Most importantly, what spurs a writer to pick up a pen? Anger? Confusion? Hints of envy aimed toward friends, lovers, and fellow colleagues that make it all look so incredibly simple and glamorous? Maybe it's the fear of dying; not physically, but spiritually. When the one thing you lived, breathed, and yearned for every waking moment slowly diminishes, you often wonder if the next day or the day after that will be your last chance at self-proclaimed glory. Days, weeks, months pass as you wait for that great idea to come along. Each tick of the clock or tap of the pencil is sharp and empty. That's when you think that lost it all. The one thing that got you got you through the fuckery of life. The very thing that you loved and fawned over for years was dying at the hand of over logic.
Maybe this is my attempt to revive it.
They always say to write about what you know. Well, writing is all well and good, but I can't say I truly know anything about it. I know about the triumph and heartache it can cause. Moving on....
To be blunt, trite, and exceedingly vulgar...what the fuck do I know about?
I know about banking: crunching numbers, LTVs, DTIs, DDAs and millions of other three letter acronyms that are thrown about daily like limp fish onto a chopping block. I know how to define people by numbers and credit faux pas. Fact, logistics, and reason-ability; the world of banking has little to no room for imagination and even though it fascinates me, I know it doesn't interest others. So, scratch that. No bank talk.
I do know I'm a fat (or, as I like to say, phat) girl discovering more shit about herself every day between files, phone calls, and various meltdowns.
I know that I don't like to hide behind big flowerly tops or baggy polyester pants designed more so for a moon landing than my ass. I don't do orthopedic shoes either; rather stick to the cramped heels and combat boots. I like my torn jeans, corsets, and otherwise fashion forward clothing that may raise eyebrows.
I also know that I'm far from the "in crowd". When I get pissed off, I opt for a mosh pit rather than a shouting match. I relish in the weird and unconventional; wanting to live life like a sparrow uncaged.
I wasn't always like this though. I wasn't always in love with my writing or my body (hell, I still hate my writing, but I'm trying to work through that)l. I used to hate this excess flesh: the chubby arms, the thunder thighs, and the full moon face. Each day was a knee crawl of self-loathing. Then at the brink of thirty with one broken engagement under my studded belt, I had enough. It began with a single quote from the movie Phat Girls:
"If I won't get respect because I'm not a twig, then I'll get respect because I am a stone."
So, at the end of it all, this is what I do know: I am a fat girl on the brink of thirty trying to gain a grasp on loving myself, struggling through relationships, and the whole reason behind this manifesto: to break down this damn wall that keeps me from writing.
All in good fun, of course.
Make a jagerbomb or a martini (the dirtier, the better), sit back, tune in, and get ready to get an education from a fat girl. Stories of hope, tragedy, anger, sex, love, and just fucking crazy to ensue, disgust, or amuse to come.
Let's do this shit, shall we?
Rockin' you like a hurricane,
-Dee Dee
Thickspiration: Ribcage Rosie (Check her out on Facebook!)
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