A beautiful, smart, savvy, self-reliant friend told me a story about a proposition from a guy she was dating. I could not believe the words that came out of her mouth. I am already so on edge this week that this was just one more in an onslaught of absolutely horrifying glimpses into humanity. So I did what I usually do when I don’t know what to do with my anger. I wrote something. With her permission.
Dear Mr. Delusion,
I want to thank you, on behalf of women everywhere. You deserve it. After all, you selflessly dated one of us for months, even though she didn’t live up to the physical standards you have for women, but apparently not yourself. Without you, she would have been left to fend for herself on lonely nights. Pickle jars would be left unopened. Spiders left unkilled. Math left undone. She’d have been left to pleasure herself, like you were sure only you could do. Left to reach orgasm almost instantly, instead of struggling to shut out your grunting, sweaty form so she could imagine a scenario in which a more enlightened person was arythmically thrusting into her. A person who didn’t genuinely believe each awkward thrust was a gift to her, and all women by extension. Thank you, as well, for keeping your clear disdain for women a secret until the very end. If we had known at first what you were, we never would have been fortunate enough to spend so much time with you. To see you struggle to survive the affront to your preferred aesthetics. How did you do it, by the way? How did you make it through such hardship? Was it her beautiful smile that so offended you? Her eyes, filled with hints of her superiority? Or was it her impeccable sense of style that you found icky? The way she was always immaculately put together must have really grossed you out. And how dare she? How dare she forget that it was you who decided if she was sexy. You, the keeper of her self-worth. But you’re qualified, right? Because of your very, very
short small minuscule narrowly defined preferences. How dare she believe that you meant it when you asked her to run away with you to get married. I mean, that’s a red flag, right? The running away part. It points to recklessness and perhaps even mania. Oh. What’s that? You didn’t give her time to react. Oh, I see. Well that makes more sense. The woman I know is too smart to jump into legalities without reading the fine print. She’s smarter than me. She’s smarter than you, believe it or not. Because she knew that it was over the second you gave her your generous proposition. She knew she was worth more than a timeline, an ultimatum and a punishment. But you didn’t. You thought you were doing her a favor by suggesting that she hit a goal weight and slide in under your preferred BMI. After all, it’s her health you were worried about, right? Oh, it wasn’t? You said what? You suggested that you should be allowed to sleep with “skinny chicks” until she reached your asinine goal? So you could “get it out of your system”? And what exactly would you be evicting from your system? The idea that you have any say over a woman’s body? Or the deep-rooted misogyny that will haunt you for the rest of your life, manifesting in seemingly random aggression and absurd propositions until nobody at all will let you touch them. Let alone love them. Not even me, a fat chick.
Go fuck yourself,
A fat chick