thulasie01’s Reviews > 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl > Status Update

Later on I'm going to be really fucking beautiful. I'm going to grow into that nose and develop an eating disorder. I'll be hungry and angry all my life but I'll also have a hell of a time.

omg this is lowk so relatable

For minutes now, Mel has been seriously calculating how much we might be worth to these businessmen. She has decided that our youth and the fact that we're both virgins-in her case, only technically-makes us way more expensive than she initially thought.
"At least three hundred dollars," she finally says. "What do
you think??
"At the very, very least," I say, playing along. I try to use a
voice that tells her I'm just playing along.
I look at the men more closely. Two are fine. But one of them is rather flabby and pale with little worm husk lips and a look of hunger in his eyes that his Big Mac is not filling. His whole face reminds me of the word horny. I know if it comes down to it, this is the one I'll get stuck with.

fat girl is so real and are high schoolers in mississauga really like this because mel is such a whroe ain’t no way

Later on, Mel will climb into cars and taxis with men she barely knows while I watch from the sidewalk. She'll agree to blow a guy in the stall of a men's bathroom near Union Station for fifty dollars.

omg wow this is too local

After she drops out, TIl see her at a coffee shop on her way to a fetish bar or to meet a guy, her earphones full of increasingly obscure music, her shoulders and arms covered in welts and bruises, full of stories involving men who I'll call The Icks because their names always seem to end in ick. Rick. Vick. There will be two Nicks. She'll tell me the stories while I stare at the welts, the purply blue swirls of bruise edged with yellow like little inverted galaxies.

aww what i do not want mel getting abused and turning out like this

Much later on, in the back of a parked van, my wrists will get tied together with a pair of dirty gym socks and I'll get terrible head from a political science major who will tell me my inability to come is psychological.

🤔🤔

Your hands, possessed by the wine, or so you tell yourself, run up and down her squishy sides, from her astonishingly firm breasts to the monstrous curves of her many flanks and thighs.
"Wrotethissongbout you," you tell her, even though you are so far gone now you do not even know which song is playing. and whichever it is, you probably wrote it about Some People, their red lips and white limbs and their wiles.
Ah, but Some People, or so you feel now, do not deserve you or your music. In fact, you tell the fat girl, you are thinking of ending it with Some People.
"Really, really?" she whispers, like you have just told her this is one bow-strung puppy she can keep.

poor fat girl and also why did i not clock in that “some people” is like a singular girl…

and ugh ew cheating is this the reverse pov of tiktok girls saying their bf cheated with a fat girl…

On a sheet of her Edward Gorey stationery, you tell her you've made a terrible mistake. You don't know what you were thinking. Probably you have a drinking problem or maybe it's something to do with self-esteem —anyway, you hope she under-stands. Though it's a fine note, it doesn't feel like enough. So you leave her an autographed copy of Novembral Musings (tentatively titled), which you hastily sign, "To My Biggest Fan."
It is only as you drive home, still drunk, through the dishwater-colored dawn that you realize it was a poor choice of words.
"Number One Fan," you should have put. Of course, it's too late now.

and who even is this guy and his audacity…erm…

late now.
Some People is waiting at your doorstep, tapping her witch-toed boot, drumming her fingers on her narrow white hips, frowning at you through feathers of layered red hair. She takes one look at the cat hair on your clothes, breathes your Banana-Rama-and-flesh scent, and knows where you have been and what you have done.
"Pathetic," she says. "Disgusting. With her? That child? What
is she, like, seventeen?" Child?

child!? 🤔🤔🤔😮

Standing on the doormat, you knock a gentle knock. You knock and knock until the bundle of birch twigs tumbles to the ground and still there is no answer. But you do not give up. After all, she never gave up on you. You go around back like she always asked you to. That's when you hear the sound of inexpertly strummed chords wafting out of her open window, smell nag champa burning, Banana-Rama bread freshly baked. You hunch down in the hydrangea beds and peer into her half-open window.
She's lying on the bed wearing what appears to be some sort ofuniform. Jesus. A high school uniform. Lying on the bed beside her is a tall, thin, lanky man with long hair. He looks older than you are. Mangier. Less gainfully employed. He's sitting reclined on her Indian cushions, your Indian cushions, his legs crossed at the knee, torturing the strings of an acoustic guitar. The fat gir lies with her eyes closed, her hands clasped on her vast stomach like she's dead. Her hair is fanned out all around her. She's doing her nod. Her slow, grave, listening nod.

