In an acute and highly targeted strike this Thursday, that bitch you once called ‘mother’ decimated the seedling of self-esteem you had been nurturing in therapy by tearing into an already gaping emotional wound by exclaiming, “You’re looking healthy.”
Blood-relative onlookers observed that the fucking bitch was fully weaponized the moment she laid eyes on the bloated prize pig that is her only daughter. Reports suggest that she became nuclear with a first glance at your chipmunk cheeks, which partook in no fewer than five holiday potlucks over the past two weeks.
Prior to this dreaded encounter and physical assessment, that fucking monster who raised you forwarded several articles about the calorie counts of festive Americana cuisine and the weight-loss benefits of intermittent fasting, her finishing move was signing each belligerent correspondence with: “Love, Mom.”
While health professionals agree that they bestow the word “healthy” upon people with nothing but honest intentions, but your therapist would agree that your bitch mom wields the word “healthy” like a bludgeon that can pulverize your veneer of self-possession within seconds.
Recent events have proven that the word escapes from your mom’s lips and vaults over your shoddy, emotional fortress like a nimble gymnast. In the same way that your mom calls any meal portion larger than a walnut a “healthy serving,” or describes eating a gluttonous three meals a day as having a “healthy appetite,” she classifies the portly, humanoid swine that is her daughter as “healthy.”
Sources hope that, for your sake, this holiday will be riddled with more questions from your dad to distract from your “healthy” figure.
