Dear
Me,
I'm
writing this letter to myself because I don't have anyone else to
write it to. People think I'm weird anyway, so this isn't going to
change anything. I was going to get a diary, but I'm no good at doing
anything on a regular basis like that. Besides the stuff I want to
say, I don't want to read about two months from now. So I thought I'd
write this letter to myself, sort of a way of getting it all out, and
then seal it up and forget about it. Maybe someday when I'm old I can
read it and laugh. If I ever get old that is.
The
reason I'm writing is because I'm fat. Being 13 and fat isn't easy.
It's not like I want to be fat, because I don't. Kids in school make
fun of me, teachers smirk, hell even my old man looks at me like I'm
some kind of alien. He laughs at me and tells me that I can't be his
son. I don't think he knows, or cares, that his jokes hurt me more
than any punching of my face ever could. Last night he took away my
dessert for the fifth night in a row and told me that no son of his
would ever look like I do. Then he torments me with it by making
these annoying mmmms and oh yeahs as he inhales it. I'd heard those
sounds before coming from Mom's and his bedroom, but for some reason
I didn't think he was eating my chocolate pudding then. Fuck him
anyway, I had a stash of candy bars hidden in my room that I'd stolen
from the Texaco station. I ate all six of them, and threw the
wrappers out the window, through a hole I cut in the screen. Last
time, though, the wind hadn't blown them away, and my Dad found them
and beat the crap out of me.
Dad
hating me isn't the problem though. It's the kids at school that
really gets to me. Like today, I was in the school cafeteria minding
my own business, slowly chewing on a peanut butter and marshmallow
fluff sandwich that was tasting so good, because I was so hungry,
that it reminded me of a piece of my Mom's cake. She makes the best
cake. Anyway, so there I am eating this sandwich and washing it down
with some chocolate milk, when Gordy Bryan walks up to my table and
snatches my sandwich right out from my hand and grabs my milk and
dumps it on my head. I didn't even have to look, I knew it was him.
He was always doing this to me. Gordy is bigger and taller than my
old man, probably six foot tall, and he has a big mop of uncombed
brown hair that covers his eyes so that I can never even tell what
color they are. Not that I care.
Whatcha
doing Mr. Potato Head? he says. Then he laughed and rubbed my wet,
Hershey's smelling hair. He's been calling me that since the 4th
grade. I guess in a way I did look like Mr. Potato Head. Mom bought
me these stupid thick black glasses and I had a somewhat big nose
because of my German heritage. His group of tagalong friends laughed
along with him. I think the only reason they ever laugh is because if
they didn't he'd be doing to them what he was doing to me. Gordy's
that kind of guy. Hey Dan, he said, want this sandwich. It looks
nummy. Dan, probably the only boy that would stand a chance in a
fight with Gordy, took the sandwich, shoved it into his mouth, and
spit it out in the direction of my face. Pieces of chewed up peanut
butter, sticky marshmallow and wet, spit soaked bread splattered
across my face. A piece of it stuck to my forehead and the group all
let out this laugh, so loud that the whole cafeteria turned their
heads and looked at us. I tried to shove my head inside my shirt --
as if that would help me.
That's
when Gordy says, I think we need to put Mr. Potato Head on a diet.
What do you think guys? None of them said a word, they just shook
their head up and down like some trained puppy would if he was
following a treat. Gordy snapped his head left and right looking for
something, I don't know what, but I know it's not good. Finally, he
smiled, this evil cartoon smile, and grabs me hard by my shoulders.
Come on guys, he says, Shelly has a salad, I'm sure she'll let fat
boy here have some. That was when I started to fight back. Shelly is
the prettiest girl in school and like everyone else, I was in love
with her. I don't know how many nights I had laid up dreaming of her.
Gordy
and Dan are pushing me towards her, and I'm thinking to myself that I
gotta run, that I gotta get out of there. I'm fighting with all my
might, but it's no use. I was face to face with her. She is so
beautiful, I am thinking as I look at her. Long brown hair, magical
blue eyes that I want to swim in. She is what I envision a real life
princess would look like. Shelly, Dan says, we're putting Mr. Potato
Head here on a diet. Can he have some of your salad? Shelly laughs. A
stab me in the back kind of giggle. She pushes the plate over to
Gordy with a sparkle in her eyes. Somehow it wasn't the same
beautiful glow I had always seen in her.
Eat
it fat boy, Gordy yells. Everyone is still watching and I can feel
eyes burning into my back, neck, and ears. All parts of me are red
and hot and I'm sweating and mad and want to cry. I don't say
anything as I stare down at the green lettuce, red tomato slices and
orange cheese covered with some type of white dressing. Gordy goes
over both of my shoulders and grabs the plate with both hands and
pulls it upwards into my face. Everyone is laughing. Even Shelly, the
one I loved.
I
squirmed out of his grasp and ran. I ran all the way home, stopping
every five feet because I couldn't breathe. I never wanted to see any
of the kids at school again. I didn't want to hear their laughing
faces or see the grins they would flash at me whenever I walked by,
knowing that they were not laughing with me but at me. I cried the
whole way home, the tears sweaty and hot like the rest of me. That
was what had happened to me today. That is why I am writing this
letter. Tomorrow, I'm going on a diet.
Me
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