heidiann's Diaryland Diary will be deleted once my membership expires. I can't stand Diaryland and wish everyone would migrate to LiveJournal like I did. I'm HERE now! Come visit! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dedicated to Betsy Betsy - 2005-07-25 17:50:11 Oh my God. You're gross. Lose some weight. I'm not saying be super skinny but do you realize that you'll lose DECADES of your life being so overweight? Ew. No wonder that guy's ashamed of you. Dear Betsy, Oh my God. You're a cunt. Lose some attitude. I'm not saying be super kind but do you realize you'll lose DECADES of your life when someone cracks you over the skull with a tire iron for being such a hateful bitch? Ew. No wonder you have nothing better to do than leave anonymous comments for people. Love, Heidi My favorite part is how she tells me I could lose DECADES of my life. Because, see, Betsy cares about me. Betsy's concerned for my well-being. Betsy only wants the best for me. She's telling me I'm gross and shameful and all-around repulsive because she loves me. Betsy's doing the lord's work, you know. Now it starts getting good!! Betsy - 2005-07-25 23:52:26 Betsy - 2005-07-26 20:06:32 What!? WHAT!? I don’t even know where to start, this is just mind boggling. See, okay, I…my god…I think I’m almost speechless. Almost. See what surprises me isn’t the suggestion that I get gastric bypass surgery. Because us fatties, we’re used to unwanted medical/nutritional advice. And it isn’t the insane statement that I claim to be confident. Though that alone is enough to make me question her comprehension of the English language. And it isn’t her suggestion that I be more vulnerable in my blog. Um...yeah…I don’t even need to expound on that one. And it isn’t the absolute hilarity of someone leaving anonymous comments, telling me I’m “gross” and “ew”, and who spells people “ppl” calling me immature. Though that did cause me to “lol”. What I find absolutely psychotic are the words, “I do care about you.” See, Heidi, I do care about you. I’ve read a whopping three entries of your diary and I enjoyed it and liked you but when I realized you weighed a ton I felt the need to help you better your life by informing you that you’re repulsive and grotesque and that your ex-boyfriend had every right to be ashamed of you. I’m such an amazingly kind and considerate person that the only way I was able to express my concern for you is by using words such as “gross” and “ew.” Why are you so upset, Heidi? You’re clearly in need of my help because no one in the universe has ever told you that being fat is unhealthy and that surgery is an option. I’ve giving you vital and top secret information here, woman. And maybe, maybe, I was mean but I was simply trying to make you quit your “frontin’” and cry like the sad, fat, miserable loser I know you are. Because fatties can’t be confident. Fatties can’t be healthy. Fatties can’t have relationships that don’t involve shame and emotional damage. Fatties like you should go get surgery so people like me don’t have to look at you. Come on, fatty, why are you angry?! OMG ur so mature…NOT! I know everything there is to know about people like you and obviously you stuff yourself with snack cakes all day. Stop crying! You had to have heard all this before, I’m not the only tactless bitch in existence. This is for your own good! Stop overreacting! It’s just my two cents! Well your two cents aren’t welcome here. Not because they differ from my two cents but because your two cents come from a place of cruelty and ridicule. And your two cents are just fucking stupid! Oh my dear Betsy. Let’s say, for sake of argument, that you started reading my diary a few weeks ago and never bothered to read any old entries that showed photos, my lack of confidence, or my complete vulnerability. Let’s say, for sake of argument, that you believed I was in need of your salvation. Let’s say, for sake of argument, that you liked me and actually wanted to help me. How does liking me and wanting to help me translate into, “ew, you’re gross, no wonder your ex was ashamed of you”? Believe me, had you worded your supposed “concern” for me and suggestion that I get surgery in a non-bitchy/hateful/evil way, I’d have never even made mention of it or if I did, it would have been very polite. Because as annoying and offensive as unwanted and uninformed advice is, we fatties are used to fools telling us shit we already know. And I am polite to a fault. But the fact that you clearly intended to hurt me and cause drama and then actually tried to claim it was something other than evil fatphobic bullshit makes it very apparent what kind of person you are. People like you are the reason little girls push their fingers down their throats until their stomachs are empty. People like you are the reason “thinspiration” sites exist. People like you are the reason eating disorders are considered an acceptable lifestyle choice. People like you write asinine articles about how it’s better that “billboards feature impossibly gorgeous, ridiculously thin women who have been airbrushed to a level of perfection that 99.9 percent of the population can never reach” because apparently the “chunky” women used in Dove’s new ad campaign are too difficult to wack off to. People like you whisper and point and laugh at people who are minding their own business. People like you