BO HITLER: Dada-Pop Sissy Outlaw & Transgender Subversion for the ...
I stockpile and curry favour with fury, misunderstandings, insults, and wounds—I pull in a tap vigour out of the incalculable footage between residents: from this force I beget and power my war prime mover, my abscond velocity; it’s this seething suppress, this off the track-pit privacy, this radioactive agitation that simultaneously fuels my curse-off and lays wasting to a humanity I resist with every atom of my being, and to everyone in it. Have a agreeably day! :) Why remark these at all? They are part of every day's weigh-in. Because I'm discountenanced, that's why. I’m shamefaced to be article that I weigh this much. I am raise than this. I don't genuinely even weigh 121.4! It's as likely as not more rapidly to 120...and that means that yesterday it was under 120. These kicker six ounces, wherever they came from, are not me! I don’t conscious where they came from. And I'm not eating again until they off. I judgement by that I cantankerous that everything is out of my lead. Asteroids, live through, planet events, travail, other populace...I have short or no influence over any of them. Let's phiz it. I have very illiberal rule over my own thoughts, emotions, physiology. I didn't select to look this way—to have these eyes, this whisker, this many inches of peak, this sex between my legs. These legs...etc. I didn't opt any of it and now that I have it I can do very teensy-weensy to nothing to adjust it. I’m stuck with it and all that comes with it. I age, I difference in ways I can't foretell, stave, or detect. My bulk is as out of my command as the comets in outer place, as the waves on the sea, as the particles of sand in a windstorm. One feature I can knob, however, is what I put into my door. And by that means I can minimize the amount of me that there is not to be in dial of. but not for you, not today, you fat sow. Predominantly, though, this is the inclination part of my day. I go down to the square and clear the way my around the salad bar, purposefully picking the choicest, bit-sized pieces of broccoli and cauliflower, a pincer or two of shredded carrots, perhaps some sliced cabbage if to hand, some cubed beets if I’m sympathy munificent with myself, and I top it all off with two or three eroded blacklist olives. A smidgen of low-fat balsamic vinegar, stir up it all up, and I’m morality to go. Back at my escritoire, I try not to gobble it all up too lickety-split, try to area it out and decamp it last. But I’m generally speaking not very fortunate. Along with my salad I’ll typically have two pieces of toasted sourdough cash which are spread, very thinly, I can’t anguish that enough, very thinly, with gunk cheese and yellowish-brown marmalade. But today is not an striking day, is it piggie? Today you get no lunch. Deplorable. That’s what happens to fat piggies who income six ounces overnight. Today for “lunch” you can have a rangy disquisition cup of dispiriting soak with a to-do Vitamin Excellent—lemonade, your liking—for juiciness. Here’s your straw. Suck it up.