The logic behind "Why Every Woman Needs A Fat Friend" is that one token fatty around you at all times will make you look better. Sort of like placing a real Louis Vuitton purse next to one purchased for $30 in a back room off Canal Street. As if to prove this point, the UK's Daily Mail illustrates this with a picture showing Kate Moss chatting up the Gossip lead singer Beth Ditto.

Is it too much to hope that maybe they have something in common? Why is it that when Katie and Posh or J.Lo and Leah Remini go shopping on Rodeo, no one stops to wonder what their agenda is (well, maybe Posh has an agenda), but when Beth Ditto and Kate Moss hang out? Stop the fucking presses.

Wait, check out the actual article. You're going to get angry, no matter how big your ass is, trust me.

Becoming a fat friend is a bit like being given a super power--you suddenly become invisible. You are merely there as the backdrop to your prettier, thinner friends.

Personally, I tend to think of it in terms of respect...if a guy doesn't acknowledge my presence, then he's an asshole. Who wants to attract assholes? Maybe the kinds of people who would pick their friends based on the Fatter Than Me scale.

If women are choosing friends so that they always are Cinderella flanked by her less desirable stepsisters, what makes Beth Ditto want to hang out with the likes of Kate Moss?

She might be using you to make herself look better, but admit it--you'd never have got past the doorman if it weren't for her good looks.

Oh, I see. So if you're thin and have a fat friend, you have low self-esteem, but if you're fat and hang out with Cameron Diaz then you're trying to be cool by osmosis. Everyone wins!

I hate to throw interference, but I have gotten into plenty of parties on the merit of my own sparkling personality (and to be fair, a very impressive showing of cleavage, far more than the average waif could carry without doing a face plant forward onto the pavement). However, when the bouncer is lifting the velvet ropes to escort me past the line, I can see the club kittens screwing up their faces in confusion.

But even us fat friends aren't immune to this sneaky syndrome: I am never happier than when I'm with my even fatter friend--she just makes me feel so good about myself.

In other words, we should find a fatter friend for sake of schadenfreude? If the value in a friend is only good when you think someone's watching, then what happens when no one is around? Maybe if you are both so shallow that you only care about the way the other is making you look, this would work.

So, here's the deal: I've been friends with gorgeous women compared in beauty to Madonna or Audrey Hepburn, women who usually had three, four or five dates on a given weekend. Friends who don't talk about the differences between our BMI. Friends who have never once gotten me into a club or a bar or a party or even the damned library. And this assumption that the only true friendships are between two 8s or two 3s is just insulting to both the 8s and the 3s.

And to be honest, other friendships have started out with me acting as the smoke and mirrors to boost someone's self-esteem. But those friendships never last. Once they get past their victory in being the thinnest, they get stuck on other imagined competitions...they might be thinner than me but they aren't smarter than me. Or funnier. Or have a better job than me. Or don't have a happy long-term monogamous relationship.

And sometimes, I won the elemental competition inside their head in spite of being cast as the ugly stepsister. For example, we were at a very fun club in London, and my friend who looked a lot like Nicole Kidman visibly struggled with the fact that a devastatingly handsome French guy seemed more interested in me than her cute, blonde, perky hotness. I watched, stunned, as she didn't even hide her efforts to cock block, under the guise of "saving me from this creep." Because fat girls are naïve, don't you know? When she offered herself as a dance partner, Count du Monte Lacroix (totally wasn't his name, but it is now) responded with blisteringly icy disdain, "Non, I don't care about vous. I weel wait for her to do the dancing." It was too much for her. After that night, she only responded to my questions and invitations with aloofness and polite declines. I had betrayed her. I wasn't allowed to be the object du jour. That was her role.

It was one of the biggest lessons learned in my 20s--even though someone might be devastatingly beautiful on the outside, they might still have issues to work out. And honestly, we don't need friends like that, no matter on which side of the Fatter Than scale you fall.

--Weetabix