“I have a thing about stomachs. I’m obsessed with stomachs. I’m obsessed with my stomach. If it’s not perfectly flat, I think I’m fat. It’s not exactly H.G.’s fault, but he was the one who started it. He drew my attention to my stomach when he said his sister had the perfect body. She had a cute face, a short pixie haircut, long legs and a perfectly flat stomach. Except for the haircut, she was a female version of H.G. When I first met her she was wearing tennis clothes and so was I. It’s funny, I didn’t compare my legs to hers, comparing legs was out of the question, I compared my stomach to hers. Mine wasn’t flat, it stuck out, not very much, but if the opposite of flat is round then that’s what mine was. This was just the beginning. I would drink a thermos of coffee and sit on the pot with a book, touch my stomach now and then, to see if it was going down. Sometimes it did. Seneca told me: “You aren’t fat. Your stomach isn’t fat. It’s not flat either. It’s the way you’re built. It’s fine. It’s you. It’s your body. Stop trying to get rid of it.” It didn’t matter. I wasn’t satisfied. My stomach had to be flat. The girls in Ibiza have coin-flat stomachs. Pancakes. Pieces of paper. Everywhere I look, every time I turn around, there she is, H.G.’s sister! Hundreds, thousands of them! Coins! Pancakes! Paper! I’m sick of looking at them! I’m sick of the perfect body! I had a dream.
Pot Bellied Barbie
She’s blond and she has long legs. It’s Barbie! But this isn’t the ordinary Barbie. No pancake, no coin, no paper. Barbie’s stomach isn’t flat, she isn’t fat, she’s normal. She’s a black sheep Barbie! Not skinny, not pregnant. A ripe, rounded stomach, a belly, a pot. Pot-Bellied Barbie!”