Tag Archives: night time thoughts

In which, I Potato.

There’s a phrase called Jiak Kan Tang, meaning to eat potatoes. It’s used in slight mockery of those who were born Asian but are more westernised in thought and behaviour. That is to say, preferring potatoes over rice.

Potato is also a great meme for the awkward girl, potating away in potatoland, awkwardly poting about while embodying both the essence and physicality of the potato.

I’m both.

I believe it is this Potato Identity that has often left me in a perpetual state of singledom. Not just single and ready to mingle. Or even just single and happy. I’m just, potato. Even when I’m in a relationship, I’m just preparing myself to be launched from a potato missile into singlehood.

Bitter and mouth-curling when raw with emotions, crumbly and mushy when heated. God I’m such a potato.

True, a potato can be delicious, but it’s tiring just being seen as delicious when embellished with someone else’s favourite garnish or sauce. Then again, I wouldn’t have me raw, or cooked and plain.

Even when I do meet people who seem to like the potato that is me, all I can think about is: Why? Too many YouTube good channels have taught me that potatoes in their natural state or least worked on are the worst state of potating. They may insist they like a nice, steaming, clean baked potato, but all I see is the crumbly, dry rubble of my innards. Or perhaps they exclaim that they admire the intensity of my raw emotions, yet all I hear is that they enjoy the vulnerability, that they see me for the potential not yet achieved.

It’s easiest to say I do best when discarded, forgotten and left alone. You see buds sprouting in abandoned potatoes after all. Yet I can’t seem to realise that loving nurture, water and nutrients help me become a plant, not just the sprouting of some weak shoots that wilt in weeks.

As I long for the quiet, dark dirt to bury me in self-pity, self-hatred, and self-sabotage, I’m resigned to be dug up by sharp claws and snivelling snouts. When all you know are cuts and intrusive smothering, a gentle touch still feels like a shimmering bolt of lightning.

Oh my Potato self, oh Potato me. Won’t you allow him to hold and grow you into a green, leafy plant? Why do you revert to staying rooted in your ways?

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Shifting plates

Swaying with the autumn wind,
Swept about with every gust
Never landing, never settling

So far from her branch
Broken off and now
Drifting along with the torrential tides high

Wave upon wave of uncertainty
Ripples of opinions
So far from the pebbly beach

Withdrawing after each crash
Each crush
Falling past the edge of cliffs

Down the rabbit hole
Through the clouds
Two feet always on shifting plates.

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An Argument for Being Fat

I am fat.

Now some of you might call me curvy, and others might call me plump. The Mandarin speaking folk would call me 丰富 or abundant in English.

But I know my weight vs height and I know from the clothes that are too tight. I am fat. And while it’s not good for my health, it’s done wonders for my esteem.

Back when I lost a ton of weight and could fit tight clothes, my outward fit bod was but a vessel for my insecurities and self hatred to manifest. My exercise and makeup and clothing did not belong to me, but to the desire for male attention. My body, free from cellulite, was not free from the shackles of disrespect for myself. 

I gave myself to boys and men, gave my heart and mind to any who wanted a toy. I was a prey but a cruel predator as well, sex driven, or rather sex manipulative. All I wanted was to be loved, because I needed to not be unloved. I was hurt and I hurt. The cycle continued.

But then, came 2016. I made mistakes still up to the middle of the year where the weight started to pile on as the pressures of joblessness coupled with staying at home daily took over. After that, an intense 3 months of work that went from chronic diarrhea to binging for relief. 

Now I stand heavy. But confident. I worked for money but left with experience. Working world experience. Skills acquired from necessity and desperation. From responsibilities.

I knew my worth as a worker. Somehow that led to realisations about my worth as a person. As a woman. As me.

Boys and men alike were cast aside when they knew only of games and touch. No longer did I spare a second nor a thought on frivolous attention when my own were occupied with the career ladder. I moved on to a wider view on life, and moved away from childish perspectives on self love.

But what has this got to do with being fat, you say? Well I allowed myself to grow fat because I was moving away from seeing my body as the first point of notice for men. I allowed myself to expand because I indulged my cravings and tastebuds for me, and no one else. I gave myself permission to be lazy because I acknowledged that this body and its health is my own, not for the pleasure of others.

And perhaps now that I’m more self aware and appreciative, I will start to get back in shape and watch my health. But because I am fat and still love myself and my body with all its creases and lumps and stretch marks and bulges, when I am fit and trim and healthy and strong, I will love myself just as much. 

The attention of others will no longer factor in this strictly confidential relationship between myself and I.

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