The Audacious B****

A love-hate letter to an uninvited plus one.

I detest the fleshy shelf that resides in the middle part of me. The bane of my existence that jiggles and waves to any and every passerby with each step I take. She’s an attention-seeker who refuses to hide or be hidden, garnering more attention than a wailing newborn being trudged around by its embarrassed, sleep-deprived mother at that one local Costco perpetually overrun with customers.

Who gave her the audacity? To be so black and gooey and soft and loud? Who invited her to be so bold and seen? Because I don’t remember sending out that invite. If I did, then I must have been drunk and I’m pretty sure that shit doesn’t count.

Why is she still here? At what point can you tell someone that they’ve overstayed their welcome? That they don’t have to go home, but they’ve got to get the hell out of mine. Unfortunately, she came with my fleshy vessel—the same one I didn’t order before being catapulted onto a floating rock. And now I have to cherish her or whatever. That’s like a real estate agent telling first-time homebuyers that the family of raccoons living in the attic comes with the house and to accept this family as unconventional neighbors—that getting rid of them would be fatphobic.

Why haven’t I figured out how to just make her go away? No matter how many times I lift, how little I eat, or how much I twist, turn, suck, or avoid anything reflective, she dances unperturbed and ignorant, like a million cockroaches having survived a nuclear bomb.

Does she know the harm she’s done? I get blamed for not treating her nicely, for not hugging her and giving her a kiss goodbye before I leave for work, but what about what she's done to me? When will I get vindication for her driving away every awful man that I was mildly interested in? For keeping me away from beauties like the beach despite the fact that I don’t know how to swim and really don’t like how sand gets everywhere? For keeping me from enjoying cute clothes, warm summers, and communal hot tubs with a shady cleaning schedule?

How does she do it? How does she take up so much space—unapologetically, effortlessly—without giving a damn about my permission, her permission, or anyone else’s?

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