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So, this is how it goes.

Story of my life? I don't have one! I have no flair for the dramatics, so I'll keep it short and simple. Oh, and there's no need to worry. This will all be relative...eventually. Basically, I was born a fat baby. Yeah, I'm sure more than half the chunky, chubby, overweight, and obese population victimize themselves by blaming bad genes or whatever higher power exists for the gravy filling, but it's true. I was born fat. Bad genes, you know. So as I careened through life as Shamu would do in his private pool, humiliation was something to get accustomed to, as Shamu also had to undergo. There seemed to be no relief from all angles. At home, I had my mother to pick on me for being overweight and my brother to criticize me for what I ate. Heyyy, that rhymed. At school, I had hordes of people who found it easier to pick on the fat girl like it was an acceptable discrimination of some kind. I guess they had to search for some kind of loophole since racism was declared illegal. I can't really see anyone outlawing discrimination against the overweight...Anywho! Around lunch time, even the people who cared about me would stare at me while I shamelessly devoured my scarce lunch and then some (compliments of Mummy Dearest and the thin friends who knew what being full was all about) and I had to wonder if they were thinking the same exact thing every one thinks when a fat person is subjected to eating in public, "Should she really be eating that?" The answer? Probably not, but who can say they really gave a crap? I was just a kid. I was indifferent to the whole "eat to live, not live to eat" clause anyway. Of course, as all children tend to do, I grew up and I have to say, being a fat teenage girl in a society that finds even the prettiest of plastic people inadequate is a daunting and overall depressing experience. Seriously, you all are lucky to live in a country where the average jeans size is 14 and the average fast food eater has to buy two plane tickets to escape the degredation brought on by those with less or no love-handles or cankles. You can see why food was my only friend. It couldn't talk back and if it could, I would probably eat it before it could get its point across. If only I could deal with people the same way... But I digress. As my mother grew to become more of a nuisance about my weight, I grew to become too chunky to fit into any of my clothes. You see what happens when you tell your child NOT to do something? Why couldn't she tell me I wasn't eating enough? I probably would have rebelled by default and wouldn't be in this flabby mess. Relationships? Zilch. It's understandable, really. I'm not saying that it's absurd I could never find someone to overlook my weight issue, but seriously? Even the world's largest (formal for 'fattest') man - courtesy of the Guiness Book of World Records - had a girlfriend he could share his dreams and KFC with. I'm not asking for much, am I? So yeah, weight has always been a problem and has never stopped being the main obstacle in the way of everything. EVERYTHING. What course of action have I taken to prevent any further expansion and wobbliness? You can guess for yourself, can't you? I mean, I did join the site. 18 lbs gone in 3 weeks! Woo! Thanks for reading, if you even bothered to click on the link. If you did, then chipper, give us a hug! I just might post something else in the near future.   But don't get your hopes up.
PandySoda 273

PandySoda 273

6
 

When you first realize it.

