Plus it's drinking milk, not soda.
There is a LOT of hate. A LOT.
I can barely comment on it, it would be a huge derailing scream. Here comes my rant.
I have, as you all know, been on the fat and the thin side of this. And I have seen how the world treats me, and how it used to, and let me tell you, it's nice to be treated better.
But it also hurts like hell.
Wanna know why?
Because I am a thinner, fitter me. I make better choices and I do different things and I work hard.
But I am still me.
And I was worth treating well when I was 346 pounds.
And that person NEEDED to be treated well a lot more than the 179-pounder needs it.
Obesity and depression go hand in hand. You eat because you feel unworthy and unlovable. You lay in bed with the covers over your head and mourn the fact that you can't exercise, all while, miraculously, surprise surprise, NOT exercising. You look at yourself in the mirror, or on a scale, and think you're a failure. So you're unlovable and unworthy and so you grab the ice cream and get into bed and think about how no one understands you and how awful it is and oh poor you and look the weather stinks and those grey skies are an omen, they are telling you that you'll never get there, you'll never get it right, and it's all for naught and we're all going to that great vale of tears anyway so why not have another piece of pie? And the world agrees with you, and tells you you're worthless in all sorts of subtle and not so subtle ways. And, God help you, you believe it.
The 346 pound woman needed to be treated well. And she deserved it, dammit.
If you're only going to be nice to the 179-pounder, then you can go to hell so far as I'm concerned. I don't need it. She did. Where the **** were you THEN??