“Eat up, fatty!” – the fries thudded against my side and splattered me in a slimy film of ketchup. Blinking back tears, I assured my friends that I was in fact okay and that my coat was getting old anyway.
In fact, this act of hate – and it was an act of hate – was something that would stay with me for a long time. For what had provoked this car full of gaggling men to throw their uneaten fries at me from a moving car, jeering as they went? Why did they feel the need to tarnish my memories? To them, I was rubbish and I was as disposable as their leftovers, all because of the size of my body.