I Stop and Think

I once was a precocious child, curious and fascinated with life and why people do things. Heaven help my parents for some of the questions I asked must have left them wondering exactly where I picked things up. "So, what does that mean that guy on that movie 'kicked him in the nuts'? And why did Rick react like that." (I think it was before we lived on Downer, the second time. Maybe when we lived in Illiniois? Heh, maybe even when we lived on Maryland, when I was in kindergarten.) "So, what do people mean by 'red light district'?"

Then came third grade, and with it, the incessant teasing that marked my grade school life until about eighth grade. I kept so much hidden within myself. It's so hard to explain the utter pain and hopelessness that occurrs. When I see on the news of a fifth grader committing suicide, I have to cry. I cry for that poor child...and myself. That could have been me. I cry for their parents, who didn't know that it was that bad. Of course, the child probably tried telling them, but not in the most effective way, because he's a child. Heaven knows I tried to tell my parents. They didn't understand. They didn't understand that when the parents looked away, they tourtured me. "Ugly dog...Fat Cow...You're really dumb...Why don't you just go and commit suicide so that we don't have to see you." (Yes. Someone actually did say that last one. It's burned forever in my brain, said to me when I was sitting at lunch.) How do you even fight back? I tried, but when it's 20 to 1, it's rather hard. For all of the hours I spent in my room comtemplating suicide, I didn't want to. But I felt I had to, just to get rid of this enormous pain. I wanted faries or angels to come whisping down from the heavens and help me up, meanwhile bitchslapping the offenders. I wanted to run away. I would oscillate between wanting to kill myself and wanting to kill them. But then -- a really sad fucking cliche, but for me, it's true -- I listened to the word of God. The words of Jesus. How hard it must have been, knowing that you probably would get executed for some stupid reason, and to not just start wielding knives like it's nobody's business. Maybe it isn't true, and the man we know as Jesus could be a criminal condemned or he died a rather unexciting death and it's all just trumped up. But if it's true -- a guy who really wasn't saying anything radical but the teachings among his group had caused a stir among the Romans, a guy accoused of a crime he didn't commit, trumped up charges against him to silent a movement, even leaving out the "died for our sins" stuff -- it's amazing. Somehow, I found the strength to pull myself together. If they wanted me to die, I wouldn't. If I'm so damn worthless, then why did they waste all that time and energy to destroy my soul? That's pretty darn pathetic when you get down to it. Wouldn't you just be fine with ignoring me? Would that not be easier than to expand all of that time and energy to berate me? And suddenly, I started laughing. They were the stupid ones, really. They're doing all this -- for what? What the hell are they trying to accomplish? If they're trying to make themselves look better to prop up their fragile egos, that's not only sad, but laughable. With the billions of people on earth, picking on one kid makes you better? Oh, please, tell me another! By eighth grade, I was done with it. In fact, I was done with the whole thing. Pretty much, just shut the fuck up if you don't have anything of value to say. I didn't -- and most of the time, still don't -- give a shit what people think of me. You can hate me, you can love me, I don't care what you do. I like who I like and I love who I love and I just don't give a shit about the rest. You wanna spread rumors about me? Go right ahead, I don't care. Rumorwhores will spread it around and around, giving a shaky straw prop to their glass ego. Anyone worth a damn won't automatically assume it's true and maybe will ask. Secretly, it actually amuses me what people will come up with. Man, if my life was as interesting as the rumors about my activities....

People always say, "Oh, it looks like you've lost weight." "Thanks," I reply, smiling. Why? 'Cause I don't give a shit. Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't. If I do, well then, that's fine. Only I know the answer to that one, and you know what? It's no one's fucking business. If I loose weight, it's only for me...and me alone. I am already beautiful, in all of my fatty glory. If I choose to loose weight, well, I do it for me and not some preconcieved notion that the world will be handed to me on a silver platter because I'm thin. I am beautiful because I'm a thinking, feeling human being. And if you don't like me being fat, well, Fuck Off. Like I say, I don't give a shit (let alone two) what you think. You're just a person, over there, who doesn't know me and refuses to see unmanufactured beauty in its own right. You don't have to look at me. If you can't stop staring at me because I'm fat, the problem is not me. It's you. So just shut the fuck up. Like short jokes. I know I'm fat and I know I'm short. And yes, I have heard every possible fat and short joke and insult that your feeble mind could possibly come up with. Like working at the flower building. Do you honestly think that I haven't heard the "Do you have any cannabis displayed?" joke before that idocy fell from your lips? Ha. Ha. It not that I don't laugh because I don't like you; I don't laugh because I don't find it funny, and really, am not about to laugh at something that I don't find funny because you embarassed me or thought that it was a good joke. I don't want to encourage you to tell another, although that never stops you. And I don't care if you think I'm an angry bull dyke bitch for...well, anything really. Because I don't care what you think about me. And my weight? It seems as if the standard greeting among certain parties is "It looks like you lost weight." You know what? I don't care. I'm not friends with hunks of muscles and fat stiched onto a skeleton with ligiments. I'm friends with the one muscle on which I judge most people: the brain.

The rest is just window dressing.