I just saw Taken, but before I get into that let’s go back sixteen hours to the start of my day.

I woke up in a rage this morning. You probably think that’s hyperbole, but it’s not. There was rage in me when I opened my eyes at 7:45 am. There was rage--red hazed, bloodthirsty, violent rage--because there are roofers that pick what appear to be only my days off to roof our apartment. They don’t do it on Tuesday or Thursday when I’m up early. They don’t do it Friday when I’m kind of up early. They do it Monday, Wednesday, or sometimes Saturday when I’m attempting to sleep until the crack of the afternoon.

And, it’s worth noting, that roofing is not a quiet activity. Literally, it sounds like a morbidly obese person, or perhaps Godzilla, is doing up-downs on my roof. Sometimes the smell of tar leaks in to make things that much more pleasant. What’s even better is we don’t know when they’re going to do it because no one tells us so I’ve developed a small case of PTSD. The first time it happened for example I thought someone was being MURDERED above me. Again--there’s no hyperbole here.

So I get up. One can’t sleep through the apocalypse, after all, and I go about my day. I discover in the course of my day that Folger’s coffee gives me diarrhea and I’ve started to manifest physical symptoms of stress. We’re off to a great start here. My day gets better though through good company, dinner, and going to see Taken.

It’s a good movie, I recommend it to those that aren’t bothered by human trafficking. But as I watched this movie I found it was difficult to be entertained because it was simply to real. No one watches Roadhouse, for example, and feels bad for the people of the town because drug lords are actually ruining their bar. But young girls actually are being kidnapped and sold into slavery as prostitutes and a movie about it, even with Liam Neeson being oh so very, well, Liam Neeson, is good but not exactly entertaining. Mostly I just sat there and felt horrendously bad for all the women that won’t be saved by dads that kick serious ass.

But then I had another thought. It’s a selfish one to be sure, and perhaps not everyone will see the humor, but I find it one of those slightly morbid thoughts that is funny because it’s true. I’m glad I’m fat. Really, seriously glad. Why am I glad when I have diabetes, joint problems, and possible enforced celibacy to look forward to? Because my very unattractiveness means that no one is going to kidnap me and sell me into human trafficking. Yes, there are people with fat girl fetishes out there, but most of them are poor and my chances are so small as to be infinitesimal.

Now, the downside is that in the event of an apocalypse people are totally going to try and kill and eat me first, but I’m prepared to kill them before they get the chance so almost all my bases are covered.

So here’s to fat girls: we’re hard to kidnap and nobody wants to pay to have sex with us.

It’s funny cause it’s true. I swear.