Can anyone out there in LBT world remember the first incident that triggered the faint click in your mind? The click that echoes and reverberates through the walls of your brain even after you've lost a couple pounds and have vowed to shut your gob, suck in your gut and face the world without your trusty BigMac in hand (brrrr, scary, I know). It's a very distinct sound. It's different for everyone but recognizable nonetheless. The click is what you hear when you can no longer endure living in your own skin because basically it hangs too low and threatens to wipe the floors in your wake, causing many janitors to lose their jobs to redundancy. Good job people! You managed to locate a reason for janitors to hate you for being fat. Congratulations, that leaves...native cannibals on the list of People Who Won't Judge You For How Much You Weigh. You probably wouldn't want to go after the cannibals though...I hear they don't make good BFFs... It happens so fast (ze click), you have to wonder, "Where the hell have I been for the past *insert number of years* of my life?!" Oh yes, it's happened to me. I remember it quite vividly actually. It was a normal day like any other day. I woke up at 5:30 PM (I'm somewhat nocturnal), rolled out of bed, landed on the floor with a loud thud that probably killed the old man with a heart condition living downstairs, laughed at myself for a few idle minutes, then got up to survery the damage done to my already effed up visage. I took one look in the mirror, counted the number of chins a-a-a-and CLICK. The next thing I know, I'm having a nervous breakdown and a jar of peanut butter magically materializes into my palm. I can't even remember if I used a spoon...It's safe to say this emotional eating thing is a vicious cycle that bites you in the ass when you're not looking. And if you are looking, that just makes the guilt a whole lot more insufferable and you just end up eating more to make yourself feel better for eating more. See? Vicious cycle. So anywho, after summoning the jar of PB away, I grabbed the phone and called my mother, who was at work. I had the firm conviction that I had composed myself emotionally enough to talk to my mother in a mature manner to impress her and show off that I, too, can be an adult. When she picked up and said, "Hello?" I broke down sobbing. There's something about your mother's voice that just tugs on your heart strings like, say, caramel apple crumble on a warm summer day would. Naturally, my speech was not coherent enough to be understood by any other Joe, but mothers have acute aural senses when it comes to their kids. She understood everything I was saying and told me to hang up. The minute I did, the sobbing stopped (I know, wtf, right?). She called again and told me that I had an appointment with a well-known surgeon to discuss the lap-band and, of course, I broke down crying once again. Once Niagara Falls passed, I sat down dreaming of the lap-band. 12 days later, they shoved one in me and sent me on my merry, hobbling way. 3 weeks later, still going strong like a rainbow in a gay parade minus the extra hobble. <3 Thank you once again for wasting about 3 minutes of your life to read about mine! For all those who suggested I write my own book (only one person did), I'm proud to say that I already am, lol. I'm not a published writer. Not yet, anyway. Until next time! *Smoke and stealthy getaway*
PandySoda 273

PandySoda 273

4
 

It's not what it looks like.

Okay, before you start wondering, "Why the hell is this chick bombarding us with an influx of blogs on this fine day? Pip pip, cheerio, what what." I'd just like you all to know there is a 7 to 8 hours difference in our time. What is your today was my yesterday and what is your tomorrow is my today, savvy? Um, you have to read it a few times before it actually starts making sense. Today, as I was making my way to the kitchen to shut my banded stomach up, I happened to stumble across my step-father who strangely resembles Colenel Sanders. Random oddities aside, he cast one glance at my face and gave me what can only be described as a nod of acceptance. After arching an eyebrow at said nod, he proceeded to explain to me that my face looked somewhat thinner today. Not yesterday! Today. Because yesterday, my face was not thin enough for his liking. It managed to magically dissipate while I slumbered. After weeks of living on clear liquids, full liquids, and mushed foods ya have to chew until they become liquids, all I can say is, "Yes, step-papa. I, too, have eyes." Has anyone noticed how people retract their statements when you lose a few? What I mean is, imagine a scenario where you are fat (I think it's safe to say that that won't be a feat too difficult to accomplish) and you have someone complimenting you on your fabulous and body-fitting-no-matter-what clothes. You end up feeling good about yourself, n'est pas? Get a LAP-BAND®, lose some weight, wear the same clothes and have people tell you that you that those clothes looked like shit on you before you decided you weren't going to live long enough to outweigh a sumo wrestler with a glandular problem. What the hell? Just 3 weeks ago, these clothes were as fabulous as Edward Cullen in a ray of sunshine. Yeah, well that was three weeks and six chins ago. Get used to the new compliments, people. They're more abrasive than all the times you had people run past you and yell, "Quickly! To the Fatmobile!"
PandySoda 273

PandySoda 273

4
 

The way the world works.

