I’m Hating It

Newsflash: Being fat doesn’t mean I eat McDonald’s.

Whether I’m talking about Sandra Fluke considering a political career or Donald Trump being a racist, someone always has to tell me I’m fat. (Obviously, I have no clue about my own weight.) More often than not, the person then tells me to stop eating at McDonald’s. This usually results in me fighting the urge to vomit because, surprise surprise, I hate McDonald’s.

I’d mentioned that I had been taking birth control off and on for almost twenty years for health reasons.
This user continued that day by sending me pictures of myself as a meme and sent tweets for six months after before I could get Twitter to understand he was harassing me.

I’ve been accused of needing birth control pills for anal sex with Ronald McDonald — I guess he didn’t realize that that’s not how anal sex, or birth control pills, works — instead of PCOS, uterine fibroids, and anemia caused by chronic iron deficiency. And, of course, I was having this special potentially pregnancy inducing anal sex for Big Macs. Maybe he likes Big Macs that much, but the stale buns, sweaty and warm lettuce, greasy “beef” patty, cheese product, and Thousand Island dressing don’t make my mouth water. Well, technically nothing does, except the Pilocarpine that my rheumatologist finally agreed to prescribe for me after a lifetime of very little spit, but I digress.

Feminists apparently eat at McDonald’s without me.

When defending feminism, I was told to go back to McDonald’s and “practice feminazism” — apparently people who believe in equality socialize at a place known for underpaying its staff. I guess that makes sense for people who think that fighting for equality should be compared with Nazi ideology. Unfortunately, this person didn’t understand that McDonald’s isn’t somewhere I love to go.

And there was this exchange while I was rehabbing a knee injury that required surgery:

Eventually, I think they got the message, but it was ridiculous that they made the assumption in the first place.

When I was dealing with an Islamophobic, Trump-loving troll who was role-playing as St. Peter:

Who role-plays as Peter?

They even reached a new low when they suggested my disability was a result of my imaginary McDonald’s love:

Classy, no?

Clap it out for the asshole brigade.

Tonight, after saying that Donald Trump is a racist, this is what someone needed to tell me:

My distaste for McDonald’s is similar to my distaste for Trump.

As you can see, I get this kind of reaction often, so the joke falls flat at this point. Why must it always be McDonald’s? Why can’t it include Burger King or Taco Bell? Or maybe I could be accused of eating Bon-Bons. You know, throw in some old-fashioned body-shaming and lifestyle assumptions. Or people could stop going to the weight thing first. My political views are not swayed by my belly size. Telling me that I am fat doesn’t do a damn thing except show how ignorant the person making the comment is; and I can typically tell that based on the ideology or person they’re supporting.

I don’t need to tell people the many ways I hate McDonald’s, but I could. I could even launch into an explanation of all the things that increased my weight over the years, but my weight isn’t what causes these McDonald’s-obsessed fat-shaming assholes to be so hateful. They are simply broken in some way and I pity them so much. I hope that one day they find enough happiness in their own miserable lives to walk away from the bullying and the name-calling so they can build a better world. Though I’m guessing that it will be a cold day in hell before most of them do that.

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