions of words in the English language and "fat" was the only one she could think of.
She allowed her body to sink beneath the plentiful amount of bubbles and let out a sigh so laden with emotions even she couldn't decipher. At least her bulging stomach was hidden from her distraught view. It nearly killed her to look at the horrid thing. All flabby and splotchy, it was almost as if she wasn't even human anymore.
It wasn't a mental thing. Not at all. It was a fact. Any random passer by on the New York streets could easily see that she was exceedingly over weight and in dire need of some serious exercise. She already knew anorexia wasn't the answer, it never was. She had plenty of classmates ruin their lives due to the latter and possessed no intentions of following in their deranged, misguided footsteps.
Almost content for a small moment, she began to relax, thoroughly enjoying her hard-achieved bliss of her blubber. Of course that was until she noticed the blubber on her arms. She knit her brow together in determination and thrust her shoulders under the bubble blanket. There, that solved that. Once again she made a desperate attempt to enjoy her soak until she realized her jiggling thighs were sticking out in the most obnoxious way possible. With a loud splash she hid those, too.
It was then that the bathtub over flowed.
Talk about the lowliest of moments. Every girl has her PMS day and her sobbing day and her whining day, but not every one of us has a totally demoting gut wrenching day. I mean, what do you say to something like that anyway? If it were a TV show, it would be hilarious. But the thing is, it wasn't. It was an event that occurred in horribly shocking reality. She had just over-flowed her own bathtub with her robustness. It was pathetic. Absolutely. Totally. Utterly. Pathetic.
It didn't help any that she was a hopeless romantic. She practically lived off her adored soap operas and was officially addicted to those cheesy dollar tree novels that sold the most corny sex situations. The weirdest one she had encountered thus far was the elevator scene. I mean, really now. Who has sex in a frickin' elevator?
My point exactly.
But logic didn't matter to her. As long as the two characters were caught up in that ever so envious thing called love, she was eternally thrilled and could only wish she were the one embedded in the yellow-ing pages as opposed to the heroine.
But no. She was sitting at home over-flowing her bathtub.
How terribly poetic.
Choking back the too familiar tears, she raised herself from the warm waters – well, what warm water was left anyway – and shuddered as she faced herself in the demonic mirror that had cursed her mornings every day of her life. She was a fat baby, a fat toddler, a fat kid, and now a fat teen who was almost a fat woman. She had been plagued from the day she was born. She often wondered if she was doomed until the apocalypse, in which, upon the returning of Christ, she would immediately request a new body. But then again he would most likely scoff at her and send her straight to hell, since she was an embarrassment to all of God's other creations. And her hell would be plastered with mirrors. Or worse yet, fun house mirrors. The kind that stretched your body out to make it look fatter than it seemed. In her case, it made her being look like an entirely separate planet.
Oh the joys of adolescence.
She threw on her XXX Large bath rob and groped around for one of her romance novels she could lose herself in. The one good thing about being fat, however, was that she was very well endowed. The cover women may have tiny waists, but SHE had an incredible monstrosity of a chest. Bigger than any of theirs, of which they were probably all plastic anyway. She half expected them to melt when she lugged her beloved books to the beach (to which, of course, she arrived in very modest swim shorts and a colossal T- shirt. She had even resorted to men's swim trunks once. It was hell, trust me.)
And so, locking herself in her room, she escaped not to a guitar, but to a different genre all together. One that she could pursue without flunking in school. On that may actually benefit her GPA. She had enhanced her vocabulary incredibly. She now knew eighteen different terms for "tits" and "cocks" (for they were the usual word of reference in those grimy, raw clearance rack pages.) Not that she would ever find those on the SATs, but it was somewhat interesting to recite them all in her head during history class. It kept her head up and prevented inevitable drooling. Which, of course, if unattended to, led to inevitable snickering.
Crawling under the covers in a defeated sort of way, she laid back on her pillow, preparing to go far far away from any mirrors, D cups, bathtubs, french-fries, or anything else that reminded her of her Jello-like blubber.
To affirm the bookworm myth, she was undeniably isolated. But then again she was never given the chance to be anything but. And who knew of how much love and excitement she was capable of feeling? No one ever ventured further than to say anything other than a monotone 'what's up' or 'how are you?' She was simply ignored – which she most definitely preferred as opposed to the other disgraceful option of being the infamous gossip topic of the day. Life was not in the least enthralling and she would much rather not even be part of it. Being human was an insult to her well- disguised intelligence.
The front door to her dilapidating apartment flew open with a sudden gust of wind, or so she thought. Then she recognized her mother's foot steps as she thud-thudded up the shanty stairs and peered into the un-cleaned bathroom. There was a moment of tension that was followed by a tired, worn out sigh.
"Oh April, you really should clean up after yourself. You know, you're getting to old for this."
But April had already thrown the covers over her head and pretended to be fast asleep.
Fat.
Fat.
