Kiala explains some things about her psyche.
In the sixth grade, during lunch period, I had no friends to eat with so I usually spent that hour in the library reading Ray Bradbury stories and trying desperately not to cry. Sixth grade was incredibly traumatic for me and this had everything to do with the introduction of P.E. and being naked in front of other girls and worse, wearing gym shorts that didn’t quite cover my chubby behind well enough and running in them uphill with a gang of twelve year old boys following me. I don’t know if you’ve ever met twelve year old boys but they are incredibly sensitive, especially when it comes to fat girls. Because I had missed lunch to read about space (no one is fat in space) I would stop on my way home at the 7-11 to buy a Hostess Cinnamon Roll and a Cherry Coke Slurpee. And Lemonheads. And a Snickers Bar (GOD MAKE IT STOP). Everyone went to the 7-11 after school, including Brian Watts, one of four Brians on whom I had developed a sad, humiliating crush and who was completely, justifiably, and vocally embarrassed by the way I would stare at him from behind mouthfuls and mouthfuls of cinnamon roll.
You know how Gulf War soldiers and people in plane crashes develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Well, I have this - specifically during the eleven blocks that make up the walk from our apartment to Whole Foods and back. I’m no longer chubby and thank God no one can make me wear those shorts ever again, but I still hold my breath any time more than two people are walking behind me. And I KNOW this is ridiculous (kind of, although have you heard the way people talk about other people?) and who cares what strangers think about my ass and I really doubt they’re thinking anything at all about my ass. In fact, I am probably the only person in the world thinking about my ass except Dane who thinks about it constantly and at really inappropriate times like funerals and when small children are around. But now you are all thinking about my ass and I have no one to blame but myself and I’m okay with that because if I’ve ever believed in something - and I’ve never really believed in anything except maybe that Mars was once filled with canals frequented by a tall, golden people who were actually humans but became Martians after living there for a couple of months - it’s personal responsiblity.
Now please stop thinking about my ass. Thank you.
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16 comments
Did you know that asses are a myth?
Yeah, asses are a myth, bro. Totally read a website on it once.
I love coming of ages stories. If this was a novel, I would pre-order it. If said novel was made into a movie, Charley would make fun of me for watching it…in the theatre.
Yes, middle school boys are horrible but I feel that middle school girls are worse.
Isabelle. I am going to WRITE THAT NOVEL JUST FOR YOU.
Stupid Charley.
Do you obsessively clean?
If so, then it’s obvious to me that you are in fact Monica Geller. And, if THAT’S so, then why are you living with my brother and a strange bearded man? You should be in New York with Chandler.
you’re telling me there’s not fat people in space???
Oh silly Kiala, everyone knows that those who live on saturn are notorious
ah fuck it, i can’t finish that joke. It was dumb.
I’ll try harder next time. I swear.
do you know what’s worse than mean 6th-grade boys? Mean 7th grade girls at an all-girls school. When I couldn’t do a cartwheel in gym class, I was made fun of ridiculously for a looooong time.
And I still can’t do a cartwheel. Stop making fun of me!
Oh No! Aggressively Ignorant Guy, one of Pip’s alter egos (The Oceans a myth, bro!), has found your website. Also, there’s totally fat people in space. What about Porkins from Star Wars?
“Red leader this is red 2 standing by” (chomps on donut)
Then again, Porkins got his shit blown the fuck up in like the first 20 seconds of the assault on the Death Star. So that shows you what Lucas thinks of the obese. What a dick.
6th grade was the worst year of my life. It wasn’t my ass, it was my clothes. My mom dressed me in my cousin’s hand me downs while all the other girls wore Esprit and Liz Claiborne outfits. They laughed at my pink satin shirt and my corduroy pants with the roses on them that my grandmother bought for me at a fancy boutique store.
The scars from that year remain, and I think everyone is looking at what I’m wearing. In reality, no one cares.
No one.
Not even the people staring at my ass.
Thanks for letting me work through that trauma on your blog…
I feel a little better now.
I can honestly say I have never thought about your ass…
until today.
I used to get a cinnamon jolly rancher and a Dr. Pepper from the 7-11.
My teeth hurt now.
I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT MY ASS.
In sixth grade this skater, brian reader, used to walk up to me and say “flat” and walk away. It was a horrifying moment when I realized what he meant. Now I assume everything people say is an insult I haven’t figured out yet. Is that pathetic?
@megan
Try to remember that Brian’s probably bald and toting a set o’ double-d’s around town himself these days.
Oh, wait… that’s me. Shit sticks.
On the subject of people walking behind you and saying mean things. It never stops. You think you are out of high school and you are not. When we went to see There will be Blood and I snuck out to go pee (and, of course, missed the big explosion ), I walked past a group of teens loitering alone in the hall and I heard one girl go, “She is very ugly,” as I walked past. Awesome.
Ok, so we should all dress up as something really cool like wizards or necromancers or jazzercise instructors, go down to the nearest middle school and teach these kids a lesson.
I guess I don’t know what cool is.
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