Fat Girl
hobby of gaining calories
“Monica, darling, breakfast is ready!”
The woman’s voice echoes throughout the house, coxing the brunette down the wooden stairs with the promise of exquisite cooking. Monica enters the kitchen with a smile touching her lips, a wonderful aroma wafting around her and beckoning her towards the table.
Bacon and eggs, crispy and scrambled. Not McDonalds.
Of course, she would’ve had less, but she’d already cheated on her diet yesterday so she’d simply begin again next Monday. Always next Monday. The one that never seems to come.
Her mother casts her a chipper grin as Monica dumps her being on the chair, acquiring the silverware beside her plate. Contrary to popular belief, those chubby fingers are capable of wielding a fork and knife, and her manners aren't akin to that of a hog.
“Thanks mom,” she expresses her gratitude. Her mom gives a smile, accentuating her double chin. Like Monica, she is also a fat. These things are passed down for generations like a crooked nose or family’s tomato recipe, though their's is the hobby of gaining calories.
“Of course love, so we’re leaving in fifteen minutes?” she checks, receiving a nod as a conformation.
Monica never takes the bus, simply because it's just another situation where she's a prime target for public ridicule. It's just another place for people to stare at her with revolt and for them to chuckle with their friends at her expense.
Look at the fat girl taking the bus, how hilarious.
She guesses that her mom understands well what it's like, so she takes pity on her daughter and drives her every morning. It's also partially her fault; Monica feels that her mom should take at least some of the blame. She’s the one that taught her how to be fat.
“Yes mom.” She nods.
Polishing off her plate, she licks her lips satisfied, placing the porcelain into the sink. Turning her gaze, her blue eyes are met with her reflection displayed on a mirror.
Monica never cringes, as many others would when met with such a sight. She’s grown familiar with it all, too familiar.
A sigh commemorates the food now down her throat as she rips her gaze from the mirror, trudging towards the door. She’s slung her backpack over her shoulder and is eyeing the beige, wicker end table. Opening the drawer, greedy fingers pluck out a Butterfinger, deftly tearing the wrapper away. Hunger pounds behind her teeth as she pierces them into the delicious chocolate, humming satisfied.
Because that’s just what fat girls do.
The woman’s voice echoes throughout the house, coxing the brunette down the wooden stairs with the promise of exquisite cooking. Monica enters the kitchen with a smile touching her lips, a wonderful aroma wafting around her and beckoning her towards the table.
Bacon and eggs, crispy and scrambled. Not McDonalds.
Of course, she would’ve had less, but she’d already cheated on her diet yesterday so she’d simply begin again next Monday. Always next Monday. The one that never seems to come.
Her mother casts her a chipper grin as Monica dumps her being on the chair, acquiring the silverware beside her plate. Contrary to popular belief, those chubby fingers are capable of wielding a fork and knife, and her manners aren't akin to that of a hog.
“Thanks mom,” she expresses her gratitude. Her mom gives a smile, accentuating her double chin. Like Monica, she is also a fat. These things are passed down for generations like a crooked nose or family’s tomato recipe, though their's is the hobby of gaining calories.
“Of course love, so we’re leaving in fifteen minutes?” she checks, receiving a nod as a conformation.
Monica never takes the bus, simply because it's just another situation where she's a prime target for public ridicule. It's just another place for people to stare at her with revolt and for them to chuckle with their friends at her expense.
Look at the fat girl taking the bus, how hilarious.
She guesses that her mom understands well what it's like, so she takes pity on her daughter and drives her every morning. It's also partially her fault; Monica feels that her mom should take at least some of the blame. She’s the one that taught her how to be fat.
“Yes mom.” She nods.
Polishing off her plate, she licks her lips satisfied, placing the porcelain into the sink. Turning her gaze, her blue eyes are met with her reflection displayed on a mirror.
Monica never cringes, as many others would when met with such a sight. She’s grown familiar with it all, too familiar.
A sigh commemorates the food now down her throat as she rips her gaze from the mirror, trudging towards the door. She’s slung her backpack over her shoulder and is eyeing the beige, wicker end table. Opening the drawer, greedy fingers pluck out a Butterfinger, deftly tearing the wrapper away. Hunger pounds behind her teeth as she pierces them into the delicious chocolate, humming satisfied.
Because that’s just what fat girls do.
♠ ♠ ♠
I feel like a failure. I had to google brand name chocolate bars..__.
It's a slow start, but don't worry, things shall pick up.