Im A Person Who Wants To Do Lots Of Things Trapped Inside A Body That Wants To SLEEP At All Times

My past week on Japan

Philippe Lechermeier, Rébecca Dautremer, Princesses oubliées ou inconnues, 2004

"El gobernante que se esconde tras ejecutores a sueldo olvida pronto lo que es la muerte" ~Ned Stark

Highly detailed work of art containing hidden messages by Craig Alan Studio.

Tom as Julian Dorn. Loooove the accent!

So this is a totally useless rant, but as a skinny girl, I’m getting extra, extra tired of fat-shaming.

I work for a corsetier at a Renaissance Faire. We sell corsets. Not flimsy bullshit costume corsets; like real, durable, waist-training corsets. Today a woman came in with her boyfriend, so I helped her pick out a corset and try it on. While her boyfriend—who was decidedly enthused about the whole corset thing—sat watching me lace her in, he told me, grinning, “Of all the good jobs at the Renaissance Faire, I think you have the best.”

I shrugged in agreement. “I touch butts and reach down cleavage all day; I mean…” Because we like to be a bit rakish at the Faire, and, y’know, it’s true. Tying people into corsets pretty much invariably requires getting handsy.

The couple laughed at that, and the boyfriend said, “That’s the job I would want!” But then he chuckled again and said, offhand, “Or maybe not; while we were looking at the racks, there were some pretty big sizes on there!”

Our sizes are all done in inches, and the biggest we make is a 46. And you’d better believe our large sizes sell. For a second I wasn’t sure what to say to the guy’s comment, but I answered him casually. “We get a lot of beautiful big ladies in here.” Because we do. “We make corsets for real women, not Barbie dolls,” I added. Wasn’t trying to be smart, just kind of tossed it out there because that’s the line we like to use when people ask about larger sizes, and because, again, we do.

The boyfriend went quiet at that; I didn’t think anything of it, I just kept on lacing. A moment later, he said, a little awkwardly (but sincerely enough), “Didn’t mean to be offensive.”

I quickly smiled and brushed it off, said he wasn’t, said I was just saying. (Don’t want to make the customers uncomfortable, you know?) And that was the end of it. His comment had rubbed me the wrong way, but it wasn’t a big deal. Now, I wear a 20-inch corset. I’m a few cup sizes short of being one of the Barbie dolls. Like his girlfriend, I’m one of the “hot chicks”; he doesn’t have to worry about offending me by implying that I wouldn’t be fun to poke and pull at.

Honestly though, of all the people I fit sexy technically-undergarments to in a day, fat girls are maybe my favorite people to lace up. Because they are just so damn happy that we have stuff that fits them. They are so damn happy that the corsets we make in their sizes are all the same pretty, shiny colors and cool flower/dragon/skull/etc. prints that the smaller corsets are, not ugly beige and boring “granny” colors. They are so goddamn happy that at least one (of several on the grounds) corset shop carries things that they can wear, that they actually want to wear, and that they look fucking awesome in. This is only my second season working, and we’ve fit 60+ inch waists and double-K busts. The only people we’ve ever had to tell sorry, we don’t have anything that fits them, are twelve-year-old kids.

It’s half-wonderful, half-heartbreaking how excited those women get. Women who say with sad smiles, when we ask if they want to get fitted, “Oh, no, you don’t have anything that fits me,” and then are stunned when we’re 300% confident that yes we do, and we have options. Women who can’t stop smiling and looking at themselves in the mirror after we’ve got them laced in.

I had a lady last week whose waist I measured (cinching the tape tight, as per procedure) at 41 inches—honestly not all that big. So she picked out a 41-inch corset to try on. I could tell halfway through getting her laced that it was going to be a bit big for her, so I mentioned it and said she might do better to try a smaller size. She started crying on the spot. She was so overwhelmed; she couldn’t believe someone had just told her that a 41 was too big. She told me about how hard clothes shopping was for her, how her mother would tell her she needed an XXXL instead of an XXL, how she had recently lost weight but still couldn’t wear certain colors because they didn’t fit or she wasn’t confident enough.

