Story My Day as Opal, the Proud Fattie

[Lazyandtalentless]

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.

 

[NIGGER BOJANGLES]

Tales from Mumbai

 

[Lazyandtalentless]

FAT PEOPLE ARE THE REAL VICTIMS!!!! ONLY WEIGHTISM EXISTS! ONLY THEY GET DISCRIMINATED FOR HOW THEY LOOK!!!

 

[Lazyandtalentless]

It’s 2 a.m., and my laptop’s glow is the only light in my filthy apartment. The place is a battlefield—pizza boxes, crumpled soda cans, and the sour stench of my 450-pound body sweating through my “Proud Fattie” tank top, the seams barely holding together. I don’t care. I’m a fucking legend. IncelTears is on fire, worshipping me for crashing that pathetic community center event. They’re calling me “The Fat King,” “The Voice of Truth,” flooding my posts with thousands of upvotes. Comments scream: “You owned those fakers!” “Weightism is the only real war!” I grin, my chins shaking, and chug a liter of Coke, the fizz burning my throat like victory. I’m their god now.

My chest is tight, not from the burgers piling up in my gut, but from the need to do more. Those crippled kids, those scarred freaks, those dark-skinned brats—they get balloons and pity. I get glares, whispers, chairs that scream under my weight. Weightism is the only truth, and IncelTears knows it. They’re begging for my next move, chanting my name in the comments. I scroll through Twitter, my hands trembling with rage, and spot a local gym’s page. It’s a shrine to liars—ripped bodies flexing, preaching “fitness” like it’s salvation. They’re the enemy, shaming my rolls with their protein shakes and treadmills. They’re hosting a “FitFest” tomorrow—some outdoor circle-jerk with yoga, smoothies, and “motivational” bullshit. Perfect. I’m gonna torch it, film it, and make IncelTears explode. This is my war.

It’s 1 p.m., and I’m stomping toward the park where FitFest is happening. My legs burn, my knees groan under my weight, but my fury is a furnace, driving me forward. My tank top’s a wreck, stained with grease and sweat, ripping wider with every step. My phone’s ready to immortalize my vengeance. The park’s swarming with fitness freaks—sculpted arms, tight spandex, smug faces sipping kale juice. It’s a slap in my face. Balloons and signs scream “TRANSFORM YOUR LIFE!”—a direct attack on my truth. I start filming, my voice a snarl. “This is the enemy’s temple,” I growl at the camera. “They worship skinny bodies and hate me for my fat. I’m ending it.”

I spot a yoga class on the grass, some twig of an instructor blabbing about “balance.” Balance? I’ll give her chaos. I charge over, my shadow swallowing the group. “You’re all liars!” I roar, shoving my phone in her face. “You think your bony asses make you gods? I’m fat! People sneer at me every damn day!” The yogis freeze, clutching their mats like cowards. The instructor stammers, “Please, calm down—” but I laugh, spitting rage. “Calm down? You’re the ones waging war on my body! Weightism is the only hate!” I snatch a water bottle from a table and smash it on the ground, the plastic bursting like a bomb.

The crowd’s staring, whispering, but I’m a volcano. I lumber to the smoothie booth, where a jacked dude’s pouring green sludge. “You!” I bellow, filming him. “You think your muscles make you better? I’m the real victim! People spit on my rolls every day!” He blinks, dumbfounded, but I’m unstoppable. I swipe a tray of smoothies off the table, the liquid splashing like blood. “This is poison!” I scream. “You’re poisoning the world with your skinny lies!” A woman yells, “You’re ruining everything!” I whirl on her, my face burning. “Ruining? You ruined me! You all hate my fat!”

My phone’s buzzing—IncelTears is losing it. “Fat King strikes again!” “Burn it down!” They’re my army, fueling my rage. I storm toward a stage where some “inspirational” speaker’s yapping about “self-discipline.” Discipline? I’ll show them power. I climb the steps, the platform creaking under me, and rip the mic from her hands. “Listen, you frauds!” I scream, my voice shaking the air. “You worship skinny bodies and despise fat people like me! Weightism is the only oppression! I’m your reckoning!” The crowd boos, but IncelTears is roaring in my pocket, their praise drowning out the haters. I’m untouchable.

Security’s coming—three meatheads in black, looking like they live at the gym. I laugh, my rolls quaking. “You can’t stop the truth!” I snarl, filming them. “You’re weightism’s foot soldiers!” They grab my arms, but I thrash, screaming, “I’m the victim! Weightism! Weightism!” They drag me off the stage, the crowd jeering like I’m a monster. I spit on the ground, still filming, still raging. “You’ll all burn for hating my fat!” I yell as they haul me out.

I’m back on my couch, gasping, my body screaming from the effort. My tank top’s in shreds, but I’m alive with purpose. I order three pizzas and a bucket of wings, my hands shaking as I check IncelTears. My FitFest video’s a supernova—tens of thousands of upvotes, comments calling me a “god,” a “revolutionary.” “You’re our hero!” “Weightism’s prophet!” No traitors, no doubters—just pure worship. I shove a slice in my mouth, grease dripping, and grin. They get it. They see my truth.

Then I see a Twitter post linking a news article: “Local Man Disrupts Fitness Event, Faces Charges.” They call me “violent,” say I “terrorized attendees.” Lies! I’m the victim! I scream, hurling a soda can at the wall. Charges? For fighting weightism? My heart pounds, but it’s not fear—it’s fire. They can’t cage a god. IncelTears is already planning my defense, calling for protests, swearing to make me a martyr. I open my laptop, my fingers flying. I’m organizing something massive—a march of the oppressed, every fat person who’s ever been mocked. We’ll shut this city down. No more gyms. No more lies. Just me, my truth, and my war. I cram another slice in my mouth, my eyes blazing. Weightism is the only hate. I’m the only savior. And this is just the beginning.

 

[weaselbomber]

is this about someone

 

[Lazyandtalentless]

is this about someone

It’s about inceltears

 

[weaselbomber]

It’s about inceltears