You Poor, Stupid, Sad, Fat Girl by Adrianne Frost

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In the movies and on television, fat girls have it pretty bad. Frankly, fat girls are fucked. End of story. I personally have died twice, as a poor, stupid, sad, fat girl.

The first time I died, it was because my boyfriend was in the Al Qaeda. He was using me to get some kind of Al Qaeda shenanigans going. I had met him on the internet, in an “I like fat chicks” website that my fat friend and I trolled. He thought I discovered his plot and had me killed. The killer was a handsome stranger who flirted with me in a liquor store, whom I followed and, presumably gave a blowjob to in hopes of true love (because that’s what fat girls do), but was strangled and left in a boiler room in Brooklyn instead.

The second time I died, Cuba Gooding, Jr. found me at my job at an elementary school, and he charmed me into meeting him later for dinner by jump starting my car and flashing a toothy grin. He comes to pick me up at my apartment and my roommate tells him that I got freaked out, thinking I wasn’t attractive enough for him and I went off unaccompanied. So, I’m all alone in the bar, looking sad, when the dashing Neil McDonaugh (a time-traveling murderer) sidles up and begins a friendly conversation. I welcome that, because I hardly ever get attention paid to me. I go to the bathroom, Neil follows me, Cuba gets there too late and I get eviscerated. I’m serious. I had a big “Y” cut into my chest. I looked like a bullfrog, in a nice dress, who wandered into a science class.

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This wasn’t real-life, of course, but two acting jobs I had. I have noticed that this happens with most movies and TV shows: fat girl ends up with not-fat guy because he is using her or she is so desperate that she doesn’t realize he is a serial killer/rapist/puppy eater. Most of these characters are flattered and flustered when a white, physically fit, non-UPS driver pays them any mind. It’s like they’re looking at a work of art that they can never afford. And who would sell it to them, anyway?

Mostly, I get stuck as the 911 operator, patrol-car cop or EMT. You know, the sit down jobs. We can’t run, you know. That’s why you never see us on “The Walking Dead”, we done got ate. Once, I was cast as a lawyer who was not described as “heavyset” in the breakdown. I was just a normal, money hungry, ambulance-chasing attorney representing a killer. It felt progressive. Then, a few years later, I’m in Baton Rouge, getting dissected by a handsome actor. [Read more...]