She did end up getting her corset, and after I checked her out she asked if she could give me a hug, so we ended up standing there hugging each other for a minute. While we did, I told her, “Do not ever let anyone tell you any bullshit. You are gorgeous.” She said, “I have a new boyfriend and he keeps telling me that.” I told her he was right, and to just keep telling herself she’s gorgeous; it was okay if she didn’t always believe it, but to keep telling herself anyway. (That’s how I talked myself through shit when I had bad anxiety.)

We all know fat-shaming is bad. The stupidity, fatphobia, and misogyny of it has pissed me off since I first became aware of it. But working with clothing, especially as figure-hugging and precise as corsets, has given me a new perspective on it—how much it affects people and just how shitty it is. Like, what does it say that I had a grown, only average-big woman crying into my shoulder because she was so overjoyed not to be the uppermost extremity of what a manufacturer can clothe?

My job rocks and it’s really rewarding, but sometimes it highlights some of the ugliest shit about society. I’m so glad I work at a shop that’s not bullshit about body types and operates with more people in mind than just scrawny white chicks like me. The fat women I work with are a ton of fun to lace up, and they’re so much more than their size—they’re cool, they’re smart, they’re funny, they’re sweet, they’re great to talk to, and yes, they’re hot. I’m so damn done with them getting short-changed and shamed by petty fucks who refuse to make them nice clothes, who refuse to even try to work for them, who refuse to consider them pretty. This whole rant was useless and won’t get read, but I had to vent because it’s been driving me nuts.

So actually, screw you, random dude. Fat girls are the highlight of my job.

We all deserve to see this gif of Jared thinking he is so funny because Jensen smiled. The boys make me so happy.

“I hate the word “ homophobia ” . It’s not a phobia . You’re not scared. You asshole .”

— Morgan Freeman

Cosmere Gothic

You should read Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson, someone tells you. You pick up the first book. You quite like Kelsier.

Although Vin is badass, you wish there were more female characters. Just wait until Wax and Wayne, your friend tells you. You do not know what that means.

Your friend tells you to keep an eye out for a guy named Hoid. You do. You do not see what’s so notable about him, but you remember the name.

You progress to the second book. You miss Kelsier. Why is Elend so naive? You rant.

You are worried about Marsh.

You start the third book. You do not understand anything. Your friend keeps talking about shards. Shards of what, you ask? They do not answer. No one answers you. You are alone, with far too many questions and no answers, just like Marsh.

You root for Spook.

You are concerned about Spook.

“When I said I missed Kelsier, this isn’t what I wanted!” you cry out to the void.

Your friend tells you to pay attention to Demoux’s physical description. You do, and then you promptly forget it.

You are bothered when Vin flees Fadrex on a recon mission. You do not understand. You find no answers the further you read.

Just thirty more pages, you tell yourself. Your favorite characters can make it thirty more pages.

You cry.

“What’s wrong?” your friend asks when you call them sobbing. “I finished Mistborn,” you say. “Oh,” they say, “I’m so sorry.”

Your friend tells you to read Warbreaker. You like the world of Mistborn. You don’t want to read a completely different series. You want more Mistborn.

Your friend smiles. You read Warbreaker.

You do not understand. Why is Hoid here?

It is time, your friend says ominously, for you to read Stormlight Archive.

You have many questions. Some of these are answered. Many are not, and you gain new questions. You fall in love with Jasnah Kholin.

You find the Coppermind. This does not clarify anything. The more answers you find the more questions you have.

Your friend laughs at your plight. You have no true friends anymore. Only an endless supply of questions.

You read Mistborn Era 2. You have very strong opinions about Wayne. You worship MeLaan as a true goddess in her own right. You are concerned about Sazed.

You finish Bands of Mourning. You scream into the void. I fell for it once already, you tell yourself, I will not fall for it again. Kelsier isn’t really back. Right?

Cackling, eyes brimming with the fires of inner madness, your friend hands you a duct-taped tome. On the cover, etched in faded silver ink that has seen the rise and fall of empires, you can just make out the words “Arcanum Unbounded.”

There are mysterious stains on many pages indicating that your friend either performed satanic blood rituals over the book or stayed up late reading it while eating spaghetti with red sauce. Either is likely, and you do not know which scares you more.

You stare numbly at the wall. School does not move you and neither does work.

You are scared. You are scared of what you do not understand, which is more than ever. You are scared of Kelsier. You are scared of the mysterious gray people (don’t bother with Elantris, your friend told you once). And most importantly you are scared of Hoid.