nce upon a time, in the height of summer, when the Sun baked the ground into unyielding hardness and the people whispered in the dark for water, a Queen sat in her palace war rooms, poring over defence tactics with her husband, The King. Continue reading →
As a woman in her early twenties, I have the common sense of a toddler and the get-up-and-go of a teenage boy. However, I do wish I were politically active; I dream of quoting philosophers instead of The Simpsons and I long to coherently express rage at social injustices instead of stuffing my gob with food.
So, you think you’re fat?
You hate your midriff right?
You think all anyone sees is those wobbly bits?
You’re depressed because you were a skinny kid and now you’re growing up and your belly’s growing too.
Did you know that when you put your ultrasound on Facebook at least 28% of your friends want to delete you?
Do you know that if any of them are radiologists they might be able to see his weiner or her hoo ha?
I leave the house with a flirty bounce in my step, full of confidence. I had dressed to suit my voluptuousness, had braved the shops where a ‘medium’ is now ‘large’ and women are sized out of existence. I had complied with the women’s magazines.