That was all she could hear. All the millions of words in the English language and "fat" was the only one she could think of.
She allowed her body to sink beneath the plentiful amount of bubbles and let out a sigh so laden with emotions even she couldn't decipher. At least her bulging stomach was hidden from her distraught view. It nearly killed her to look at the horrid thing. All flabby and splotchy, it was almost as if she wasn't even human anymore.
It wasn't a mental thing. Not at all. It was a fact. Any random passer by on the New York streets could easily see that she was exceedingly over weight and in dire need of some serious exercise. She already knew anorexia wasn't the answer, it never was. She had plenty of classmates ruin their lives due to the latter and possessed no intentions of following in their deranged, misguided footsteps.
Almost content for a small moment, she began to relax, thoroughly enjoying her hard-achieved bliss of her blubber. Of course that was until she noticed the blubber on her arms. She knit her brow together in determination and thrust her shoulders under the bubble blanket. There, that solved that. Once again she made a desperate attempt to enjoy her soak until she realized her jiggling thighs were sticking out in the most obnoxious way possible. With a loud splash she hid those, too.
It was then that the bathtub over flowed.
Talk about the lowliest of moments. Every girl has her PMS day and her sobbing day and her whining day, but not every one of us has a totally demoting gut wrenching day. I mean, what do you say to something like that anyway? If it were a TV show, it would be hilarious. But the thing is, it wasn't. It was an event that occurred in horribly shocking reality. She had just over-flowed her own bathtub with her robustness. It was pathetic. Absolutely. Totally. Utterly. Pathetic.
It didn't help any that she was a hopeless romantic. She practically lived off her adored soap operas and was officially addicted to those cheesy dollar tree novels that sold the most corny sex situations. The weirdest one she had encountered thus far was the elevator scene. I mean, really now. Who has sex in a frickin' elevator?
My point exactly.
But logic didn't matter to her. As long as the two characters were caught up in that ever so envious thing called love, she was eternally thrilled and could only wish she were the one embedded in the yellow-ing pages as opposed to the heroine.
But no. She was sitting at home over-flowing her bathtub.
How terribly poetic.
Choking back the too familiar tears, she raised herself from the warm waters – well, what warm water was left anyway – and shuddered as she faced herself in the demonic mirror that had cursed her mornings every day of her life. She was a fat baby, a fat toddler, a fat kid, and now a fat teen who was almost a fat woman. She had been plagued from the day she was born. She often wondered if she was doomed until the apocalypse, in which, upon the returning of Christ, she would immediately request a new body. But then again he would most likely scoff at her and send her straight to hell, since she was an embarrassment to all of God's other creations. And her hell would be plastered with mirrors. Or worse yet, fun house mirrors. The kind that stretched your body out to make it look fatter than it seemed. In her case, it made her being look like an entirely separate planet.
Oh the joys of adolescence.
She threw on her XXX Large bath rob and groped around for one of her romance novels she could lose herself in. The one good thing about being fat, however, was that she was very well endowed. The cover women may have tiny waists, but SHE had an incredible monstrosity of a chest. Bigger than any of theirs, of which they were probably all plastic anyway. She half expected them to melt when she lugged her beloved books to the beach (to which, of course, she arrived in very modest swim shorts and a colossal T- shirt. She had even resorted to men's swim trunks once. It was hell, trust me.)
And so, locking herself in her room, she escaped not to a guitar, but to a different genre all together. One that she could pursue without flunking in school. On that may actually benefit her GPA. She had enhanced her vocabulary incredibly. She now knew eighteen different terms for "tits" and "cocks" (for they were the usual word of reference in those grimy, raw clearance rack pages.) Not that she would ever find those on the SATs, but it was somewhat interesting to recite them all in her head during history class. It kept her head up and prevented inevitable drooling. Which, of course, if unattended to, led to inevitable snickering.
Crawling under the covers in a defeated sort of way, she laid back on her pillow, preparing to go far far away from any mirrors, D cups, bathtubs, french-fries, or anything else that reminded her of her Jello-like blubber.
To affirm the bookworm myth, she was undeniably isolated. But then again she was never given the chance to be anything but. And who knew of how much love and excitement she was capable of feeling? No one ever ventured further than to say anything other than a monotone 'what's up' or 'how are you?' She was simply ignored – which she most definitely preferred as opposed to the other disgraceful option of being the infamous gossip topic of the day. Life was not in the least enthralling and she would much rather not even be part of it. Being human was an insult to her well- disguised intelligence.
The front door to her dilapidating apartment flew open with a sudden gust of wind, or so she thought. Then she recognized her mother's foot steps as she thud-thudded up the shanty stairs and peered into the un-cleaned bathroom. There was a moment of tension that was followed by a tired, worn out sigh.
"Oh April, you really should clean up after yourself. You know, you're getting to old for this."
But April had already thrown the covers over her head and pretended to be fast asleep.