Updates Galore: Fear, self-loathing, rage, bliss, determination, oh, and a fat girl running

An Overdue Apology

     Yeah, I know...I kind of disappeared on you all; went all MIA, ironically, after my post on self-injury. Let me begin to say that I am still very alive, well, happy, oh, and still scar free. 

      I needed a breather after that post as it was one of the hardest things that I had to share about myself. For the longest time, I was ashamed of my past; ashamed that I put myself through so much grief and heartache. Hell, I actually hated myself for the longest time. To air out such a private thing made me almost afraid to come back here. 

     Almost.

     During my hiatus, I learned a lot about myself. I found myself letting go more often, pushing myself more, and just reflecting. I found inner peace through things that I would have never found peace in prior to February. I let a guy go that I, for some unknown reason, thought was going to be my saving grace. It turned out I didn't need him, his lies, or his weak promises to find my own happiness. All I needed this entire time was me and a little bit of faith.

      I began meditating more, reflecting more, offering more of myself to causes and the needs of my community, and, surprisingly enough, exercising...a lot. I'll get to that one later...

      Anyhow, consider this my apology for disappearing. It was a needed break though, I assure you. If I were to write something a week after that post, it may have not been positive. I wanted to be sure that I was absolutely ready to come back and, thanks to a couple friends and another special person (who I hope is reading this right now and is not running for the hills), I'm back. 

     Now, how about some updates?

What the Hell have I been Doing?

       I'm sure you all have your theories and I bet one of them is listed below...

  1) "Dita went off the deep end. I heard that she overdosed on chocolate, trashy tabloids, and Zzzquil after a night in San Fran sleeping with some dirty drunkard sailor all Nelly O'Hara style in a slummy motel room. A friend of mine saw the paddy wagon come get her the next day. She could be heard screaming at the top of her lungs how she was Nelly O'Hara, and by goddamn, she will be singing in tonight's show."

  2) "Dita lost a BUNCH of weight...like, a lot, and decided to become a lunk and not follow the fat 

  movement anymore. Last thing I heard about her was that she was making it with Theo Rossi and was BFFs with Paris and some other skinny girl with a tan and a DUI record. Lucky bitch."

  3) "Dita became a recluse; quit her job at the bank, live in her parents' dark, damp basement, reread all her past glories as a once inspiring writer and pee in mason jars...poor thing went ape shit."

         Well, sorry to disappoint you, but none of those things happened...well, except for the trashy tabloids, weight loss (lost twelve more pounds, to be exact), and peeing in mason jars...okay, that was a joke. Seriously, I don't have that good of aim.

      *shakes head* Fuck, I'm grossing MYSELF out. Okay, no more Aviator references.

      Actually, I've done quite a lot. Besides working, I've been doing a lot of volunteer work. Some weekends, you will find me picking up litter downtown or spreading mulch. I've also started to slowly get back into my Junior Achievement work; looking for small ways to volunteer my time and skills to raising awareness and funding for the program that provides mentoring to children of all ages. Hopefully, someday, I will be back in the classroom once a week teaching like I used to do when I first started at the bank.

      Now, let me tell you about my passion...

 

      Two years ago, if you asked me to do a 5k for charity, I would have just handed you some monetary donation and called it a day. Truth? I've always wanted to do a 5k, but I didn't think I could do it. I was always made to believe by my folks (even though I do love them and totally get it)  that I wasn't physically equipped to do it. Fat girl with two bad ankles and asthma...sounds like 5k material, right? Yeah, I didn't think so for the longest time, but it's possible. Want to know how I know?

      Because this fat girl did it last weekend.

      Yes, fat girl walked her first 5K for March of Dimes. Granted, I only made it to 4K, but I did it and the absolute beauty of the whole experience is that it not only raised money and awareness for a great cause, it also made me feel invincible. It gave me a since of accomplishment and hope; a purpose. I found something that I truly loved and I didn't want to stop. On that cold, damp morning at the beach I realized that I found something that made me happy and I wanted to keep doing it despite what others may think. 

     My next 5K is on June 8th for the American Heart Association and hopefully there will be more in my future.

Run, Fat Girl, RUUUUUUN!

