katester.net burdened with glorious purpose


state of the kate

I try to be a good person, I really do. I am discovering things about myself that are less than good and I don't like it. I hold grudges. I revel in schadenfreude a little bit too much. I sweat the small things and sometimes make them into really big things. I have a hard time letting go when my feelings get hurt and can hold onto the anger, fear, rage, ire and every other emotion associated with it for years. I can be super judgey about the things someone else likes, but if they have the nerve to be judgey about the stuff I like? Instant hate. Seriously. This has gotta stop. Life is way too short to be an ass. Sure, it's a wonderful thing when you actually see karma come full-circle, but it's shitty to revel in someone else's bad situation. I want to be a better person. I want to celebrate the happy things and be mature about the not-so-happy situations. I want to be the kind of person that my nieces and nephews and future children will look up to and emulate. I want to be a great role model for my friends and colleagues, and the state of the kate right now is just not that.

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Blubber Bra

Bullies called him pork chop

My bullies have called me a variety of things over the years, but the one that I can still hear clearly? The one I can still see written on the lined notebook paper, folded so it could be a note passed from girl to girl? Blubber bra. I developed early, and needed to wear a bra by the end of fourth grade. I resisted, as I was dreadfully embarrassed by my changing body. I was taller than almost all of my peers, and throwing boobs into the mix just added insult to injury. When the fifth grade school year started, a few of the girls in my class, girls that had, up until that point, been my friends, didn't believe that I had developed real breast tissue. They told me the only reason I needed a bra was because I was so fat that my belly had run out of room and had therefore shifted my fat into my breasts. Yes, really. I spent the school year with my arms crossed over my chest, trying to hide my breasts, trying to draw attention away from the very thing that made me a target. Nothing worked, and I spent most of fifth grade being called blubber bra. The name eventually spread from a few girls to most of my class.

The name calling stopped when the girls in my class started developing and wearing bras themselves. They never quite apologized, though at one point they attempted to win back my friendship because they wanted my help with a project, but the damage had been done. It has been 31 years since the fifth grade, and I can still hear their voices.

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