When I was around nine or so my Father looked at me in disgust,
And said in a loud voice
"There are rolls of fat on her legs,
I've never heard of that before."
Poor Daddy wanted a perfect daughter,
And got a chubby social misfit with argumentative tendencies,
Combined with a complete disregard for anything as inconvenient as reality.
I wouldn't have chosen an alcoholic sociopath for a father, either,
So, hey, we're sort of even.
I have my father's temper, which disgusts me,
More than my legs disgusted him, I'll bet.
He knows that I don't like him,
I've never been able to please him, or impress him,
And I've never understood what made him so angry,
I'm angry, too, a lot of the time, but I would never look at my daughters with horror and scorn,
And coldly evaluate their physical shortcomings.
Everything about them is beautiful, everything.
What an *******,
Wish I didn't love him, so.