Dear Man who called me fat,
It was a strange experience ‘meeting’ you on the main road this morning. I’m not sure where you’re from but it is customary to introduce oneself and perhaps even say “how do you do?” upon first meeting someone around these parts. I won’t look down on you for not knowing that, perhaps you weren’t lucky enough to have the mannered upbringing I did?
Had you shouted ‘you’re fat!’ from a moving car at me just a year ago, I’d be crushed. I’d probably be crying my eyes out and feasting on a lorry load of doughnuts but I’m not. I’m not crying because I pity you. I’m fat, I know I am. I’m not going to say I don’t have a problem with it but for now, this is the way it is going to stay. Most people have mirrors in their homes and even if they don’t, they probably catch their reflection in a window from time to time. Us fatties know we’re fat, we don’t shove pizza into our gobs and instantly lose the ability to look in a mirror. Did I miss the day at school where they took you into the assembly hall and told you fat people can’t see or lack self-awareness? Your teachers were misinformed.
I’m not sure why you’re so angered by my weight. Is it my drain on the NHS and your tax pennies? I’m pretty sure my parents are pissed off that their taxes were so grossly wasted in educating you or giving your parents the skills to drag you up with manners.