This is my new story, progress will probably be slow as I have a lot of summer assignments that I need to finish before school starts in three weeks, but I was struck with inspiration and I needed to start writing. Hope you enjoy.

Review even if you hate it please, also, I mean no offence to anyone and if it makes any difference to people that are offended, Sarah Tomlin is basically me with a new name, so this is where I'm coming from.

Hate Being Fat

Prologue

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You know what the worst feeling in the world is?

It’s the first time you look in the mirror in the morning and realize that if you stop sucking in your stomach and let it hang out, you look pregnant.

And it gets worse every morning after that.

My first morning was about a month ago, and every day I feel worse and worse about it.

I’m Sarah Tomlin, sixteen years old, 5 foot 3 inches, measurements 40-36-42 with stomach sucked in, 40-38-42 with stomach out, and two inches is more than it sounds. I wear 36D-38D bra, women’s large tops, and size 11 pants. And I keep fucking eating.

It’s awful. I tried being anorexic once, I really tried, and it was working for a few days, and then my stupid sisters boyfriend had to go and be all nice and ‘oh, nobody cares how much you weigh’ and convince me to eat a tuna sandwich. Now I’m still fat.

Now, to anybody out there who has the same measurements as me but looks drop dead gorgeous and who’s weight nobody really cares about because you’re perfect the way you are, I’m not trying to tell you how horrible you look or anything cause to be honest, I don’t know you, so no offence meant.

But to the people out there in my boat, whose bodies aren’t built to look good fat, and who aren’t naturally skinny, I feel your pain.

It’s really awful being fat. None of you skinny, pretty people understand, I’m sure, but it is. You can’t fit easily between two desks in the classroom, or when you try to squeeze through crowded halls you always bump into people, or when there’re people standing around your locker and you have to push through them because you can’t fit in between them and they look at you like ‘ugh, I can’t believe how fat you are, how dare you make me move so you could get to your locker.’

It’s horrid.

And my Grandmother is the worst about it. Especially when my cousins (biogenetically perfect gymnasts, thankyouverymuch) send us two trash bags full of their old clothes and I refuse to look through them because nothing will fit me. She has to bring it up at the family dinner that night, in front of three of my siblings, plus my parents, three aunts, two uncles, and five cousins.

“Sarah, have you looked through those clothes your aunt sent over. I know Kelly found some really nice things in there.” Kelly’s my sister; she’s naturally tiny, with big beautiful brown eyes and long luxurious blond hair.

I push my frizzy, mousy brown, shoulder length hair behind my ear and study the tablecloth with my squinty, heavy looking eyes. “Yeah, a little Grandma.”

“Well, did you find anything nice?” It’s like she wants to publicly humiliate me.

“No, I don’t think anything in there will fit me.”

“Ohhhhh.” She’s got that stupid ‘pacifying but I don’t believe you’ look on her face and I swear her eyes are smirking when she glances at my aunt, who is now staring at me with the rest of the table full of people who hate me. “No, I looked through, I’m sure there were some mediums in there.”

Well, how do I answer to that? If I say, “Well, grandma, they don’t fit.” She’ll just get mad at me and throw a hissy fit and then my dad will get mad at me for not listening to my grandmother and it’ll be awful. But I can’t exactly tell her in front of all my relatives that I wear larges, can I?

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t wear medium.” Best to go with the answer that doesn’t get the whole household mad at me.

She chuckles that stupid ‘oh, nonsense’ chuckle and says, “Well, what size do you wear then?”

Best get it over with as quick as I can. “A large.”

Great, the chuckle’s back. “Nonsense. What about that top you have on, it looks wonderful on you-“ no it doesn’t, nothing looks wonderful on me, it shows off all my fat actually “-what size is it.”

Sigh stupid, stupid old hag. “It’s a large, Grandma.”

The goddamned chuckle! “No, it can’t be, come here, let me check.”

Peachy, now the whole effing table is looking at me expectantly, so what can I do? I have to get up and squeeze my way between the wall and the rest of the seats on my side of the wall, all the way to the end of the table, where I am forced to get down n my knees next to her chair and pull my hair out of the way so she can check the tag on the collar of my shirt.

Guess what. You guessed it; the shirt’s a large. So what’s her retort, now that she’s pulled my shirt down and probably stretched the collar, as well as showing the whole family the huge mole I have on the back of my shoulder that I never show anyone?

“Well you certainly don’t look like you wear a large. How much do you weigh?”

Yes, ladies and gentleman, my grandmother just asked her sixteen year old granddaughter how much she weighs in front of a family of fifteen other people, all of whom hate me more than the squashed bug on the bottom of their shoe. Unfortunately, I still can’t deny her an answer, so I always have to say it after I stand up and straighten my shirt and turn to look at her.

“Almost a hundred and eighty pounds.” God, I feel so fat, can I please go back to my kiesh? At least I’m taller than her, especially since she’s still sitting down.

“Really?” Ugh, it’s all surprised and affronted and shit. “Well, you certainly don’t look like you weigh one hundred and eighty pounds.”

“Yeah, well, I do, can I finish eating now?” Thanks, granny dearest, for embarrassing me more than I could do on my own.

“Yes, of course, go ahead.”

So I squeeze back to my seat and settle back in to finish my kiesh. Personally, I think the fact that I’ve managed to avoid blushing this long a great accomplishment, so to keep from blushing anymore, I settle for glaring at my kiesh while I proceed to as slowly as I can shovel it in my mouth.

So conversation resumes about something or another, I’m really paying more attention to what’s left of my delicious dinner that the people around me, and so it comes as a complete shock to me that, when I glance up to take a drink of orange juice, I find the cousin sitting across from me staring at me with barely veiled disgust. Oh, and she’s sneering at my plate, like one of those ‘I can’t believe you just ate all that, and your still eating more’ sneers. Look, it tastes good, okay. At least I’m not starving myself by only eating a few strawberries and a 1 inch by 1 inch piece of ham.

Oh, well look at that, I’m the last one eating…. Well, I only have three bites of turkey and a roll left, plus a few grapes, I don’t want to waste it, and it tastes so good.

So I eat it, and rather than sit at that stupid table any more, I offer to take the dishes into the kitchen. Of course, as I leave the room, the stupid sneering cousin has to make a comment. “Well, if she eats like that at every meal, it’s no wonder she weighs so much.”

Do any of them come to my defense? No. A room full of fifteen other people, five of which I live with every freaking day, and not one of them says a single word in favor of me. What do they do? They laugh. Every last one of them. That’s it; I am so putting soap on all their toothbrushes.

I hate being fat.