☹ What did it feel like? ☹

🍕 Fat in a small town April 7, 2025

Song Mood: "Wild Alien Baby" by KFC Murder Chicks

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 (  ; -.-  )     sad cat hours
  >   -   <     
 /       \     
(  )___(  )    
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I grew up in a small town that my family wasn't from. Not even remotely. Everything there revolved around status-how much money you had, or what name was printed on your mailbox. We had none of that. No roots, no wealth, no protection. And I was fat, weird, and didn't know how to hide it.

I was an easy target.

People yelled things at me on the street. Insults. Names. Sometimes they'd push me. Sometimes hit me. But the worst part wasn't even the kids-it was the adults. The teachers. The neighbors. The ones who told me I was exaggerating. That I needed to give people a chance. That I was lying.

I was bullied by kids who were bullied themselves. Kids who knew they were low on the ladder—but not as low as me. They needed someone to kick. I was that someone.

And I couldn't even count on home. My mother wouldn't believe me. Fitting in was more important to her. She lied to me. Told me people asked about me. That I was liked, if only I'd try. But I did try. I asked. And I found out the truth.

She just said whatever she had to say to feel like she was doing her job. She'd tried, now it was my fault as far as she was concerned.

My brother and sister didn't want anything to do with me either. I don't blame them now. They were surviving the same house, the same town. They found better families. I used to joke about it. Everyone laughed. It was funny. But it was also true.

I understand why it happened. I wasn't raised right. My mom didn't have time for me, and I was left to figure things out myself.

I ate. That was my comfort. All day and all night. Because nothing else felt good. I got huge. Disgusting. I didn't know how to clean myself. I smelled. My clothes were stained and stretched. My nails were bloody. My underwear was ruined because I didn't even know how to wipe properly.

How could anyone see value in that?

And if you did talk to me, what did you get? A bad attitude. Anger. Shame pretending to be confidence.

And still... a few people did. Just enough. Two teachers. Three friends. People I didn't treat well at the time. But they kept me alive.

I didn't thank them then. I didn't reward them. In fact, I ended up hurting some of them. But I think about them all the time I wish I had done better. I think they would all like that I'm still here.

⚘ Date with a Hippy Girl April 2, 2025

Song: "Common People" by Pulp

        ☮  *  PEACE & LOVE  *  ☮
           .-""""-.
          / -   -  \     \✌
         |  o   o   |    She said she loved nature...
         |    ∆     |    but left trash in the woods.
          \  ---  _/     
        .-'`-----' `-.   
      .'               `.   ☣
     /   *  free spirit   \  
    |    vibes & crystals  |   
     \     $9.99 each     /    
      `.               .'     
        `-._______,-'        
        ⚠  GREED IN HER SOUL ⚠
	  

The laid-back college town of REDACTED was cold and uninviting on the drive out. Spring was here, but still struggling to get the upper hand on winter. I had been looking forward to playing a little hooky and getting out of THE CITY-this small nearby berg always felt like a perfect escape. But REDACTED has a habit of teaching me lessons I didn't ask for. This day would be no different.

Hubris. That's the only word for it. Pure, dumb hubris to think I could will a good day into existence. I'd cleared the schedule, picked the spot, set the time. But now, parked outside a country car wash under gray skies, I stared at the latest text messages in stunned silence.

I met Hippy the usual way people meet these days-online. Texts, calls, vibes. She came on strong: confident, relaxed, smart, politically sound. No Trump. Adventurous. Sexual. She checked every box and then some.

For days we texted. The connection felt real. We even tried to meet early, but settled on a day later in the week. I thought I was being careful. I thought I was meeting someone like me.

But I always forget-being "alternative" doesn't protect you from tourists. I assume people like us speak the same dialect of trauma, that we can laugh together at the mess we've survived. But Hippy had a different language entirely.

I made a joke about date safety. In return, I got hit with revelations: a kid, an ex, restraining orders. Heavy stuff, dropped thirty minutes before we were supposed to meet. Jokes I had made earlier no longer played right. Suddenly I was being scolded. It felt old. Familiar. Bad.

"No one likes you, give her a chance," said the sad, lonely voice in my head. I apologized. The date was back on. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I wished it wasn't.

I dragged myself to the coffee shop-an aggressively "college town" kind of place. Nothing unique, just set dressing from some movie. And then she arrived.

Draped in loose fabrics, a floppy hat, oversized sunglasses, and an enormous handbag, Hippy glided up to the bar. No hello. No real start. Just... presence.

What followed wasn't a date. It was a monologue. I was there, but I didn't matter. Hippy was the show.

First came the correction. I observed she seemed like a regular at the café-knew the staff, the menu, had a "usual." "I don't think so!" she snapped. She had a gluten allergy, she explained. It was the only place she could eat. Not a regular.

Foolishly, I tried to relate. Mentioned someone I know who fakes it, and someone who doesn't. But no-no one fakes it, apparently. There was no curiosity. No space for nuance. I was already drowning, and it wasn't even ten minutes in.

I changed the subject. Truck guys, guns, conservatives-the kind of stuff crunchy lefties usually love to dunk on. The drive out had been full of that energy: Punisher stickers, NRA hats, lifted pickups. Goldmine for hippy outrage, right?

Wrong.

She'd decided to "broaden her dating pool." Specifically: RICH-TOWN truck bros. Trump voters who feel bad but still think they'd win a civil war. She found them thrilling. Sure, they weren't into her poly lifestyle or gangbang kink, but she could get them there-if they wanted her badly enough.

She'd run businesses. She dropped details about therapy clients-names, incomes, locations. She bragged about manipulating clients into bringing their family in too. She was REDACTED's biggest drug dealer, at one point. Anything I mentioned, she had already done. And done better.

Finally, a reprieve-she had scheduled a session with a client during one of her rare pauses. I was free.

Walking to my car felt like stumbling off an untested carnival ride. I'd just stared into the bleached skeleton of the peace movement, gnawed to dust by a millennial crunchy capitalist. Hippy wasn't a healer-she was a user. Calling it therapy didn't make it better.

My chest ached. My brain swirled. My legs were shaking. Has this always been there? Is that all we are now-Boomers in shawls, cosplaying radicalism while swiping right on fascists with good credit?

Just because he drives a truck and votes Trump doesn't mean she can't have a houseplant and a tie-dye wrap.

Was this our version of *The Big Chill*? Did people like her ever *mean* it? Or have I just been fooling myself this whole time?

By the time I hit the highway back to THE CITY, I was already crying. Already insane. I sent a quick "thanks but no thanks" text, tossed my phone in the back seat, and drove the rest of the way in silence.