tastes like fat

I love when TERFs say they’re not reducing women to their bodies, and then immediately post shit like this reducing women to their bodies.

Because obviously no one has EVER heard a sexist straight cis man say women need to have the right face, fat distribution, body shape, hair, and even fucking smell before they’re deemed as “acceptable” to them. 🙄🙄🙄

Lardguts being Tender. Since pride month is ending, I wanted to showcase the lardguts, Tanker and Luno, just showing there love for each other. More than likely, these 2 have had a big meal recently. Actually, the most amazing thing about this pic is the fact that the bed is still holding up there combined weight. Anyway, hope you all had a good month^^.

Mmmmmmm, tanky poo.

Yeah Luno?

How come there’s no rainbows in this pic?

I dunno. Why are you licking my Belly?

Cuz you taste like magic.

Awwwwww, fat puppy^^.

Tanky poo^^.

Blueberry Pie Pancakes

½ cup blueberries
1/3 cup flour (ww pastry, white, spelt, or Bob’s gluten-free)
2 tbsp rolled oats
½ tsp cinnamon
2/3 tsp baking powder
1/8 tsp salt
½ tsp pure vanilla extract
1 tbsp sugar or 1 packet stevia
1/3 cup milk of choice
Unless you like the taste of fat-free pancakes, add 1 tbsp oil and reduce milk by that amoun

Combine dry ingredients in a bowl, then add wet. Mix, but don’t overmix. Cook on an oiled (or sprayed) pan, on low-medium, flipping each pancake once. Top with syrup, powdered sugar, or Cashew Cream. Or you could even boil some more blueberries (with a bit of sugar, if you wish), and smash them, to make a compote.

I think the most important thing I learned in 2014 was to tell people how I felt when I had the chance because when I wake up in the morning, they may not be there.

So text your best friend who you got in a fight with and let them know you still care

Tell your parents you love them even though you don’t always understand each other

Remind your siblings that you are on their side no matter how much you fight

Don’t let the words you could have said become the words you’ll never get to say

This is what recovered feels like.

One day, after years of fighting for it, you realize that you haven’t thought about calories in weeks.  You remember how you once clawed at your skin like you were trying to escape it, and these days it seems to fit just right.  One day, you look in the mirror and see the space that your body fills, but it doesn’t repulse you.  You’ve stopped looking for the empty spaces, the gap between your thighs or the hollows of your bones.  You don’t need to be empty anymore.  Someone calls you “thick” and you don’t flinch.  You eat at a restaurant and don’t think about anything but what the food will taste like - not the fat content, not the calories, because it doesn’t matter anymore. Food isn’t on your mind all the time, or often at all.  You forget your food in the oven and leap up when you smell it burning.  You eat pizza and ice cream and bagels and burritos and forget that these foods once tasted like fear.  Sometimes you remember - you could spend days remembering - and you are struck with joy, knowing that you have come so far.  The scale collects dust beneath your bed, but it doesn’t tempt you anymore.  You’ve forgotten that you own it.  You lose weight and it doesn’t matter; you gain weight and it doesn’t matter.  You see a hollow eyed girl in the grocery store, walking the aisles with an empty basket and you aren’t envious; your heart drops to your feet, remembering what that felt like.  You have bad days, but bad days are sadness or loss or anger or fear.  Bad days are not starvation.  You let people hug you, and you don’t shrink away.  You pull them closer.  You don’t always know how to cope, but starvation does not cross your mind.  You remember the doctor that once told you, on the first day of your hospital admission, that this demon would maybe someday be pushed far to the back of your mind, and that was the best you could hope for.  You could hope for recovery, but not recovered.  You believed him, but now you know the truth.  That demon is gone.