My Fat Daughter’s chair, however, is most definitely broken.
This silly sow-whatever half baked thought flashes through My Fat Daughter’s swollen head gets spilled onto X by her Dorito dust encrusted fingers.
I ask myself constantly-why is My Fat Daughter like this?
Is it because I had a raging painkiller addiction when she was little?
Is it because John repeatedly called me a See You Next Tuesday in front of My Fat Daughter?
Is it because My Fat Daughter was never told “No Meghan, you can’t have a third T-Bone steak?”
Is it because she was never told to stop screaming and allow others to speak?
It’s probably a combination of all of the above.
Sigh.