LMFAOO L she’s a whore 😂😂😂😂 and what is w her fixation with these music guys hmm

How his handle is The Cosmic Dancer, which is a reference to Shiva, the Hindu deity. I don't tell her that he's forty-seven and a quadriplegic but I do tell her that he lives near L.A. and that he's a fan of Goth/industrial/dark wave and the films of Lynch and von Trier. I tell her how we talk about what movies we would be in if we could live in any movie (for me Prospero's Books or Exotica; for him Naked or Nowhere, and what would be the soundtrack for the movie of our lives, and what it would be like to live in Duras's Vietnam.

man what the guy is 47?????

Or how he'll get stoned and tell me all about his elaborate lucid dreams of us fucking in India. Where the mere sight of me in a sari or sometimes it's just a necklace of bones and teeth gets him so hard that he gets up out of his wheelchair and just walks toward me and we fuck on a flower-strewn altar with all these little Indian women watching. I tell her again that he's been asking for a full-body shot and that I've been putting him off. But I know from past experience that I won't be able to put him off forever, that it's only a matter of time.

this is so stephen hawking and also what is with this guys obsession with india

And he's like, "Man, I wish I could see that," and, "Wow, Bet-tie, I'll bet every boy at your college is totally in love with you?"
"I don't know about that," I say. And he's like, I do. Every time I hear you describe yourself, I get hard. I seriously do." And even though we both know that this is anatomically impossible given his paralysis, I say that's so sweet of him.
He says he doesn't know if it's sweet, but it's true.

ugh yuck he’s so gross

And I agree. We do. And he tells me how I'm going to be his miracle. How the sight of me will make him walk again, will make him so hard he'll eream his pants, and I let him go on and on like this, describing how we fuck on the Ganges River, which he says is a holy place of transformation, with the whole of the Hindu pantheon of gods watching. And I look up at the dark ceiling above me and blow smoke rings at where I know Bettie is, tied up in her PVC. I remember my eyes are all smoky. I think of China in her room surrounded by the dragons she told me she painted on the walls, being watched by boys dripping rain like Zen fountains.
"Can't you just send me a picture now?" he asks me.

so naggy omg

"Elizabeth, who are you talking to in here?"
I stare at my mother's robed silhouette in the open doorway.
"No one," I say, hanging up.
"Not one of those guys from the Internet?"
I say nothing. Stare at her sex-rumpled Liz Taylor hair. Her large body robed in black silk and emanating Fendi, which she can't afford but buys anyway. There is a lot we can't afford that she buys anyway: abstract paintings, African masks that aren't even real masks.
"Who were you talking to just now?" she says.
"Rosemary," I lie.
"Rosemary," she repeats.

why is her mother ok with her talking to men from the internet??

She flicks on my bedroom light. I wince and cover my eyes, wonder when she'll go back to her boyfriend, who I know is waiting for her in the bedroom, but she just stands there. Folds her arms over her chest.
"How was school?"
"Fine," I say, lowering my hand from my eyes.
"Did you go?"
«Yes." She looks right at me and I look right back without flinching or blinking. Her boyfriend took pictures of me once. For the internet guy 1 was seeing before this one. Black-and-whites.

and WHY would she let her bf take photos of her

She's looking away now. It's fine that she took him back after the photos. I don't think she knows the whole story. Also she's lonely, I see how lonely. I see how she hasn't been with anyone since my father left when I was five. I see she's a fat, middle-aged woman with a heart condition, so how many men does she really have to choose from? Though I never told her, she knows I see, sort of. But I thought we had an unspoken agreement that in exchange for my seeing, my silence, she would not pry into my affairs.
"I know you've been depressed," she says now to the print of Audrey Hepburn that she herself nailed to my wall and which I've since covered with zombie stickers. "T'm just worried.
You're not helping yourself at all. Look at you. It's like you love being miserable." Seeing me eye her huge stomach, she crosses her arms over her black silk robe.

hmm i feel bad but ok

I'm very excited when I see the duct tape. She's taking this
so seriously.
"You brought tape!"
She looks at the roll in her fist like she's surprised to see it
there.
"Oh yeah. That's for me. I'm going to Death later and I have to tape my nipples 'cause this dress I'm going to wear tonight totally slides around when I dance. You know the way I dance." I do know the way she dances. It's crazy. She just closes her eyes and spins under the mirror ball, and people have to steer clear.
"Oh, yeah, for sure," I say, disappointed. "Tape is a great idea."
"So are you ready?" And she holds up the camera like she's
actually about to start clicking.

