“As a man, I’m a big dude, but not outside the norm for such things. I am just barely fat enough to shop at what I call The Big Fat Tall Guy Store, and can sometimes find my size in your usual boy-upholstery emporia. Major clothing labels, like Levi Strauss, make nice things in my size, and I am never forced to wear anything that appears to have been manufactured at Mendel the Tentmaker’s House o’ Fashion. (Although those things do exist for men, too. Those terrycloth shirts with the waistbands? Oy.) I can order extra salad dressing or ice cream or anything else in a restaurant and have it arrive without comment; I can eat it in public without anyone taking a bit of notice, even if I am shoving it into my mouth while walking down a crowded street and getting crumbs all over my chest in the process. I can run for a bus or train without anyone making a snide remark. As a big guy, I’m big enough to make miscreants or troublemakers decide to take their hostility elsewhere. As a woman, I am revolting. I am not only unattractively mannish but also grossly fat. The clothes I can fit into at the local big-girl stores tend to fit around the neck and then get bigger as they go downward, which results in a festive butch-in-a-bag look—all the rage nowhere, ever. No matter how clearly I order a Coke in a restaurant I must be on a diet, and so I get a Diet Coke—usually with a lemon floating in it accusatorily, looking up at me as if to say, “This is as good as it’s going to get, lardass.” Wait staff develop selective amnesia about my side of fries or my request for butter, and G-d help me if I get caught eating (or even shopping) in public as a woman. Packs of boys follow me, mooing; women with aggressively coordinated outfits accost me in the grocery store to inform me that I can lose thirty pounds in thirty days and that they would love to help. There are pig calls (“Soooooooooieeeeeeeee!”) and the particular piece of performance art that is someone shuddering every time I take a step (to signify the seismic reality of my enormous, ground-shaking bulk). The fat woman I am some days does not view a stroll down a dark street with anything but barely disguised fear.”

Got pulled over because he "saw someone flash their lights at me" and it made him "think something was going on". After he ran my paperwork and did multiple full walk-arounds of my car, he decided everything was in order and I was free to go. I just wanted to get home from work.

Disability rights should extend to people who did that to themselves. To the bloke who got paralysed because he was trying to do a dumb trick on his skateboard, to the person who has diabetes because they ate unhealthily, yes even to those people who got blinded at that NFT convention.

Disability rights NEED to include people who are disabled due to their own actions.

Pardon me friend, but I do believe you have misconjugated this particular set of pronouns in your penultimate sentence. In most cases, the slash between words indicates a nominative vs oblique case (cf he/him).

the only funny thing in the past week or so has been: that time in vancouver that two indigenous women at a restaurant spotted trudeau also eating there, and without hesitation, started up a "ceasefire now" call that got picked up by more people in the restaurant, and forced trudeau to slink out in shame.

I have cochlear implants and I can only buy parts to fix them or upgrade then from 1 corporation bc of tech exclusivity. upgrades to get new processors for both ears cost $23k & insurance only covers 90% (and it’s “good” insurance)