       In my half-assed apology, I made a reference to exercise. Yes, I've been exercising on and off awhile now, but most recently I actually made the proactive effort to do it consistently. I try to go to the gym at least three times a week and on the days I don't go, I make sure I'm walking. Saturday morning, I had a breakthrough...

       Fat girl jogged. JOGGED as in moved like a rabbit...maybe a rabbit missing a foot, but she did it and it was fucking incredible. I was sweaty and ungodly sore, but you couldn't tell by the huge grin on my face. To my surprise, I ran for fifteen minutes WITHOUT losing my breath or using my inhaler. In the process, I felt strong, untouchable, and free; things that I never felt in the high school gym. 

       This morning while everyone slept (well, besides my friends Vin and Bethany), I got up to a 5.5 speed/3 miles on the treadmill and ran some more and lifted some weights. It's a process; a daily stepping stone to meet with a little caution, but a lot of faith in yourself. Like everything, you grow into it. You push yourself and constantly have to remind yourself that you are getting there. Last week, I was only doing 2.5 speed/1.5 miles. I saw today that I'm getting somewhere.

     Like many of my family members and friends, I'm becoming a fighter: I'm fighting a stigma in society that if you are fat, you don't stand a chance. I'm fighting years of being babied into thinking I can't run because I have asthma. I'm fighting that inner voice saying it'll never get better because, damn it, I think it will. There's a time in your life you have to take ownership in your fate and tell yourself that everyone else's opinion of you doesn't matter.

     The past is the past and not every day is guaranteed. All you have for certain is the present. Don't hold yourself back for the sake of someone else's comfort.

     One day at a time. I'm still in this fight. Go ahead, negativity, I dare you to take a swing at me!

In Conclusion, Until Next Time...

       Is Dita giving up on the fat movement? Is she completely done being that fat girl interrupted? No. I'm never going to be a size eight and fuck, I don't think I want to be. I just want to be healthy and happy regardless to how much weight I lose. Frankly, I think Torrid has better clothes than Abercrombie and Fitch (if you got that reference, kudos to you) and I still love my chocolate. It's all about moderation though. I am still going to write about the fat girl's awkward dates (well, maybe not so much anymore since I am sort of exclusively seeing someone that doesn't dig golden showers or ball gagging...holy fuck, I may have a normal relationship after all!). I'm still going to write about being that hot fat chick jumping around in a mosh pit full of skinny minis. I'm still going to write this blog at Tim Horton's with a damn glazed Timbit in my hand. I'm still me, just more grown up and perhaps loving life a little more.

Words That Have Gotten Me Through the Bullshit...*

“If clouds are blocking the sun, there will always be a silver lining that reminds me to keep on trying.” 
― Matthew Quick, The Silver Linings Playbook

“Let me tell ya. You gotta pay attention to signs. When life reaches out with a moment like this it's a sin if you don't reach back... I'm telling you.” 
― Matthew Quick, The Silver Linings Playbook

*If you haven't read The Silver Linings Playbook, you need to...like now.

Today's Thickspiration

Beth Ditto (of Gossip)

Peeling Off the Shroud: Addressing Self-Injury

Friday, March 1st is a very special day for me. To meteorologists, it is the first day of spring; a day of renewal and rebirth. I got my "Love" tattoo on my wrist four years ago on March 1st. It's also Self-Injury (SI) day.

Why does this day hold so much importance to me? Because I am an SI survivor. I have been clean and on the road to recovery since

I don't share this with many people. In fact, there are only a handful of people that know about my battle with SI; it isn't a conversation for the dinner table or for the first date. "Hey, you know I went through this crazy phase where I was so depressed that I would drag razor blades across my arm." Yeah, that is a guaranteed no second date right there.

Sadly, for me to even address my addiction (because eventually that's what SI became to me) as a "crazy phase" is not accurate at all. SI is not a phase, a laughing matter, or a growing pain. Like bullying, it's an epidemic that can progress to damning affects.

I can't say what exact moment in my life made me start cutting: what hurtful comment in the high school hall made me break or which rejection made me want to scratch away the very flesh that I had been trained to see as vile and grotesque. I can tell you I was 17 and it was a warm fall day when I smuggled one of my father's forgotten razors out of his workshop. I remember crying and feeling like my insides were systematically ripping apart from the turmoil inside me. I remember staring at that cold silver gripped between my calloused fingertips for a good half-hour as the battle of good and evil waged on through my mind: you are ugly, you are stupid, you are no fucking good and no one will ever want you. The words filled my mind, arms, hands, and fingertips with just enough poison to succumb to the unthinkable: within five minutes, I had six bloody sore cuts along my stomach; hidden away from the eyes of those who saw me everyday, but still there for my constant reminder that things were not that divine on the surface. From that day forward, I added to my collection; wound upon scar.

