Please stop making fun of my svelte form

Image originates here.

Hey Agnes. How’s it going Eliner? Guys? Hey, it’s me. What are you guys up to? Oh, you’re bathing, hey? Just splashing about. That looks like fun. Bet that yard of cloth feels good between your legs too, huh? Can I join—hey! That was my eye! What are you doing? It hurts when you prod me in the ribs. Yeah, I know they’re bony. You guys made sure I won’t forget that in a hurry. You thought I’d have filled out by now? Well, so did I. Guess I just haven’t been blessed by our gracious and holy Lord in that way. Yeah. Hey—I really don’t want to make a big deal of this, but, um, can you guys stop making fun of my svelte form?

It’s not like it’s such a big deal, and I’m fine with being laughed at sometimes—I mean, you’ve gotta have a sense of humour about yourself, right? But lately, it’s kinda been an every-single-day thing.

Like, every evening, when I come down to the hot springs and I see all you amply built ladies luxuriating on your rocks, I’m also tending to hear quite a few little snide remarks about my lack of flesh, lately. And I’ll be honest with you: it’s starting to make me feel just a weeny bit crappy.

The thing is, it’s almost like you guys think I want to look like a weird gazelle or something. I don’t know, to buck society’s expectations or something. But I don’t! I’ve tried everything to change my hideously petite body into a healthy plump one: leeches, nettles, cod liver oil, butter, whale fat, six servings of boar a day... and nothing. I haven’t got a single lump or bump on me, except for these pitiful mounds four inches above where my breasts should be. Yeah, I know, right? Not only are they small, they’re overly firm and way too perky to boot.

I hate myself.

Janett says I made myself this way because I’m always moving around, frolicking on the beach and stuff, instead of reclining or doing needlework. Well, it’s true. I used to enjoy feeling fresh sea air in my tiny lungs and the gentle tide lapping at my bird-like ankles and ridiculously toned calves. But now all the joy’s been sapped out of that too.

Sometimes it all just makes me want to cry.

Don’t worry though, it’s not contagious. Were you worried it was? Maybe that’s why you’re teasing me—maybe you’re scared that you’ll end up skinny and alone too one day. I’m sure you won’t though; you’ve got that great metabolism. All you have to do is look at a slab of pork and—bam! Someone’s got a brand new pretty li’l potbelly of their very own.

I’m just so so jealous because… well, to be honest, I don’t even like food that much! I mean, sure it’s fine and all. But I’m more of a wild strawberries kind of gal than a hearty game-meat-loving lass. And lately, chowing down has turned into a bit of a chore for me.

Ow! Don’t throw that stone at me—I don’t have anything to cushion the blow! That one got me right on my hipbone! Ow! My collar bone! Ouch. Gee, you guys really can be cruel sometimes, you know that?

I wish you’d like me. Maybe if you spent some quality time with me you might see that I actually have a lot to offer. I can play the mandolin. Not well, but well enough to hum to at least. That could be good at parties?

I wish so many things.

Most of all, though, I wish I lived in a different time; one where sexless, possibly infertile bodies were lusted after and considered more desirable than beautiful buxom, life-giving ones.

God, I disgust me.

One of these days I am going to learn to love offal, inertia and the great indoors—just you wait! But until then, I guess I’ll just exist—a lonely, pathetic size-0 of a non-woman. Thanks a lot, genes. Thanks for nothing.

Ow! Hey! Hey!! Actually, you know what? It’s not my fault I was born a disgusting ectomorph, OK? And it’s not my problem that you can’t be cool with that. Can I help it if my thighs are smooth and lithe and not thunderous and attractively dimpled like yours? No. I was born this way. So I’d like it very much if you gave me a bit of a break from your stones.

And—wait, what’s that? Why are you lighting that torch? You're bringing it over here, now. How come? What's up with that? Don't wave it in my direction, I'm likely to go up like a flimsy piece of lint.

Agnes? That’s my hair!

Oh God.