I wake up at 1 p.m., fuming. My bed creaks under my 450 pounds hairy body, groaning like it’s about to collapse. My disgusting apartment reeks—pizza boxes, crushed soda cans, the smell of stale grease, and my laptop glaring at me, ready to suck my soul dry. I yank on my “Proud Fattie” tank top. It’s splitting at the seams, but I don’t give a damn. I’m too furious to care. I log into r/IncelTears, my only escape from this miserable world. Those incels whining about racism, colorism, lookism, heightism, ableism—what a joke! Lies! Weightism is the only real torture. I’m living proof. The world hates me for my size, and I’m fucking sick of it!
Today’s different. I’m absolutely livid. I saw a flyer for some pathetic charity event at the community center. It’s for crippled brats, kids with repulsive faces, and kids of color. They get snacks and games like that’ll fix their miserable lives. It’s all bullshit! They don’t suffer like I do, with people sneering at my rolls every damn second of the day. I’m crashing that fake party, and I’m going to ruin it. I’ll film it for IncelTears and make them bow to me. I chug a massive Coke, my hands shaking with rage, grab my phone, and storm out. My legs burn, but my anger burns hotter, fueling me.
It’s 2:30 p.m. I’m at the community center, dripping sweat and trembling with fury. The place is a fucking joke—balloons, food, and shrill kids screaming like their lives matter. Wheelchairs rolling around. Scarred faces everywhere. Different skin colors that make me want to puke. Volunteers grinning like they’re angels sent from some fake heaven. I want to scream, to burn this place to the ground. I deserve their praise, not these useless kids! I start filming, trembling with rage. “I’m burning this stupid event down!” I snarl at the camera.
I spot a kid in a wheelchair, legs twisted like some freak show. “You little faker!” I roar, shoving my phone into his face. “You’re nothing! I’m fat! People spit on me every single day!” He sobs, and I laugh, my blood boiling. A volunteer rushes over, her fake sympathy dripping. “Stop!” she pleads. I slam into her, knocking cookies everywhere, her pathetic attempts to stop me laughable. “Shut the fuck up!” I scream. “These brats are all liars! My weight is the only real pain in this world!” I turn the camera on a girl with a scarred face, sneering. “Hide that disgusting face, you freak!” I spit at her. “You’re nothing!”
Parents stare, shocked, and I explode. I scream at a dark-skinned kid holding a stupid balloon. “Your skin’s a lie! My fat gets me spit on! I get ridiculed every day, and you get a balloon!” My phone buzzes—IncelTears is going wild over my posts. They’re cheering me. I storm over to the snack table and grab a handful of cupcakes, shoving three into my mouth, frosting dripping down my chin. “These are mine, you worthless little shits!” I scream. “You get nothing! I get everything!”
A lady with a clipboard yells at me, “You’re hurting them!” “They deserve worse!” I scream back, my face red with fury. “I’m the only fucking victim here!” I grab a sign and smash it to the ground, still filming, not giving a damn. Two huge security guys grab me, trying to drag me away. “Get out!” one barks. I thrash, my rolls shaking violently, screaming, “You can’t stop my truth! I’m the real victim here!” They drag me out like I’m some animal, but I don’t stop.
Outside, I’m gasping, still trembling with rage. I order three burgers and stomp home, my blood still boiling. I collapse on the couch, stuffing my face with burgers, checking IncelTears. My post is blowing up. Everybody called me a legend. I’m right. Those kids? Nothing. They don’t deserve a second of my attention. I’m fighting the only real war—weightism. I shove more burgers in my face, my anger still burning, already planning my next battle.