My secret stayed safe with me until one day my mother visited me at college. Being away from home, twenty years old and adjusting to a life of confusion, made me falter in my clandestine methods. I began moving cuts from my chest and thighs to my arms; keeping them fairly hidden with coat sleeves and thin shirts. I, however, slipped up the day of my mother's visit and exposed them as I washed some dishes in the dorm sink. My mother knew you simply never got more than five cuts on your arm, all perfectly symmetrical, on accident. I remember how she grabbed my arm, staring in horror at the carnage that I singlehandedly created on my own flesh. How she shook her head in shock as she asked why over and over. I remember how she kept saying, "You are so afraid of even getting a shot at the doctor's...how could you do this to
 yourself? Doesn't it hurt?"

I didn't know what to say to my mom. How do you explain that the physical pain is so much different; that it numbs all the heartache inside. That you can control one thing despite how negative it is to your body?
I tried finding the words; anything to convince her that it was nothing her or dad did to me. That it was just...me.

It took another two years for me to see that I needed to stop. In those two years, I had hallmates come to check on me after two days of not seeing or hearing from me. I had a best friend named Damon who would check my arms to make sure there were no fresh cuts, or worse, infected ones. I had my father tell me that he would take away my car keys if he found fresh cuts not as a punishment, but as a piece of mind. He admitted that the entire family was afraid I'd go off the deep end and try to kill myself in an accident. All their fear was brought on by me and my struggle. My niece even broke down one day to my mother, telling her she was afraid I was going to die. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love that girl, like a daughter. That was my breaking point. I was not going to let my family suffer because of my problems. It was March 2007 when I threw away the razors and started clean. Since then, I am cut free.

It's not easy in the slightest. Like any addiction, I fear a relapse, but I have disciplined myself. When I think about harming my body, I take that urge and focus it on the things I love: my family, friends, writing, knitting and photography. I count my blessings and forgive my flaws. I remember the things that I love about myself. Today, with the help two groups that I participated in called P.R.O.T.E.C.T and the Fat Group, I have evolved from self-hate to full blown love and pride. The first step of recovery is acceptance...that was my saving grace.

It took me weeks to decide to publish this; to come clean with my demons. Society has taught us to feel shame for our flaws; to feel disgust, scrutiny, and shame for self-infliction. SI is not a comedy skit and anyone dealing with it should not feel ashamed, but convinced that it is okay to talk about and, most importantly, to seek help. This is me: six years clean, happy, and safe. If I can come out, so can anyone else, but it needs to start with acceptance, an open heart, and an outstretched hand.

This Friday, please reach out and show your community, your family, and your friends that you are aware of this epidemic of SI and that there is nothing to be ashamed about. Together, we can beat this and not let it define us.

Some things you can do March 1st to show your support:
-Wear orange
-Draw a butterfly on your wrist in homage to The Butterfly Project
-Write "Love", "Refuse to Sink", or "Keep Fighting" on your arm

Till next time, sending all my love to you,
-Dee Dee

Finding a Forever Home: A New Outlook on Online Dating

In the wee hours of the morning, a girl or a guy sits in front of a computer and looks for their soul mate, partner in crime, and their new best friend. They are looking for that person that stops the white noise that constantly plays at loud volumes around them. That person that can love them for who they are despite their flaws and past regressions.

In essence, the dating sites are the human's version of the animal rescue shelter: one place built under one promise that someday we will find our person. A missionary for the neglected, lost, and lacking love. We are all looking for our forever home.