travel in packs. People like you find the weakest person in a group and attack. People like you are too gutless to say a word to anyone’s face unless you’re surrounded by other people like you. People like you are the reason people like me hesitate to leave the house. People like you are the reason people like me don’t like meeting anyone new. People like you are the reason people like me are on guard whenever they walk down a street with cars passing by. People like you are the reason people like me hate ourselves. People like you are the reason people like me don’t post pictures of ourselves in our blogs. People like you are the reason people like me crop out our double chins and upper arms and bellies when we do post pictures of ourselves. People like you are the reason people like me hesitate to post unflattering photos. People like you are the reason people like me stay with assholes who treat them poorly. People like you are the reason people like me open our veins, swallow bottles of pills, and put bullets in our brains. People like you emulate Britney Spears in a non-ironic way. People like you are featured on “I Want a Famous Face.” People like you write really, really bad poetry and think no one understands how complex you are. People like you lie in your blogs in order to impress complete strangers. People like you say things such as, “I don’t read books.” People like you buy their teenage daughters breast implants and diet pills. People like you are fat yourselves and take pleasure in spewing your self-hatred at someone who’s bigger than you. People like you wake up to realize your 10/15/20 year high school reunion is right around the corner and you’re still the same pathetic person you were at graduation…only now the people you tormented have better lives, better jobs, and make more money than you do. People like you swallow every spoonful of bullshit society feeds them about what being a woman means and how beauty and health are defined. People like you are the reason people like me fantasize about violence. People like you are the reason people like me wish we had no conscience and owned a gun. People like me are the reason people like you should keep your mouths shut. People like me have a lifetime’s worth of anger and rage bubbling just beneath the surface. People like me are waiting for people like you to give us a reason to snap. People like you fall apart when you’re broken. People like me have been broken so many times by people like you that we know how to mend ourselves back together. People like me are laughed at because we’re fat. People like you are laughed at because you’re all a fucking joke. Fine, I’m fat. I have 344 pounds of fat and bone and skin and muscle. And I have some stupid bitch telling me I’m gross. I also have cool glasses and straight teeth and a hairstyle that looks better the messier it is. I have a job where I’m told several times a week that I’m brilliant and amazing and irreplaceable and perfect. I have money in the bank and an air conditioner waiting to be installed. I have men and women who want to touch me and kiss me and have sex with me. I give more money to charity than I can afford to. I allow people to merge in front of me on the freeway. I help support my parents, even when I don’t want to. I’m a giver. I’m a good kisser. I’m nice to everyone. I tip really well. I have friends who love me. I have dozens and dozens of people who have never even met me, defending me much more eloquently than I ever could. I think I’m a good person. Of course, there’s the other side of the coin. I’m shy. I’m lazy. I procrastinate constantly. Instead of paying off more of my debt I spend money on porn, shoes, and sushi. I’m horrible at returning emails and phone calls. My intentions and plans are the best; it’s the execution that leaves a lot to be desired. I drink too much, I laugh too loudly, and I dance horribly. I worry that people I know online won’t like me when they meet me in person so I have a habit of avoiding it. I slack off at work. I drive way too fast. I forget to take my vitamins and I skip doctor’s appointments. I let my gas tank get so low the warning light comes on. I’m cranky and easily annoyed. I lack confidence. I snap my gum. And sometimes I think I’m not a good person. I’m perfect and flawed and superior and inferior and everything and nothing. I’m human. And of all the things I am and of all the things I’m not; there’s one thing that will forever bring me solace and comfort. No matter what happens…I’m not you. And I will never be you, Betsy. Do you know how I know this? I remembered that, in the email I sent to Steven, as pissed off as I was, I didn’t bring up things like his clothes or hair or dick size or sexual performance or all those other things we want to bring up when we’re enraged. And I didn’t insult his new girlfriend, though he actually showed me her picture and I totally had ammo. But I didn’t. Because they were uncalled for. They were beneath me. Just like you are. You can say anything you want about me. Hell, some of it might even be true. But, let me reiterate, I’m not you. And that fact alone makes me more confident than I was a week ago. I may be fat and gross and shameful…but you? You’re just sad. 3:01 p.m. - 07.28.2005 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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