Listen up kiddios because Miss Plumcake is gonna lay down a little church on behalf of her many big sisters.
I am not your funny fat friend.
I am not your wingman, I am not your ride to the club and I am not the girl you stand next to when you want to look thin. I am the queen of this rodeo and in fact, every rodeo where I deign to appear, so while I appreciate that popular culture and hour after hour of sitcoms, romcoms and whatever other sort of com you want to watch tells you otherwise: I am not the Skipper doll of your Malibu Dream Life. And P.S., Ken? Isn’t holding out because “he respects you.”
And I’m speaking on behalf of your One Black Friend, your Sassy Best Gay, and any other friend who conveniently fills a space on your United Colors of Benetton Bingo Card. Yes, I’m fat and I’m funny and you don’t have to ignore that, but for the love of Susan Hayward, that’s not my JOB (okay well it is MY job) I got other stuff goin’ on.
I am not Robin to your Batman, but if you’re lucky I might let you be the Thelma to my Louise.
You don’t get to string me along into some sort of screwed-up friends with benefits situation where I have to sleep with you AND listen to you complain about your mother.
You get one or the other, bucko. If you want both you need to put a ring on it, and since no good ever comes from talking to the people you want to see naked, that had better be a pretty damn big ring. I want terrified sailors to warn their captains to change course when they see me coming, and not just because of those slightly blurry weekends I spent in Annapolis.
Also, when you tell me I’m hot, don’t say it’s because you find beauty on the inside. Why do you do that? Is it because you think it makes you sound evolved? You don’t. My insides are filled with eels and you know it. My legs however, are worshiped as deities in several small Pacific island nations (or at least will be as soon as I cash in my frequent flier miles and blow this popsicle stand). Tighten up.
Value your own stock.
You’ll note I said I’m writing this on your behalf. That’s because I don’t have anyone in my life who treats me like that. Why? Because I don’t let them. I know it’s easier said than done, and it’s a process, but if you see yourself in any of those situations, you’ve either got to cut these yahoos loose or gently –but clearly– correct them, which will save you the trouble of murdering them later (and honestly, how many of us can carry off prisonrape orange?)
The world will not end if you walk away. In fact, knowing you’re capable of walking away can actually help you be more tolerant because you’re making a choice, not hanging on out of desperation.
Your real friends will deal and be better people for it. The folks who freak out? Show them your bye-bye wave.
Gin and Tonics,