I've been on this roller coaster of online dating on and off for the last eight months and it can be a challenge, especially to a phat girl. You take down your guard and put yourself out there: through words describing "who you are", "what you represent", "describe your personality in one sentence", and other endless, vague questions. You post photos of you, some flattering, some out of your comfort zone (here comes that cleavage shot...kidding, kidding!), and some of you passed out drunk off Wild Irish Rose on a(nother) lonely Saturday night...okay, maybe that picture "ctrl + alt+ dels" from the album and, ultimately, from your computer. Sure, you take the risk of a chubby chaser or some asshole that sends you messages just to refer to you as "Roseanne" (yes, this has happened to me rather recently...sadly, the douchebag that called me that looked like a fucked up version of Ralphie from A Christmas Story. I wonder if he liked it when I told him to go shoot his eye out....lol), but you have to try, right?

This morning as I laid in bed talking to one of the sweetest people in the world, it came to me. I'm looking for that forever home. Like those neglected animals at the rescue shelter, I'm sheltering myself on these dating sites for past neglect, hurt, disappointment, and constant let downs. I've got scars from hurtful words, no calls, and no shows. My past could lead people to believe I'm not willing to love again because I lack trust and compassion. I could be labeled as abused and able to be aggressive, to bite any hand that comes near; not the case at all. Like these animals in the shelter, I am looking, wanting, and needing that second chance. I am dying to be loved despite my own fears. I am looking for my forever person and not my fifteen minute fling.

We all are waiting to be rescued and sometimes we think our time is running out and we are on the doorstep of being euthanized.  We suck ourselves into the mindset that our timer is about to go off as every year passes. We fail to keep in mind that we survived some fucked up shit; shit that made us question our worth, our roles in this screenplay called life..shit that made us almost fall off the cliff....almost.

When I get to this point; this point of no return, about to get off and get out, I think about Speedy, the 85 pound basset hound.

Speedy wasn't an AKC champ and he certainly wasn't a good hunting dog. Hell, that dog was the laziest fucking dog I've ever encountered hands down. He was locked up in the humane society for months for being a stray. No one wanted him because he was old and, like me, phat (again, I refuse to use the word FAT). His days were numbered in many foster parents' eyes. He was the reject of the kennel and soon enough he was on the list to be euthanized.

The day before his "dead dog walkin'" day, an amazing man came to the shelter to deliver a sackful of bread like he did every week. He was a man that swore up and down that he would NEVER adopt another pet, being that he had six dogs, a cow, a goat and ten outdoor cats. He was getting old and caring for another animal was just too much at his elder age. He was stern and dead set on not bringing another animal home...until he saw Speedy. It was love at first sight: the old man got down on his tired knees and pet him, praised him, and scratched behind his floppy ears. It was a match made in Heaven. As the old man stood up, trying to pry himself away from this sweet, imperfect creature, he was told by one of the volunteers at the site that Speedy was due to make his maker the next day. It was then that stubborn old man decided one extra dog wouldn't break him.

Speedy, the imperfect basset hound, got his forever home that day with my grandpa, Arthur. He kept my grandpa's feet warm on cold winter days, "laughed" at his jokes, and stayed vigil by grandpa's side the day he left us, a year later. Speedy was there to heal my broken the heart the day of the funeral, sitting by my side with his head in my lap as I cried for the man we both loved and lost. Needless to say, Speedy stayed with his family.

Everyone needs a forever home. Everyone deserves that second chance. Someday, may it be today or a few months from now, it will happen for us still waiting and healing. We just got to keep strong and keep moving. That's all you can do, right?

Forever yours,

Dee Dee


Thickspiration: Speedy Petey Swigart - The 85 pound basset hound that got his happily ever after.

Enough

   Initially, I was going to write about plus size fashion and tips on plus size shopping, but that will have to be postponed for the time being. I have a very serious subject that I think needs addressed even in the smallest of venues.

   Last night, January 26th, an 11-year-old girl from the London area took her own life. ELEVEN YEARS OLD. What would possess a child so young to kill herself? She was being bullied at school.

   This little girl had so much potential: to grow up and become god only knows what. She could have been the best lawyer,  the doctor that made a medical breakthrough, or, simply, the greatest parent. She never got to go to prom, have her first kiss, drive a car...the list of nevers are endless, sad, and above all, unjust. This little girl's life was cut short by cruel mockery and hatred. When is it enough? What is the answer to fixing this broken system?

   It takes a village to raise a child and it's going to take a village to put a stop to this hatred. As a society, we raise our children with images that are not even close to realistic: perfection based on how much your hip bones stick out, how thick your hair is, how straight your teeth are, and what name brand shoes are you wearing. Children are sponges that suck in so much information and ideals; this includes bias past on from other peers and parents. Hatred is not self taught, but inherited, passed down, and encouraged through words, actions, and simply ignorance.