I think anyone who's had the lap-band for a while has experienced a certain modification in the behaviour of the people around them. That guy who used to poke fun at you to his buddies has suddenly made you his main target; that hot chick you always see at Starbucks has found you more interesting than the book she cluelessly holds upside down everytime you catch her single-mindedly eyeing the Adonises. Even your mother seems a little nicer since you started looking less like the hungry, hungry hippos from your father's side of the family. Seriously? People treat us differently 'cause we're fat? I never imagined that was the case. It never occured to me all the times that McDonald's employee seemed happier taking my order than the pretty young thing in front of me who had ordered a McSalad without lettuce, tomato, or any of that other stuff you're liable to find in a salad and had eventually disappeared when she turned to her side. If you look closely, you just might see the large dollar signs in that employee's eyes, too. It's basically in his job description and contract to be nicer to fat people. Don't let their occupation fool you, they are all geniuses. I mean, do the math yourself: 6 chins + backway boobs (both sexes) - self-esteem + hefty appetite = CHA-CHING! You know what else chafes more than when my thighs rub together? More and more men seem to notice me with every pound that melts away. I am not entirely sure whether I should be flattered or feel violated at the nasty facial gestures they cast my way. I could pretend that I'm offended, but come on, who wouldn't feel a little complacent that a physical attraction is possible, now completely sans humiliation and the inevitable emotional pig-out with your skinny friend, who chooses a shoulder fold to rub as she lies and tells you that it's not all about looks? Funny thing is, we eat that shit up like we do everything else.   Disclaimer: If anyone gets offended reading this, then I must explain that I only write about my own experience and do not generalize. That, or you just don't belong in LBT. A vague disclaimer is nobody's friend.
PandySoda 273

PandySoda 273

4
 

One of those days.

To avoid waking up on the wrong side of the bed, I advise you all to either push it against a wall ornately adorned with sharp spikes you would normally find around an S&M fan's neck or hire a really fat guy to sit on one side (it doesn't matter which). In fact, why not hire him to sit right on top of you. That way, you can suffocate to death, avoid the following day you just know is bound to be inevitably shitty, and have a funny-ass story of your death to share with President Lincoln and that deer you ran over but told no one about. Unfortunately for me, I did neither of those things. Signing up for college orientation is one thing. Being treated like the brown scum you scrape off the raggedy soles of your worn out boots (but of lesser importance) is another. After dealing with the monstrosity they call Layla in the admissions office and befriending a 6'4" friendly freshman who walked me to the front gates, conveniently blocking the sun's rays from gaining contact with my melanin-deprived skin and turning me into an arab crispy-fry, my friend and I decided to have lunch together. Actually, she decided to have lunch and I, being fresh bread from the lap-band bakery, was forced to sniff the sweet smell of the bolognase pasta she was ruthlessly devouring whilst sipping on imported water I ordered to make myself feel special; water that couldn't have tasted any better if Jesus himself had pulled up in a Porsche and blessed it with holy Kool-Aid. Grab your yellow pages and drag your finger down the page till you come across, "Fat Man For Hire; Will Sit Anywhere."
PandySoda 273

PandySoda 273

2
 

It's not what it looks like.

Okay, before you start wondering, "Why the hell is this chick bombarding us with an influx of blogs on this fine day? Pip pip, cheerio, what what." I'd just like you all to know there is a 7 to 8 hours difference in our time. What is your today was my yesterday and what is your tomorrow is my today, savvy? Um, you have to read it a few times before it actually starts making sense. Today, as I was making my way to the kitchen to shut my banded stomach up, I happened to stumble across my step-father who strangely resembles Colenel Sanders. Random oddities aside, he cast one glance at my face and gave me what can only be described as a nod of acceptance. After arching an eyebrow at said nod, he proceeded to explain to me that my face looked somewhat thinner today. Not yesterday! Today. Because yesterday, my face was not thin enough for his liking. It managed to magically dissipate while I slumbered. After weeks of living on clear liquids, full liquids, and mushed foods ya have to chew until they become liquids, all I can say is, "Yes, step-papa. I, too, have eyes." Has anyone noticed how people retract their statements when you lose a few? What I mean is, imagine a scenario where you are fat (I think it's safe to say that that won't be a feat too difficult to accomplish) and you have someone complimenting you on your fabulous and body-fitting-no-matter-what clothes. You end up feeling good about yourself, n'est pas? Get a lap-band, lose some weight, wear the same clothes and have people tell you that you that those clothes looked like shit on you before you decided you weren't going to live long enough to outweigh a sumo wrestler with a glandular problem. What the hell? Just 3 weeks ago, these clothes were as fabulous as Edward Cullen in a ray of sunshine. Yeah, well that was three weeks and six chins ago. Get used to the new compliments, people. They're more abrasive than all the times you had people run past you and yell, "Quickly! To the
PandySoda 273

PandySoda 273

1
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