My Big, Fat, Fatty Rant

I'm sick to death of reading fat-phobic rants like this or this, especially when they dress themselves up in the moralistic robes of good dominance.

Guess what, fuckos? I'm fat.

I weigh somewhere in the neighbourhood of FattyFatFat pounds, and I wear clothes in a size NoOneWillEverLoveorDesireYou. I have lumps. I have curves. I have peaks and valleys in places where others are flat. I have a fascinating topography.

I'm done feeling bad about it, so you had better learn to deal. I earned every pound doing some hard fucking work, bearing my owner's children (3 of them in under 4 years, no less), and repeatedly clawing my way out of assfuckingly miserable depression.

You want to tell me that my weight is making me a repellant wreck, destined to die unpenetrated and diseased? Well, the regular and enthusiastic use the Captain makes of me begs to differ, as does the Edmonton Obesity Staging System.

You want to tell me I'm fat because I'm not serving my owner well enough? That "the pleasures of overeating and sedentary living take more priority than pleasing him?" That I'm "out of control in this way?"

Get.
Fucking.
Fucked.


Tell me I'm sedentary on the days that start at 6:30am, after 4 hours of broken sleep. Tell me I'm sedentary when I spend the whole day cooking, cleaning, running after children and running errands. Tell me I'm overeating when my calorie tracking program is telling me, in big red letters, that I have yet again failed to consume adequate calories for the day and I'm scrambling for a late-night snack that will put me where I need to be. Tell me I'm out of control as I measure portions, sweat during HIIT, go for an hour's walk in the cold and snow. Tell me I'm out of control as I spend yet another night poring over nutritional research so that I can plan cost-effective, nutritionally dense meals for my family.


What's that? It's okay? I get a pass from your scorn because I'm "doing something" about my weight?

Fuck you.


I work out for me. I work out because I want to give my body love and care. I work out because I prefer to be smaller. I sure as hell don't need your permission to inhabit this body, no matter what size it is. You're free to find me unattractive. I find offensive blowhards to be pretty repellant, myself. But you can take your opinions about whether my fatness is acceptable, fold them until they're all corners and shove them up your ass.


If I never lose a pound, if I never become a size that won't turn your stomach, or make you pity the poor Captain, or ever fit into my old clothes, I'll still treat my body with love. I'll still feed it good, healthy food. I'll still take it for walkies and make it push itself. And I'll know that I'm a pretty awesome person, which is more than I can say for you.

Otherling

I have an angst. Sorry.

I'm in a place right now where I feel like I'm slipping further down the rabbit hole. Naturally, I find myself fighting this. Because god forbid I spend years working toward a goal and an ideal and view progress with anything other than suspicion and panic. Sigh

The fact is, right now I'm finding myself seeing a bigger divide between me and the outside world than I used to. Even a week ago, I would have said that there was nothing inherently different about me than there was about Random School Mommy or Grocery Store Patron or what have you. I was just like them, only my relationship was structured a little differently. No fuss.

The last 48 hours or so, I've been feeling very other.

It's stupid - absolutely STUPID - things that have been setting me off. Discussions on Fet about no limits relationships. The Captain putting his foot down about what is ultimately a fairly minor issue. Talking on the phone with a mommy friend. Things like that. Nothing major. Nothing jarring. If this part of my life were on a plot graph, I wouldn't know what to list as the inciting incident.

I find myself accepting things. Just... things. Accepting that the Captain said X and X it shall be. And then I realize I accepted it without struggle. And then I angst.

Because I want to struggle, in a way. I want to feel those vestigial parts of my personality rail against his rule. I want to feel my sense of self assert its right to exist, to have opinions, to messily flounce about and complicate things. And now I'm not feeling that. And it makes me feel weird and empty. :/


Who am I if I'm not me? Who am I if me isn't ME, it's him, reflected? Do I have a right to ask who I am? Or hey, am I just having a total psychotic break, because isn't this a clinical sign that I'm losing my fucking mind? I mean, that's the cause of people losing their sense of self-identity, right?


And if I'm NOT me and if I don't feel like there's an actual ego happening very much in here, does that mean that something else will come along to fill the void, or will I spend the rest of my life in this emptyish, half-finished state? Do I sound insane? I sound insane, don't I. It's okay. You can tell me.

So I feel like fighting. I feel like trying to prove to myself that I TOTALLY MIND if the Captain tells me no, I'll never do this thing I've always thought I would do. That I'm TOTALLY JUST LIKE everyone else.

Of course, that raises the question of how to fight something that I can't seem to get angry about...


Did I already mention sigh? Because, well... Sigh

Look at me. I have no limits. Yawn.

Inspired by something I read elsewhere

Your Master walks up to you with an electric razor. Say good-bye to your long locks cause they're about to meet the floor. Oh and your eyebrows? Poof! GONE!

Really? That's your go-to argument? My hair? This shit that grows out of my head, for free, with zero effort? Jebus fuck, I'd better put my delicate little foot down over that one. And my eyebrows? Those things that I could draw on, if I needed to? Ask any good little gothlette if they didn't have a crayon-eyebrows phase. Christ.

