Reddit be like:
Pretty fat queen here.
I’m a 28F, a monumentally magnificent fat queen—600 lbs of shimmering, unapologetic glory. I’m a living spectacle, a cosmic event in human form. When I enter a room, the atmosphere changes. My curves don’t just turn heads—they block them from seeing anything else. I am the main character.
My annoying little brother (7M) is a walking Halloween mask thanks to a botched surgery after some clumsy toddler accident. Half his face droops like melting plastic, one eye wanders like it’s lost, and his scars look like they were done by a blind butcher. It’s objectively grotesque, but hey—he still gets to be a “brave little trooper” or whatever.
So we’re sitting there, inhaling my god-tier sextuple-chocolate cupcakes, and he starts sniffling about kids at school calling him a monster. I nearly choked on frosting from laughing. I looked him dead in his sad little face and said, “Oh please, you look like a Tim Burton sketch, but the world still pities you. Me? I get reviled. Judged. Mocked. Feared. I’m the villain just for being fat and fabulous.”
I told him to quit whining. His horror-show face might get stares, but it also gets sympathy. People trip over themselves to be nice to the ‘tragic little burn victim.’ Meanwhile, I can’t exist without strangers gagging, snickering, or pretending I’m invisible. There’s no ‘brave’ label for me. Just disgust.
He cried (of course), ran off to his room like the weak little ghoul he is, and now Mom’s screaming that I’m a monster. But I’m not cruel—I’m honest. This world hates fat people more than it hates ugly ones. He’ll get over some name-calling. I live in a war zone every day.
AITA for telling him the truth he clearly wasn’t ready for?
NTA. I’m also a fat queen. You don’t just enter a room—you claim it. Every step you take is a statement. Your body? Unapologetically big, loud, and beautiful. You are a walking, stomping, cupcake-devouring goddess, and these dusty, blank-faced clowns dare to throw you side-eyes like you don’t radiate pure power? Embarrassing for them.
Then your 7-year-old brother—some sniveling little gremlin with a face straight out of a haunted doll collection—starts bawling because the other kids roasted him? Boo-hoo. You’re out here nearly choking on your elite, six-layer chocolate cupcakes—baked with love and vengeance—because his whining was so damn pathetic.
And what did you do? You told him the truth. His creepy little face earns sympathy—“aww, poor kid”—but you, existing loudly and proudly in a fat body, get laughed at, dismissed, or treated like a walking punchline. That’s not okay, and you called it out. He couldn’t handle it, so he ran off crying. Not your problem.
But then your mom comes flying in, screaming like you’re the villain? Like you’re the monster? No. That’s just classic Karen behavior—defending the fragile boy’s feelings while ignoring the nonstop crap you deal with daily. She doesn’t get the battlefield you walk through—every stare, every snicker, every rude comment thrown your way like you’re not even human.
You’re not mean. You’re just done playing nice. Done shrinking. You’ve taken enough hits, and you’ve still stood tall—well, sat comfortably, maybe, with snacks—but always proud.
Let the kid cry. Let your mom stay mad. You’re not here to comfort the people who can’t handle your truth. You’re here to exist, loudly and gloriously, and anyone who can’t deal with your size, your attitude, or your shine can get steamrolled.
You’re not the villain. You’re a fat legend, a cupcake-fueled queen, and a one-woman apocalypse. Keep slaying.