Open Letter From the Perspective of Stomach Fat

By Loulou Sloss:


Dear Human,


Hi, I'm fat. No, not the adjective. The noun. Remember me? Your body’s main energy source and self made insulation that you treat like SHIT. EVERY. DAY.

Yeah. After all these years, I’m finally speaking up for myself. I have been sitting here, festering on your thighs, ever since that summer when you got your period and only ate Cheetos. Just trying to keep you warm and alive while you go to insane lengths to get rid of me.


I’m just trying to keep you together. Literally. But you and your kind have whole seasons dedicated to making me disappear. Bikini season is a massacre. Truly the D-Day of the stomach fat community. We hold candle light vigils in late May every year to commemorate our brave war dead muffin-tops.


The other day, you poured a gallon of salt into my open liposuction wound. You really crossed a line. You tried to BURN me using “all natural supplements”. Listen. At least when you go to the gym you're utilizing my generous gift of energy. And that smoothie that you get to reward yourself afterwards often reverses all of your progress. But you can’t even get up and walk to your Equinox? You have to put our health at risk by taking a huge green pill labeled “SUPER-DUPER-FAST-FAT-OBLITERATOR-XL.” Just because the man in the 3 am infomercial said you would be transformed into a skinnier version of Kendell Jenner before your flight even lands in Boca. After all I’ve done for you AND your ass, this is how you repay me??


But as much as you make me endure, the Spanx, the “Keto,” even when you make me watch my 600 pound life after they get the “me” removal surgery, I am sure of one thing. This winter I am coming right back. Yup, you’ll take one step back into your mom’s house in Westchester, and I will come strolling back in like a nicotine addicted teen to a drug store that doesn’t card.


You go on, worship your Führer of Weight Watchers, Oprah. Shovel your money into the wood burning furnace that is “Soulcycle.” I’ll just sit here until those seasonal Oreos hit the shelves of Walmart. I’ll be waiting. Or should I say: I’ll be weighting.


With Disappointment,

Fat