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Fat women who wrote about how they were fat ignored the aesthetics of food. They did write about how, for many fat people, food is more than peach pie, more than consolation, more than love. But nobody fat, writing about fat, quite got down to the nub of how chicks much she admired the greasy sheen on hamburger buns, admired chicks that grease as if it were Art, as if that oily patina (acquired on chicks an ancient, filthy grill) were the "unravish'd bride of quietness" Keats admires in his "Ode on a Grecian Urn." Narrators of first-person claptrap like what you read in Fat Girl often greet the reader at the door with hugs and kisses. I don't. I do not endear myself to you. I don't put on airs.
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