Poor little fat girl

A while back I began communicating with a manboy; this was prior to my departure into the 'depression-within-a-depression' in the ultimate depressive destination of Estonia. Having put on a bit of weight whilst there, I informed him - via phone - of my additional stack that was returning with me, to which he responded "I don't normally date fatties, but you're funny so I'll make allowances".

Being mostly human, I have emotions. One of those is anger. You may be familiar with anger. I rarely get angry, but when I do, you'll know. You'll know, and you'll cry.

This week I've been annoyed with a shop window in my current neighborhood. The shop window in question is that of slutty emporium 'Anne Summers'. Whether it be nipple clamps or a packet of penis pasta - they've got it all, the dirty bastards. Before you start thinking I'm some sort of prude, I'm not, I'm as liberal as Paddy Ashdown, with his pants down, going down town. I'm well dirty, me.

So, returning to the offending item in the shop window...on Day 1 whilst idly passing I became aware of a mannequin. Come Day 2 I actually stopped and mouthed disapprovingly 'fuck off' in disbelief at what I was witnessing. In reality I said it quite loudly, so others could be party to my horror at the site before me (but I was likely perceived to be a mad woman shouting 'fuck off' at a pair of knickers in a window). Come Day 3, I thought I would make my complaint heard to the workers in the shop.

Following a power lunch of roll mop herrings, I decided to march towards the shop knowing full well my breath was going to be as offensive as their window display. They were going to take the stench of my metaphorical and literal bile.

Talking to the assistant, whilst the manager eyed my rattled assertion with suspicion, I demanded she take the tape measure from around her neck and come with me to the window where I then instructed her to measure the waist of the curvaceous mannequin on display. I was angry, she obeyed.

20 inches.

To put this in perspective, I am currently a size 14, within a healthy range for my BMI and my THIGH measures 25".

To put this further into perspective, here is a model who recently came under scrutiny for her 20" waist, and her (here we go again...) insistence that she eats junk food three times-a-day and scoffs herself senseless with chocolate. She just has that kind of metabolism. You know, that infamous vapourising metabolism.

She likely has a chronic case of worms, undetected except for her incessant bottom scratching. 

So back to my one woman protest. Having informed the shop assistant I would be speaking to their customer services department about this unrealistic window freak, she attempted to placate me with her reassurance that all the other models in the shop were of average size. Having eyes, I was aware of this, but what she chose to disregard is the developing sexuality of the already insecure young girls who pass by the window, and who - perhaps - fantastise about realising their dreamy fornications via a pair of satin turquoise panties atop a waist of miniscule proportions. She could be that girl, in those knickers, being desired because of that 'ultimate' feminine shape. If only she stopped eating, or made herself sick...

Eating disorders are responsible for more loss of life than any other psychological illness. The increase of these deaths certainly correlates with the increasing celebration of perfection of the rich and famous as we are continuously and increasingly distracted from what is really important.

So, stop it, Summers! Stop being aesthetically deceptive to shift your filthy slag pants, you immoral bunch of whores. I don't subscribe to the magazines that make me feel shit, so I certainly don't want this   load of falsified literal arse forced in my face.

If I don't get that mannequin removed by the end of the month, I'm going to eat more cake than is recommended to sedate the pain of feeling aesthetically worthless.

It's a Catch 22.