How about he gives you enemas non-stop till your ass explodes and you have hemorrhoids so bad you think you are giving birth OUT OF YOUR ASS? Sounds delicious, doesn't it? Try explaining that to the doctor at the E/R.

You know, I don't think that's how enemas or hemorrhoids actually work.

Even better why don't we shove a wartenburg pinwheel up your fucking cunt and then see how long we can spin it around ripping and tearing at your insides?

May he succeed where four children have failed and tear my shit up. shrug It heals.

What would your response be if he wanted to vomit in your mouth? Again.... yummy deliciousness!!!

Gross. So?

Better yet, my little no limit ass holes, how about if he uses your mouth as an ashtray and then decided it would look lovely if he put them out all over your vay-jay?

What about it? I wouldn't be the first human ashtray and I wouldn't be the last, either. Also, I have a vagina, or a cunt, or even a cum dumpster. I decidedly do NOT have a "vay-jay".

He invites his friend over with an incurable STD and decides to let him fuck you in every hole with no condom. Have fun at the clinic!!!!

May the fleas from a thousand reindeer infest his groin for it, but if that's what he chooses, that's what he chooses.

Point made yet?

What point? So far as doomsday scenarios go, these are remarkably unimaginative.

Look. I have limits. I have LOTS of limits. I have my "I don't get out of bed for less than Linda Evangalista's making" limit. I have my "I'm not going into the ghetto No Frills again" limit. I have my "I would sooner perform eyeball surgery on myself than watch another Giovanni Ribisi movie" limit. I have my "Someone else scoop out the cat box" limit.

And you know what? None of those limits matter. I have voluntarily placed myself in a relationship wherein my wants, needs and preferences are in subjugation to the Captain and his whims. My limits don't pertain to my relationship with him.

Point made yet?

These Scabs Won't Pick Themselves

There's been some discussion in the O/p group on Fet about telling the truth even when it's something your owner doesn't want to hear. I didn't contribute much. All I said was that I'm balls at it.

And I am.

I'm worse than that.

I have not been good to the Captain lately. I have acted in ways I am deeply ashamed of. I have hurt him.


I haven't been telling the truth. I haven't been telling him Hey, holy shit, the meds aren't working and I'm hurting and fucked up and I hate myself and I know I'm not allowed to physically hurt myself, so I'm going to lash out and act like an asshole until you're so hurt you hurt me back and I can feel like I'm getting what I deserve. I haven't been saying There are things that scare me and worry me and that I hate and resent and I should have said so years ago but I never wanted to upset you so here we are and I'm a jerk. I haven't been saying much of anything that I should have.

So here we are. We're muddling through. He's hurt. I'm mortified. We're still together.

We always will be.

Apology

The baby doesn't sleep. Ever.

I need to increase my Celexa. Now.

I'm not up to blogging. Sorry.

Triumphant Return

We're back from our weekend away. I'm feeling very loved up right now.

40ish hours with my owner, my kids, good friends and their children. A whole weekend away from phones, television and internet (not to mention the housework here - why is it always more satisfying to tidy up someone else's house?). A couple of days where everyone got along and had a good time. Babies passed from adult to adult, children snuggled by every set of arms available, voices creating a constant, good-natured babble.

And the smaller joys - two moms (me! one of them was me!) leaving the kids behind to bring home groceries and treats, and a latte and a cheeseburger before coming home. Sleeping in. Drinks! (Wild woman here had a glass of cava and a cider. I'm out of control, I tell you.) All sorts of yummy nibblies. Naps. S'mores on the wood burning stove when the bonfire was rained out. Good coffee.

Oh, and the sex. That's what you're really interested in, right? :D

The frantic, who-knows-when-someone-will-walk-into-the-room sex on the couch, pants roughly pulled down to my knees and hands slamming me down onto his cock.

The late morning, time-to-get-up sex. Hands around my throat, ripping the skin off my hips and ass, pinching my nipples, grabbing handfuls of breast and tearing at them, smacking my face.

The we're-supposed-to-be-packing, someone-foolishly-left-herself-alone-in-the-bedroom sex, my face pressed down into the blankets, silently screaming as the Captain forced himself into my ass and made rough use of me. I'm still feeling that one.

And to think, I nearly begged the Captain to call the whole trip off on Friday, because Quattrus's condition was acting up and I felt nervous about being away from our doctors and the children's hospital. I'm glad I held my tongue. We had a wonderful time. And, of course, Quattrus was in perfect shape the whole time we were there. :P

P.S. At one point the Captain announced that his foot was itchy, so I leaned over and scratched it for him. (Meanie. He knows feet squick me out.) One of our friends looked up incredulously and asked "Do you ever do anything for yourself?" I giggled inside.

So long, suckers!

We're headed up North for the weekend. Wish me serenity and intestinal fortitude as we drive for 3 hours with 4 kids in the car.

See you next week!