    Every child's bullying experience is different and can no way be compared to others. I, personally, was bullied a lot in school and it still haunts me to this day. I was called fat, ugly, and stupid. I was tripped on the playground, pushed into desks, hit in the face with a jump rope, and had my hair pulled repeatedly on the bus. Graffiti gossip about me was scrawled into the girls' bathroom wall in the fourth grade; graffiti that I had to clean-up after it was discovered by my best friend. When the teacher was informed of the graffiti, I was given permission to skip my recess to clean up the hateful words directed toward me. ME. Not once did the teacher in question address the class on what happened.

    I was afraid to go to school for the longest time; too depressed to care about my studies or even talk to the handful of friends that I did have around. My mom was my cheerleader and my advocate. When I would come home sad, broken, and angry, she was the first to demand answers and often times she called the school and demanded action.

     Even though the physical attacks hurt, nothing compared to the pain of the words. I can't describe how much the words crippled me as a kid and, like this poor little girl, how I thought almost every night how things would be much more simpler if I were dead. I admit, from the ages of eight to eighteen, I thought about ending my own life. Even coming close a few times by saving up pills or tucking away razors; waiting for that breaking point. At that time, I thought I would be doing everyone a big favor...I never stopped to think of how it'd make my parents feel or the teachers that did care. At that time, I felt lost, hopeless, and a complete waste of space. Then one day in high school, I had enough when I was called a cow by an upperclassman. I used my wit and sharp tongue to put my bully in their place.

If I won't get respect because I'm not a stick, I'll get it because I am a stone. My new philosophy was born.

     It's a beautiful concept, but more needs to be done. It's time we take a stand: as parents, teachers, aunts, uncles, sisters, and brothers. It's time we make zero tolerance a reality and not a dream. It's time we stop ignoring the problem and start addressing it. We need to get our eyes off the t.v. screen, our ears and lips away from the smart phone, and start correcting the children that are spewing hate. Our complete disregard for our children's behavior needs to be addressed. Our ignorance is the breeding ground of hate.

     The steps can be small: start by talking to your kids. Ask them what exactly they know about bullying and educate them on the rights and wrongs. Be a constant in their lives. Then demand change in the schools: ask how you can help enforce zero tolerance. Ask what bully awareness programs does the school have in place.

     We cannot turn a blind eye to this anymore. These children are our future and our greatest asset; they cannot be left broken and in despair. I lucked out and found strength in my pain, but what about these children that are fighting more odds then I did: emotional, verbal, physical, and technological. Things have gotten more complicated and it is not as simple as "children will be children" and "getting picked on is a growing pain". Bottom line: bullying is a form of HARASSMENT and it has damning effects. It CANNOT be tolerated any more.

    Take a stand today. Not one more child.

Some facts:

1. 56% of students have personally felt some sort of bullying at school. Between 4th and 8th grade in particular, 90% of students are victims of bullying.
2. The most common reason cited for being harassed is a student's appearance or body size. 2 out of 5 teens feel that they are bullied because of the way that they look.
3. 9 out of 1...0 LGBT youth reported being verbally harassed at school in the past year because of their sexual orientation.
4. 1 in 4 teachers see nothing wrong with bullying and will only intervene 4% percent of the time.
5. A victim of bullying is twice as likely to take his or her own life compared to someone who is not a victim.
6. One out of 10 students drop out of school because they are bullied.
7. Physical bullying peak in middle school and declines in high school. Verbal abuse rates remain constant from elementary to high school.
8. Researchers feel that bullying should not be treated as part of growing up (with the attitude “kids will be kids").
9. 41% of principals say they have programs designed to create a safe environment for LGBT students, but only 1/3 of principals say that LGBT students would feel safe at their school.
10. 57% of students who experience harassment in school never report the incident to the school. 10% of those who do not report stay quiet because they do not believe that teachers or staff can do anything. As a result, more than a quarter of students feel that school is an unsafe place to be.
11. Schools with easily understood rules of conduct, smaller class sizes and fair discipline practices report less violence than those without such features.

For more information on bullying, check out http://www.stopbullying.gov 

No thickinspiration tonight. Just please keep Hailey and her parents in your hearts tonight.

