A (melodramatic) rant about my fatass father. My dad went to the doctor today. My 300-someodd-pound dad who eats like shit and plays video games all day. And he had the nerve—the fucking nerve—to be mad at the doctor for telling him to lose weight. “This is why I didn't want to go to the doctor—I knew they were going to do this shit.” Yeah, you knew. Everyone knew. Because you're fucking fat and sick and you need to lose some goddamn weight. A lot of it. He keeps trying to get me to talk about it, and I refuse. He asks these leading questions like, "So I'm gonna do low-carb. Didn't you do low-carb that one time?" Oh, and, "So you like your gym, right? What kind of workouts do you do?" Nope. Not doing it. I've tried so fucking hard to get it through his thick skull that he needs to get off his ass and do this, and he's never listened to me. He's not gonna listen now. And you what? I would love to just say that I don't care, but I do care. He's my father. I fucking care. I don't want that asshole to die because he can't put down his goddamn fork. But I know that trying to tell him all this won't help because it never does. This is why I hate fat people so damn much. Because I'm over here caring and feeling guilty, but he doesn't even care enough to get a fucking grip on his diet. He doesn't care about himself; he obviously doesn't care about the effect it's going to have on our family if he dies of something that is completely preventable. Fuck him for doing this to me. To us. It's selfish and unfair. Fat people do not deserve to be cared about.