I hate when I’m reading a book and come across a sentence like this: “The applicant was fat to the point of obesity, but he was neatly dressed in work pants and a purple-and-yellow checkered shirt.”
It’s all in that conjunction.
The implication that fatness and neatness are mutually exclusive, that a well-dressed fat person is an unusual sight.
You can never get away from fat hatred.
Not even while reading a a good book, one that otherwise has very little to do with looks (Kayak Morning: Reflections on Love, Grief, and Small Boats by Roger Rosenblatt).
They add up, these microaggressions.