Love,
-Dee Dee

Platoon: Lost in a Jungle

   I promised myself I wouldn't go here; that I wouldn't let myself get raw and over my head. Things happen though and even the most confident phat girl can trip and fall.

   And damn, I fell down the rabbit hole with this one.

   Why do things have to be so complicated and utterly confusing? Why can't life work like mathematics all the time? One solution, one answer, one way. No alternate routes to get to the last sticking equation; just a simple answer without the bullshit in between. What happens when you find yourself lost in foreign territory engulfed in a fog of unfamiliar scenarios. Things that you know are not the norm or socially acceptable in any sense, but you are still compelled to go deeper through the brush and get swallowed up into a fog.

    I wish I could just spill every raw emotion onto this canvas without sounding like a dreadful person; without the worry of what the people I love think. It's hard though and sometimes I feel like I have to keep myself shut away in fear of disapproval.

    I like a guy with a closet full of disjointed skeletons. I like a guy that makes me forget to put my guard walls up. I like a guy that approves of my unhealthy love for Aqua Teen Hunger Force, gets my dark humor, and can make me laugh when I'm feeling my worst. He's the kind of guy I've always wanted, but those skeletons continue to rattle against the empty coat hangers and tap against the door. A constant, distant reminder that things are taboo right now.

    My mother always says that God never gives you anything you can't handle. She also says everything happens for a reason. In this case, what the hell is the reason? I keep waiting, with baited breath, for the fog to lift so I can find my way home, but it just seems to get thicker and colder.

   I guess my trouble is finding out what you should do when you are lost. What you should think when those skeletons of the past polish up those old bones and come knocking at your chamber door at night when your body feels so weak with exhaustion, but your mind remains alert and on edge. Do you plug your ears, count to ten, twenty, one hundred and one and hope it will all quiet down? Do you remain on your bruised knees and quake as you pray to an unseen god for a sign, an answer, a renewed hope? When does the complexity of a situation that you just so happened to trip into by lonely drunken stupor morph into that simple math equation. 1 + 1= 2 or 2 - 1 = 1?

    Everything comes with a risk, but why can't life be a little less chaotic? When do you decide to fall into the waters below to get washed away or to fight hard against the tide? When does the everyday gambler fold their cards and say enough is enough?

   Someday, the confusion will conclude with an answer, I'm sure, but I get impatient. I want solutions right away, I guess that is the banker in me. Regardless, I hope I get that answer sooner rather than later and, most importantly, I hope it is the right answer.

    Thanks loves for listening to my midnight rambling. I apologize for being all emotastic, cynical, and having no regard for my grammar (yup, I'm not great at editing my own shit, so bear with me).

Giving Love (or, in my case, infactuation) A Bad Name,
Dee Dee

Thickspiration: A stronger, happier me. Your thickspiration? You...you should always be your #1.

OKStupid: No, I DO NOT like Golden Showers

Let's face it, phat ladies: dating is no walk in the park despite how fierce you may look or how much sexy-infused confidence you may shine out over the world. You've tried it all: trying to strike up a conversation with that cute techie guy at the Best Buy Mobile Store over iPhones and HTCs (been there), bump that tattooed hottie rocking out in a mosh pit beside you (done that...and suffered a bruised ribcage in the process...oh, and no date. Wounded with no benefits reaped.), or perhaps you fell long and hard for the tortured artist that lived across from you in your college dorm; hands and the hair line of his forehead spotted with black kohl from constantly pushing back his messy soft black hair...oh, those hands...ahem, anyway, maybe you fell into his sick, tortured artist spell only to be torn apart by shy awkward glances, titters, and the doomed Antioch co-op (oh no...totally did not happen to me at all).

Well, bottom line: dating can be good and then it can be, hmmm....fucking terrible. It's a risk; a final sale kind of deal with no chance of return (yup, not even the shit that is chipped or ripped beyond of repair). There are no guarantees that the first date will even be fun. You just take leaps and pray like hell that you crash into the cool water and not the shards of rock below.

I tried all the typical dating routines, but nothing could be as interesting as my encounters on OKCupid.

