July 2013 - Imme Visser
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Fat (beautyisnotanumber.com)

There comes a time when, suddenly, telling someone your weight or even just weighing yourself feels hurtful, or shameful. I used to think this was nonsense, as even I, an ex-fashion model who was never able to GET the skinny bod, didn’t care about a scale number. I used to battle against those shallow feelings of fear by casually screaming how much I weighed to everyone who was close enough to listen. My way of pretending I didn’t care was ‘shocking’ the world with my enormous stack of pounds, hoping that I could make other girls feel better about themselves. Only the truth was that my shocking numbers weren’t so shocking and it was just my brain being a huge ass.


Yes. However comfortable I thought I was, I wasn’t. It only made sense when I gained a few more of those pounds and I felt the restrained notion of scale-hurt. I am brainwashed. We are all brainwashed. The fact that any number of pounds can make us feel emotionally damaged, though it does nothing to hurt us physically, is weird. Sure, if you’re obese and walking somewhere is an issue, you should go see your GP, but little bobbles of fat in cliché places shouldn’t change your mood. Whenever I realise this, it makes me think about how hard society is on the appearance of women and how much I want to fucking rebel against it.READ MORE

Who wants to live forever?

Yesterday my dad and I visited my grandmother (his mother), who has been in a nursing home since my grandfather died three years ago. She can’t stand up, she can’t walk, she mumbles a bit and is incredulously thin. We can’t know for sure if she ‘remembers’ us or just sees kind people. So sometimes, yes, there’s the occasional thought of ‘shouldn’t she just die of old age now?’

This is a hard thought, as it isn’t particularly nice to ‘wish’ someone dead, but also because we’re not sure whether she would feel better alive. It’s easy to pass judgement but it’s impossible to say someone incapable of communication or taking care of herself doesn’t ‘want’ to live.READ MORE

Egg (fiction)


He shot up and jumped at his phone. Shut up, shut up! He pushed the ‘stop’ button aggressively and groaned loudly. His alarm went off automatically, every day. Also on Sunday. He would have turned it off before he went to sleep, except for the fact that he was completely and utterly drunk when he went to bed a few hours ago.

He was a light sleeper. Even when completely hung over, nothing could persuade him to stay in bed when he could also do stuff. Sundays were the only days he didn’t have any duties, anyway.

Thomas put his feet into his grandpa slippers and threw on a t-shirt. He got up and walked up to the mirror next to his closet. What was.. He looked over his shoulder. Nothing there. He must still be drunk, oh, he must certainly still be drunk, he saw. He was wearing his The Script t-shirt, a present from his ex-girlfriend, an overly excited fan of the band. Thomas wasn’t into boy bands, as he called them. He pulled the shirt back over his head and threw it on the ground. His face looked puffy and there was a huge insect on his shoulder. Wait, what the fuck? Thomas slapped wildly at his shoulder, then shook his head. There wasn’t anything there. Wake up.READ MORE

Sand (fiction)

I’m looking at rows and rows of people streaming in with all kinds of facial expressions and physical injuries. My brother is not one of them.

The sand is everywhere, rising up like a gigantic maze of the desert, its huge walls pushing people down. Suddenly I see my little cousin reaching the finish line and I’m glad, but not surprised. After all, he’s the sporty one.

“Have you seen Adam anywhere?” I bombard him.

“No!” he pants, greedily accepting a bottle of water from some sponsor of the event, “but don’t worry, there’s not a set time frame or anything. He’s just slower.”READ MORE