why are all of lizzie’s friends so whore

it as a prop. I wish she'd look at me.
"If you want," I say, "we could hang out a bit first-maybe get Chinese?" I watch her, still fingering the cushion fringe.
"d rather just get started. I brought this too," she says and out of one of her army coat pockets, she pulls an eye shadow kit.
I'm overcome by this kindness. I'm about to say, Yes! Thank you, but she looks up at my eyes. "Wait, is that... Are you still wearing what I put on your eyes, like, a week ago?"
"No," I say, even though it is. "This is just my stuff," I tell her now. "I was just experimenting. Before you came."
"Oh?" she says. "Well it looks good like that. You should just leave it. Unless you want me to touch it up?"

she just wants her friends attention aww but why’d she keep the makeup on for like a week😔😔

The Scream.
After she gives me a very slight nod of her head, I arrange myself in my chair and crane my neck as far forward as possible while letting my hair fall in front of my face.
"How do I look!" I say, without moving my lips.
"Like Cousin Itt in mourning. Might try moving your hair
out of the way. Also, smiling."
I can't tell her I don't want to broaden my cheek circumter-ence. She wouldn't understand. Also, with the camera on me, my face stiffens. Feels paralyzed. I force my lips to curl on one side.
"How about now?"

she’s so real i have done the same thing omg and cousin itt they’ve mentioned this cousin in we love you bunny omg mona 😍😍

"Are you taking the pictures?" he says.
smoking.
I look over at China. She's at my desk surfing the net,
"Yeah."
«Oh, okay. I didn't mean to bother you. It's just I can't wait to see them. I'm honestly getting hard just thinking about it, 1 swear. I'm in the middle of creaming my pants right now."
"That's nice," I whisper into the receiver.
"What did you say? How come you're talking so softly?"
"No reason. I just said, "That's nice."
really isn't?"
"You keep saying that! And I keep telling you it isn't nice. It

ugh this guy is so weird man leave her alone

"I don't know about this, Lizzie," she says.
"What?"
"This whole thing, It just seems weird."
"What about the guy who was psycho all over you? Ver-mont? Who burned the photos. He wasn't weird?"
"I really don't think you can compare the two?"
"I guess not. I mean, mine lives far away."
"Also what is he, like, sixty?"
"Forty-seven."

"And are you ever actually going to meet this guy? Are you really going to fly to fucking Irvine or wherever he lives? How is he going to pick you up from the airport! Do you even want this guy to fuck you? Can he even fuck you?»
"I-"
"I just don't see how this is going to work, like, in reality.
He's way old. And weird. And he's got Baywatch-era hair. This pic situation"— she shakes her head at her egg roll "is honestly the least of your worries."

china is lowk kinda a good friend 🤔

"Just studying," she says. Mel only had a semester's worth of credits left when she dropped out, so she's doing two semesters of night school and a summer school stint to finish. "You?" I tell her I saw China today, and her voice cools even more
perceptibly.
"You were right about her," I say.
"I told you! Honestly, I don't know what you see in her.
She's.."
I wait for it.
"Just kind of plain, really. Boring. And she has no taste of her own! She just copies other people. She just likes whatever the people she hangs around with like. She's all over the place." «Yeah," I say. This is an accusation that Mel aims at people all the time. I think she thinks it about me sometimes.
"Want to come over? I've got Chinese food."

UGH i hate mel

While the phone rings and rings, I lie on the floor, close my eyes. I do what I'm trying not to do, which is dream myself into her clothes buckle by buckle, zip by zip, and then into her skin. Until! am her limbs and her long curving back, Steppenwolf branded on my knobby spine. Until I am her lips and her sharply cut cheeks and her eyes clouded in their glittering gray smoke. Until I am her eyebrow arching itself at me from the opposite shore of the room.
Sure, I say to this sad girl. I'll show you. The only thing I keep of myself is my hair, which fans out around me like Ophelia drown-ing. In the corner is a beautiful blue-haired boy whom I've let in out of the rain. I'm letting him watch me sleep. I'm so very kind.

poor lizzie