To The Doctor Who Saved My Father’s Life,
I can’t refer to you by name because I never actually met you. But the nurses have assured me you are indeed real, and a very busy, trust-funded, white man. While I’m sure you’re used to praise for your “lifesaving” treatments, I, on the other hand, have only one question for you: What the hell have you done to my father?
In case you have no recollection which ‘my father’ I am referring to— as I’m certain you perform miracles daily on 60-something, tire-fat guys who see exercise as a punishment for having the garage too far away from their houses—let me jog your memory a bit. Mine is the one you ruined by saving. Okay, I get it. I sound ungrateful. Fair. I mean, you probably have women showing up on your doorstep all of the time with their fresh cherry…
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