Chubby Confidence Quotes

Like, I know I'm unbearably obnoxious at home, but I'm actually pretty shy out there. I'm like the chubby quiet brown girl who is decent academically, but who never risks venturing an opinion. It's weird, because, like, in a world full of frost giants and dwarves and demons and spellcasting, my fantasies were really about being a confident, decisive person who had their shit together and was listened to.

I opened the door with a smile on my face that soon melted when I saw his messy appearance. The doorframe held him up as he leaned all of his weight against it. Expressionless, bloodshot eyes stared back at me as he lifted his hand and ran it roughly down his unshaved face. His hair was disheveled and there was blood on the front of his shirt. Panic rose up as I took him in. I rushed to him and ran my fingers down his body, as I checked for injuries. “You’re bleeding! Oh my God, Devin! What happened? Are you OK?” “It’s not my blood,” he slurred. I took a better look at his gorgeous face. His unfocused eyes attempted to meet mine and it was then that the smell of liquor reached me. “You’re drunk?” “Abso-fucking-lutely.” He attempted to move toward me and almost fell over. I wrapped my arms around him and helped him into my apartment. Once we made it to the couch I let him collapse onto the cushion before I went straight to work on his clothes. I removed his blood-stained shirt first and threw it to the side. Quickly checked him over again just to be sure that he wasn’t injured somewhere. His skin felt cold and clammy against my fingertips. His knuckles were busted open, so I went to the bathroom and got a wet towel and the first aid kit. I cleaned his fingers then wrapped them up. I felt fingers in my hair and looked up to see a very drunk Devin staring back at me. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered as his heavy head fell against the back of my couch again. Shaking my head, I dropped onto my knees on the floor and removed his boots. Once I was done getting Devin out of his shoes, I went to the hallway closet and pulled out a blanket for him. When I got back to the couch, he was standing there looking back at me in all his tattooed, muscled glory. He was still leaning a bit to the side when his eyes locked on mine. “Come here,” he rasped. He looked as if he was about to crumble and I couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or if something was really breaking him down. “Are you OK, baby?” I asked. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I love it when you call me baby.” I went to him and he groaned as I softly ran my hands up his chest and put my arms around his neck. On my tiptoes, I softly kissed the line of his neck and his chin. “Tell me what happened, Devin.” When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at me differently. The calm and collected Devin was gone and an anxiety-ridden shell of a man stood before me. His shoulders felt tense beneath my fingers and his eyes held a crazed demeanor. “I need you, Lilly.” He captured my face softly in his hands as he slurred the words. “Please tell me what happened?” “Make it go away, baby,” he whispered as he leaned in and started to kiss me. I let him as I melted against his body. He collapsed against the couch once more, but this time he took me with him. Not once did he break our kiss, and soon, I felt his velvet tongue against mine. I kissed him back and let my fingers play in the hair at the back of his neck. He broke the kiss and started down the side of my neck. “I need you, Lilly,” he repeated against my skin. “I’m here.” I bit at my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning. “Please, just make it all go away,” he drunkenly begged. “I don’t know what’s going on, but tell me what to do to make it better. I want to make it better, Devin.” I stopped him and stared into his eyes as I waited for his response. “Don’t leave me,” he said desperately. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it better.” I wanted to cry. He looked so hurt and afraid. It was strange to see such a strong, confident man so lost and unsure. He flipped me onto my back on the couch and crawled on top of me. His movements were less calculated—slower than usual. “I want you. I need to be inside you,” he said aggressively.

He had started by criticizing me. Criticizing my every move. Everything I did or said. If we had guests, he would correct me afterwards, telling me I was stupid for saying something that I had no idea what I was talking about. He would criticize everything I wore, tell me I looked chubby, and that I was lucky that he loved me because no one else would. And he hadn’t done it all at once. No, it had come little by little over the years. It had been sneaking up on me, slowly diminishing my self-confidence, making me feel bad about myself, and making me think I was worthless. How had

Last night, she’d confided in me. She’d trusted me. And how was I repaying her? By sporting a goddamn chubby all day and gawking at her body. I was such a fucking asshole.

There had been comments in the press on my physical appearance from the moment our career started. As a woman in the male-dominated world of rock ’n’ roll, I knew it came with job, but it wasn’t easy to live with. Whether it was criticism of how much I weighed, or lustful comments about how “sexy” I was, they were always disturbing because they weren’t about our music. When I was the thinnest in my life, during the first few years of Heart, there were times I was still called “chubby” in the press. You couldn’t be too thin, too young, or too good-looking if you were a woman in music. The standards were entirely different for any man in rock ’n’ roll. John Bonham could go onstage with a three-month beard, unshowered for weeks, fucked up, shirtless, and have the confidence that the only thing that would be written about him was how he played the drums. As a woman, I lived in a different world. It was a world where I was judged constantly, on and offstage. Patrick MacDonald was right. I had gained weight, although not much at that point, but the show he reviewed was often cited by fans as our most energetic that year. He had the right to think our show sucked, but even if it did, was it fair for him to blame it on my “tight-fitting black dress”?