OKCupid has its ups and downs for me: I met one of my best friends, Mike, on OKCupid (a fellow punk and tattoo enthusiast) and he has been my rock through the shittiest parts of my life. A brother of another mother, if you will. I even had a relationship come out of it: two years and engaged, but that all ended in a bitter sweetness. There's my first big risk. After a month of recovery, I was back on the saddle...and back to OKCupid.

OKCupid changed A LOT when I was away. Once small and close knit; it had morphed into a godzilla with a few good men...but a HELL of a lot of freaks too.

Now, I am far from conventional: I'm a big girl that likes to be loud, spontaneous, and weird. My relationship aspirations are to meet that guy that can share my love of Muse, dark humor, and Justin Bieber covers (covers only...I fucking don't have "Bieber Fever", okay?). I want a guy that will quote Lone Star's quotes as I quote Princess Vespa (Spaceballs reference). I want a guy that knows I got anxiety issues and be totally cool with it. Besides one particular promising message from one member, I got hit with a boatload of creepers.

My profile evidently is a beacon of fuckery; crying out over the shining waters of HTML, "Come! Give me your potential serial rapists, gladly unemployed,  and aspiring Mr. Greys (no, not even the hot kind). It's enough to make a girl question whether or not she is living a life of a Carrie Bradshaw.

First encounter: It's raining...but I don't think that is water...what the...?
      First message I got was from a 32-year-old gentleman: he seemed like a great guy. He had that country boy face, a killer smile (not a Charles Manson kind of smile), and a single parent with an adorable little girl needing a strong female figure in her life. I was not scared of the kid at all. In fact, I love kids and would never not date anyone because of that factor. I was gung ho on going out on a coffee date with guy until he started talking about his likes and dislikes: he likes football, hockey, the t.v. show Law and Order, whips, spankings, and golden showers...wha-?!

       Holy shit, I have encountered Mr. Grey, forty shades short of courting etiquette. I will be the first to admit, I like some aggression in a relationship, but this was a bit over my moon and right into the dark side. Neil Armstrong couldn't even grasp this shit. Golden showers...yup, that is short for peeing on someone. Now, I have said "Piss on this" or "Piss on you" a lot on my day, but I could never say I'd actually follow through with it.

       Needless to say, I stopped talking to Forty Shades Short rather abruptly.

Second encounter: The man under his mom's (basement) stairs.

       Second message I got was from a man that seemed fairly nice...in that boss interviewing a job applicant. He started off small: what are your hobbies? What do you do for a living? What do you think about Plath's "Daddy"? Okay, maybe not that in-depth...but a girl can wish, right? Then the questions began getting more sketchy: "How much do you make weekly/bi-weekly?", "Any chance you may get promoted?", "How do you feel about being a main breadwinner?", "Oh, I sorta don't work...are you down with that?"

Um...where the hell have all the cowboys gone? Is it too much to ask for a man that wants a little more for himself? Nope, I am not a sugar mommy in  any sense whatsoever...application withdrawn.

Third Encounter: Indiana Jones and the Last Mind Fuck

        Third message came from a hottie from INDIA. His message started off pretty sweet: "You seem like a very intelligent, interesting young woman with a lot of inner and outer beauty.I'd love to talk to you at some point and yada yada yada..." I read and read and read; more compelled to talk to this exotic hottie and then I got to the very end of the poignant message from afar and waited with baited breath as I read the next line. It read: "I hope I do not offend you, but I think you'd be an incredible mind fuc."

Oh my god....you're damn right I was offended! This...this...dolt left off the "K" in fuck!

....Nah, actually, I laughed. A lot. I then sent a simple thank you; not quite sure how to answer that one.

These are just a few of the OKStupid encounters I've had; granted, not all of them have been horrible. I'm hoping to someday get up the nerve to write about the good ones and the painful ones. Today is not quite that day. Bottom line: you have to look at the funny shit when you are at your loneliest. It's not easy finding Mr. Right when you are Ms. Big. OKStupid is not the greatest starting point, but it is a start. Got to kiss (or in my case, message) a lot of frogs until you find that prince.

And, who knows, maybe I found him already and just am waiting for that final sign.

With Chapped Lips,
-Dee Dee


Thickspiration: Monique

Comfortably Numb: The Deconstruction of a Wall

   Where does a writer start after struggling through two winters of discontent? When a writer, who used to write every day, suddenly stopped for no other reason except a fear of rejection?
   
    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!)