I Talk, You Listen

Trixy | 1.2

"Achilles?"

"Achilles?"

"Achilles!"

My name was a dull whisper falling from the fragments of peeling wallpaper, dripping under the canopy to my bud covered ears. Peeling the tips of my fingers away from the paper back version of "The Great Gatsby" I glance up with great distaste.

She was big. Her body, unlike other heavenly bodies (ex. earth, jupiter, the milky way galaxy, etc.), seemed to repel forces instead of attract. She was big, bold, and beautiful. Her feet fall were like an avalanche in the middle of the ocean during spring break.

Completely inconvenient, annoying, and dangerous on every scale.

"Yes?" She glanced down and charged at me like a rhinoceros. "How exactly do you know my name?" She waved her hand, which resembles five sausages nailed to a slab of ham, and stared down at me. Hip popped, attitude obvious, and gum smacked so hard it'd probably make an appearance next Tuesday, she said, "So, like, I heard you're good at giving advice, or whatever. So, like, listen and tell me what to do."

From her poor speech skills I could instantaneously remember who she was. She was Trixy Stixs. A girl who once threw wrappers at me at the top of the bleachers for having the physique of "a fucking stick" and an attitude worse than a drag queen. After she threw her trash at me she would try making her way through the football team because that is what sluts do, they enjoy sex. And Trixy Stixs was definitely a slut that enjoyed sex.

Her real name is Tricia Stellone. One day, she was inhaling a Twix bar when she bumped into Gretta Michael, a teachers daughter. Because Gretta's mother was a very tough teacher, people often assumed playing nice with Gretta was really a way to get a leg up in Mrs.Michaels classroom. Well, the story proceeds as so, Tricia bumps into Gretta, smearing chocolate all over her new 100 dollar Northface jacket.

Who cares about though, right? I mean, a jacket can always just be cleaned. A simple exchange of numbers and all would have been settled by Tricia taking it to the cleaners. Lets get something straight though, Ms. Michaels is a livid bitch and her daughter does not fall far from the apple tree.

So, Gretta is standing there completely embarrassed. Her face is turning this ugly, splotchy shade of red that practically gives me second hand embarrassment. Tricia freaks out and picks up her fallen napkins to try to get the chocolate off of Gretta's jacket. The thing is, her fingers are coated in the disgusting candy. It's practically sliding down her sausage finger until it has no where else to land but on Gretta's 300 dollar Timberlands.

In a fit of rage and absolute embarrassment Trixy Stixs was born.

And because people don't want Gretta to tell her mommy to give them bad grades, She has yet to die.

Back to present day, Trixy hovers above me and begins to ramble about whatever problems she's been having. "So, I told the girl, I said, "It's completely okay to be fat, like, embrace being overweight." and she just sat there like she didn't believe me. But anyways, Timothy, like, won't pay attention to me anymore and he's like probably bored or whatever but he is really good at giving head and like I don't wanna loose that in my life, you know? So, how do I, like, get him to stay and how do I start to make my own blog embracing overweight girls because I don't think society does that enough."

I don't know how to clean the shit she just spilt all over my ears. "Hello? Can you fucking speak?" She waved her meaty hand in front of my face. Bleach. I'm definitely going to have to use bleach to clean the fucking mess she has just made in my mind. I can't help but laugh at her grimaced face for a couple of minutes before answering her. I light a cigarette, knowing she hates them, then begin my rant:

"First problem wrong is this, being fat is not okay. Sure, you can be overweight a little bit. Do whatever you gotta do to get that body image the way you want it to be. Complete comfort in your skin is essentially what everyone is after now a days. Most people seem to forget that being overweight is definitely putting your health at risk. So be whatever size you want to be as long as it doesn't kill you or make you need one of those electric wheel chairs at Walmart. Take care of your body more, and maybe Tim wouldn't mind being "downstairs" longer. I know you, as a person, being comfortable in your skin is not a problem mentally. Physically, it will be in a few years or even a few months from now. Society is already working to fix the problem of fat shaming. If it wasn't I wouldn't be saying this right now. We are Society and we have the power to change the way people see things but we shouldn't do so by making blogs about why being a fat girl is great. I'm even surprised you have enough fucking guts to track me down, and demand for my help. Don't you remember throwing trash at me for years, saying horrible fucking things, making me feel like shit for being healthy. So, fuck you Trixy Stixs. The only advice I can give you is to go see a fucking doctor. If he doesn't tell you you've got an STD, he'll probably break the news of diabetes instead."

I slammed the butt of my barely smoked cigarette into the wilting paper of the walls, grabbed my shit, and stormed the fuck off into oblivion before she could try to track me down again. I could hear her big mouth as I walked away though,

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You still didn't tell me how to keep getting head."

"God, I fucking missed lunch for this bullshit."

Tricia is, and always will be, a huge, dumb bitch.

(no pun intended)