Earlier today I did something I’m not entirely proud of…

I bought a season pass on iTunes for the ‘Bad Girls Club’ Season 9…

Now, I know what you’re thinking:

“What? You? But you’re like a nerd girl! And a mom! And you’re so sweet and nice, how could you like a disgusting show like that?”

Because, in another life, at another time, I could have been one of those girls. And it would have been fucking awesome.

Secretly, I have always wanted to be one of those trashy girls at the club, dancing on all the guys, skirt flying up, shirt coming down, getting into cat fights with random broads cuz they be hatin’ on my swag. And I would use terrible words like ‘swag’ and ‘epic’ and ‘bro’, while I got on my knees and chugged beer from a funnel and tube the bartender was holding over his head. I’d make sure I had cute panties on every night, just in case my dress came up while I was dancing, and it wouldn’t matter that I was fat, cuz I still pull them dudes, hatin’ ass bitches need to quit runnin’ dey mouf fo dey get fucked up!

Excuse me, I lost myself for a second.

Alas, I have a little more sense than that. But thankfully, these girls don’t! And I get to watch the atrocities unfold every week, as they dance and drink and fight their way to fame.

My favorite part of every season is the first episode. I love watching the girls come together in various ways, pre-gaming at bars before they climb into the limo that takes them to the mansion they will inevitably destroy, or being flown in via helicopter, ferried in on a speedboat. And as the girls start to enter the house, they each describe themselves in various ways while their audition reels play.

And the clothes! They always have on their best outfits, flashing legs, and cleavage, and red bottomed heels. Some of them talk about their humble beginnings and wear lace tops with mini-skirts. Others talk about how they got men to pay for that while manicured fingers stroke Louis Vuitton purses. I love to see what each girl is wearing, and I often imagine what I would wear, were I currently 22 years of age and entering The Bad Girls house.

Something current, yet edgy. These girls typically display the signs of the times, so you have to be wearing the latest trends. But I’d still want to show off my personality, and show that I ain’t the one to be fucked with.

Maybe something like…

This high low priestess top from Cult of California. I’d have a black tank underneath, and a push-up bra, to show off my huge tetas.

Maybe I’d pair that with…

These fantastic electric blue skinnies from ASOS Curve.

But what about the shoes? Cain’t forget about them. And I don’t wear heels, so…

How bout these awesome, patent leather combat boots from Urban Originals? Yeah, I like that. And I’d have the hot pink and the purple versions in my luggage for later.

Accessories? Sure, why not. Maybe just a necklace, something simple, and cute, but sends a message.

Well isn’t that perfect? Tasteful and useful, in case I need to crack some skulls. And yes, it did come from Hottopic. Wit yo hatin’ ass.

I could just see me now, the first shot of neon blue jeans and shiny boots as I’m sitting in the limo, my voice-over saying something like “I’m the hot fat chick you dream about, boo”.

Hellz yeah.

In closing, my dears, allow me to leave you with my favorite quote from the first episode of this season:

“You can pretty girl bounce wit me, or get pretty girl bounced on.”

POP OFF!

What made me think I could be a fashion blogger?

No, really?

How did I somehow get it into my head that I had the talent, the drive, the passion, and the fashion to do something like be a fat fashion blogger?

Now, don’t cluck your tongues at me. ‘You can do anything you set your mind to.’ That’s bullshit. If I set my mind to flight, I would not suddenly spread wings, so why, when I set my mind to talking about clothes did I suddenly believe I would obtain a fashion sense and also the capabilities to write about it?

Fuck that.

I am not original. I am not fashionable. I am not chic.

Ah, there’s the rub…

My life is lived on a series of whims, and within those whims I find the inspiration for life long love affairs.

I often mimic what I love in the hopes that I can become that thing. The fatshion bloggers, in their bodycon dresses, neon handkerchief tank tops and floral leggings, made me realize I didn’t need to be a prisoner in tshirts and jeans. They made me realize my over-sized thighs could look good in a mini-skirt. They helped me to see my body in a whole new way. And I thought, for a brief shining moment, that I could be as hip and fantastic and amazing as them. That I could wear what they wore, plan outfits like day trips, accessorize like the fucking couture monster I knew lived inside me, and that I too would be a plus-sized goddess.

But then I became a cliche…

I got pregnant, quit writing, and quit caring.

And then I woke up.

I realized that, although I loved bodycon dresses and handkerchief tanks, I wasn’t quite confident enough to wear them. That I’d never walk in a pair of platform heels down anyone’s runway or in anyone’s club. That I couldn’t write about clothes and designers like I gave a fuck (which is why I deleted all but two posts).  And that I looked fucking sexy in tshirts and jeans.

There is nothing wrong with me.

I feel like I am in a constant state of reconstruction. A house that is always being renovated but is still inhabitable. The pieces of me I like are scattered in the few finished rooms, huddling among paint cans and tools, storage for the day when I am complete.

But none of us are ever really complete, right?

Learning and change are lifelong prospects, things that we as humans were meant to do. And maybe one day I’ll feel more confident and will shimmy my big, round ass into a bodycon dress. And maybe I’ll mutilate my feet into a pair of heels and trot around like a show pony. And maybe I’ll smear colors on my face and look like a piece of art.

But for now, I am okay sitting in the debris of my progress. The point is, I’m progressing.

I have a habit of window shopping, and I always wish I had a camera with me to capture some of the more awesome things I see.

Now I do!

These pretty darlings are from this store called Akira. They don’t carry anything resembling plus sizes, but they sure as hell have nice shoes.

Wouldn’t you agree?

By now everyone has already seen and read the V Magazine ‘Plus Size’ issue from cover to cover, committed passages to memory, and gotten their favorite plus model’s name tattooed in elegant script along the length of their forearm. Since I am so late to the party, I will not comment on the content of the magazine itself or what it means for the future of fat chick fashion. What I will do is post up the two images that have impacted me the most.

These ladies are currently my desktop background. They inspire me when I don’t feel like getting my little round ass up to go to the gym. I have no desire to be thin. But what I wouldn’t mind being is the perfect size 16…or 14. Both work for me. Works for them above, don’t it?