I kill fat people to get back at my mother, I admit it. 

    I have deep anger towards her. Not only for how she raised me, but also for dying on me just when I needed her the most. Just when I was starting to forgive her, and forge a new relationship with the shrew who ruined my life.

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     Mom raised me from ages 5 to 30.  My dad, God rest his soul (though he was an atheist), was in the picture until he died from e coli or salmonella, I was never told which, though I doubt it makes a difference now.  He was a vegan who inculcated in me the abhorrence of meat, and also some nutritional savvy, though I was a little too young to understand it all.  I just remember those pictures of cows being slaughtered he showed me at bedtime, after my bedtime story, usually one of the “Curious George” tales. I loved them so much!  Damn those pharmaceutical companies for torturing them just to test their cosmetics and perfumes.  Dad didn’t have on eighth as many chimp torture pictures as cattle murder pictures, but the ones I saw left an indelible impression, and a lifelong dislike of “painted ladies” who smelled nice.

    After Dad died---- from tainted asparagus tips (in a tasty vinegar & oil & “secret ingredient” dressing)---Mom was shit out of luck, financially.  After paying Dad’s medical bills  ---he lingered too long, and oddly enough, completely eschewed euthanasia or pulling-the-plug due to his Catholic upbringing---she became a “welfare mom”. Long before it was cool.  Back in the 1980’s, when ketchup was a vegetable for awhile, instead of a condiment.

  And ketchup was pretty much all I got for vegetables from age 5 to age 30.  See, Mom got a job at McDonald’s and eventually became such an asset to them, especially her boss, Mr. Spudman, that she got free food to bring home to the dinner table.  We both got fat.  Very fat indeed…

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mom at her worst, in many ways, alas:

   Mom sold her unnecessary food stamps to pay for  the counseling I needed in order to overcome my meet abhorrence. Back then, operant conditioning was the treatment of choice.  I was rewarded with chocolate milk shakes every time I could scarf down a Big Mac.  Eventually I developed a taste for them, which was fortunate, because that is about all I ever got for lunch or dinner.  Mcdonald’s didn’t have the nutritional conscience they now do, back then.

me at my worst, after a very intense operant conditioning session:

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    Look, I could tell you all the social humiliations I experienced due to being 300 pounds in 7^th grade, 400 pounds in 10^th grade, and 521 pounds at high school graduation.  I could describe the social anxiety I felt around girls due to not being exactly an Adonis.  I also could tell you what that first heart attack at age 29 felt like (not pleasant!), or what diabetic shock is really like ( unsettling!). 

  But recently some very savvy OS writers have criticized the old pity-ploy on this site, so I shall tell you what happened after the heart attack.  I got better.

   Some nice psych-therapists at the hospital taught me living skills.  And told me  in no uncertain words to move the hell out of my mother’s house!  I took them to heart, so to speak. 

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   I quit the job Mom got me working at another McDonald’s in town (we have 4 !) due to her special relation with Mr. Spudman, and went on my own welfare, as well as SSI and SSDI  and state disability, and joined a gym, a 24 hour one, so I could go at night when no one would see me.  After losing the first 200 lbs, I started going in the morning.  After the next 200, I was finally a fine figure of a man, not an Adonis, but at least a 165 lb prematurely bald acceptable member of society. I go to the gym now after 5 p.m., when all the other acceptable people come to work out.

me yesterday!!! 'yay' to me!

  Mom and I went into therapy together, and resolved many many issues.  Mr. Spudman even came for a few sessions. 

   Mom died of an impacted colon on the very day of our last session.  I knew she wasn’t feeling right, but I admit I kind of ignored her symptoms. She was always complaining about a sore tummy.

    Mr. Spudman paid for the funeral, and there was some discussion of he & I going into grief counseling together, but to be frank, he disgusted me. He was quite obese.  So I “had my ‘no’  “ and haven’t seen him since.

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 I am damn proud of myself, except for my homicidal rage at fat people.

  I am working on it, obviously not in therapy, but perhaps…if I may meekly inquire…I could describe it to you OS folks?  It seems to be a good venue to get out one’s demons.  I won’t go into the technical details of exactly how I do the killing, or my pretty damn clever way (if I do say so myself!) of disposing of the carcasses, unless there is true reader interest.

 HINT as to disposing: my first and only pet, Andre-Claude the Anteater: