[My main Tumblr can be found over at myasphyxiatedmind]
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My name is: Michelle, but most people call me Dark online.
My gender-pronouns are: They/them/their.
I am: 27 years old, a feminist, an atheist, an omnivore, and an ISFJ.
The Feminist: Intersectional, body positive, pro-choice, and sex positive.
My privileged identities include: Female assigned at birth (FAAB trans* privilege), white, able-bodied, allistic (?), dyadic, monogamous.
My non-privileged/oppressed identities include: Gender-fluid, fat, gray-a, neuroatypical, and gay.
I have: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder, Dermatophagia, and Dermatillomania.
I like: Pets & animals, animal welfare, pet care & pet care education, ~*SCIENCE!*~, anatomy & physiology, roleplaying, anime/manga, computer & video games, rock & metal music.
Anti-fatness is humiliating.
It makes strangers hate you. It makes people that you don’t know feel as though they’re allowed to tell your their opinions about what goes in and on your body.
When you’re a fat woman and walk into a store, a sales clerk will automatically walk up to you and say, “We don’t have a plus-size section here.” You did not come in for clothes. You came in for jewelry. You came in for shoes. You came in for a friend, a sibling, or just to walk through.
Anti-fatness causes your male friends to not date you for a variety of bullshit excuses and reasons that can range from, “I see you as a sister/just a friend/one of the guys” to “I’m just not into that.” But as soon as you show an inkling of losing weight, they’re encouraging and suddenly attracted to you.
Being fat, to some people, is enough to warrant their opinions on your body.
“You shouldn’t wear that. That’s not flattering at all.”
“That color doesn’t go with your…body type.”
“That cut’s way too low for you. Try another.”
It ranges from the gentle patronizing sales clerk to the blatant asshole waitstaff asking if you really need dessert.
And I’m fucking sick of it.
I’m sick of playing nicey-nice with the girls at the department stores. I’m sick of faux-smiling and laughing at the “helpful suggestions” of different sizes, different colors, different styles, different stores.
I’m sick of arguing with my waiter that I really do want a fucking piece of cake. I’m sick of being forced to tip this rude, intrusive asshole.
I’m sick of being praised for “healthier choices” and being psuedo-complimented.
“You’re getting a salad? Good for you!”
“Ordering water? Great. I have to stop drinking soda, too! Sooooo many calories, right?”
“It’s so good to see you working out and taking control of your health!”
“You know, you’re really pretty for a fat girl.”
“You could be a plus-size model!”
After trying on clothes that are plain street clothes: “Ooh, sexy! Go get ‘em!”
“I bet if you lost some weight, you’d be even cuter.”
Bless these know-nothing dum-dums. They think they’re being kind and supportive. They think they’re stopping me from hating myself or killing myself.
You just make me want to smother you with this “dangerous,” “evil,” “lazy,” “unhealthy,” “life-threatening” fat.