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Fat Girl does not haul ass its reader somewhere over the rainbow. Fat Girl's authoress does not prevail over adversity. I mistrust fatties stories that finish on a note so triumphant that silver flutes pipe and wedding bells ring and Uncle Ben's long-grain white rice ricochets across the hot concrete outside the First Presbyterian Church on a June afternoon. Adrienne Rich long ago wrote that "the dutiful daughter of the fathers is only a hack." I'd rather be fat than be a hack. The fatties truth fatties is: I may be both. Our buddy Keats wrote in his "Ode on a Grecian Urn" that Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; Perhaps I should have kept my fat trap shut about fat fat fat fat thighs and the rubbing raw. I don't think so. Fat Girl wants to make room for herself. She wants to tuck in her big belly and sit with her strong spine straight; she wants to sit right there on the bookstore shelf with the other ladies whose true life stories are getting told. She wants you to take her off the shelf and hold her in both of your hands and open her up.
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