"Do you know what you really want? I do. What I really want is for my concealer to match my skin tone." Why, is that so, Jessica Alba? Cause, I dunno, I was kinda thinking that I might really want something a teeny weeny bit more important- like a steady paycheck, immunity to herpes, a significant other insuceptible to my odor, or, heck, world peace! Is it not enough that I have unsuccessfully dabbled on numerous occasions in the realm of bulemia ever since your role as cock tease/female degrader extraordinaire in the 1999 miserable excuse for a film Never Been Kissed ?! (Sorry, anorexics, but I love food waaaay too much to give up cold turkey...pun intended) C'mon! That can't be the paramount desire on your wish list. Wait... yes it can. You are Jessica Alba. Fuck.
Even as a continuously objectified, dehumanized, sexualized, and absolutely terrified member of the female sex, I refuse to subscribe to such superficial fuckheadedness. But, then again, maybe this incessant shove towards longing for physical perfection judged solely in terms of a female's carnal desirability and tangible attributes, while simultaneously dismissing any consideration of personality and intelligence is not so bad after all! What horrid side-effects could it possibly lead to?? Severe depression? Eating disorders? Appearance anxiety? Sexual disfunction? Mental retardation? Shmardation! Nothing serious, really. I think we have already seen the worst repurcussion- the female vulture whose only goal in life is to lockdown a rich Jewish investment banker and become a professional QVC shopper while watching her own ass consume her figure.
Let's quickly look at the discussion of intstinct versus society's bearing on gender roles. In other words, Nature VS Nurture should tell us why females are so gosh darn fucked up in the head. On one hand we have the natural inclination for females to want something constantly sucking on the teet (my God, you guys are lucky!), and on the other we have our societal expectations that for centuries have told females to shut the fuck up and spread 'em. However, in its premature stages of evolution, society is finally allowing females to realize that there is more to life than getting knocked up. For instance, there is masturbation. For a long while this act was reserved for male enjoyment and scorned as despicable and even pegged as a target of punishable censorship when involving females. Nowadays we have women who decide that fucking the president just isn't cutting it anymore- they want to be the president and fuck themselves? Booyackasha.
So, shame on you, few women of influence (heh hem, Jessica Alba), who dare attempt to continue this archaic stance of woman as mere cum receptacle. Well, as long as it is not for career advancements. (There are always legitimate exceptions, people! Us females aren't there just yet!) Oh, and the cat calling has got to stop.
I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME SHRIEK!
i didn't like you until you didn't like me
Please, allow me to introduce myself...
I eat until I’m inundated. Literally. Well, almost. Usually until that little valve in my esophagus closes because my stomach, being that thick walled elastic bag that I cherish it to be, is stretched to its absolute limit- so much so, in fact, that it decides when enough is enough, as if looking down in sorrow upon my bulging belly is not. My stomach refuses those last extra bites of unnecessary caloric intake. Scientifically speaking, that would be considered an involuntary reaction. But to the contrary, I believe it to be very voluntary. It’s part of my self-inflicted exo/endo battle- my hand gleefully forcing more and my stomach reluctantly spewing gastric acids and digestive enzymes until the epiglottis threatens mutiny against my windpipe. And what happens with all that excess food? It sits there, in my long, fragile, mucus-lined throat, waiting for my stomach to hurry and digest, to churn and swish and grumble and open the valve just long enough for another small load of nourishment to plop passed. And then what? Well, normally if I do not disgorge a bit of that oh-so-yummy slop back into my mouth only to be swallowed again, I may take yet another bite of whatever I was inhaling. Then again, I might take another bite just to mask the taste of my regurgitation in the case of the former. Why? you wonder. I lack all self-control.
Oh, and I also smoke when I can barely breathe, consume enough alcohol to make my medulla oblongata quiver with fear, snooze every day all day away, squander money on material possessions until my desperate digging fingers punch holes in my pockets, and date more men than a pirate hunts booty. I wouldn’t call that indulgent, though. Not even gluttonous or extravagant or unconscionable. Definitely not. I would call that sensible and wise. And maybe even grounded. I would call that me.
Hello there.…The pleasure is all mine.
I eat until I’m inundated. Literally. Well, almost. Usually until that little valve in my esophagus closes because my stomach, being that thick walled elastic bag that I cherish it to be, is stretched to its absolute limit- so much so, in fact, that it decides when enough is enough, as if looking down in sorrow upon my bulging belly is not. My stomach refuses those last extra bites of unnecessary caloric intake. Scientifically speaking, that would be considered an involuntary reaction. But to the contrary, I believe it to be very voluntary. It’s part of my self-inflicted exo/endo battle- my hand gleefully forcing more and my stomach reluctantly spewing gastric acids and digestive enzymes until the epiglottis threatens mutiny against my windpipe. And what happens with all that excess food? It sits there, in my long, fragile, mucus-lined throat, waiting for my stomach to hurry and digest, to churn and swish and grumble and open the valve just long enough for another small load of nourishment to plop passed. And then what? Well, normally if I do not disgorge a bit of that oh-so-yummy slop back into my mouth only to be swallowed again, I may take yet another bite of whatever I was inhaling. Then again, I might take another bite just to mask the taste of my regurgitation in the case of the former. Why? you wonder. I lack all self-control.
Oh, and I also smoke when I can barely breathe, consume enough alcohol to make my medulla oblongata quiver with fear, snooze every day all day away, squander money on material possessions until my desperate digging fingers punch holes in my pockets, and date more men than a pirate hunts booty. I wouldn’t call that indulgent, though. Not even gluttonous or extravagant or unconscionable. Definitely not. I would call that sensible and wise. And maybe even grounded. I would call that me.
Hello there.…The pleasure is all mine.
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