"What was he getting at?"-- Stendhal, in the mind of his astute peasant courtier
There are limits to how far Kantian concerns can bind the sinews of our differences, just as allowing myself to be antagonized by digital burlesque trolls is an exercise in futility, no matter what their breast and stocking entrapment to visit their web cam footage might conceal. Objectified, ostracized, sometimes feared from a very early age, only desired by white addicts sniffing on the trail of my mother's phonons, for a fat woman she wreaked of slut, and it never left her at a loss for shit at our door after the fabled divorce, so deeply gouged in this family's psyche. One may have a bad body image bordering on dysmorphia, but to have red light women fling it in your face that they are so much more desirable is a vicious cruelty, whether intended or not, and then, on top of that to have a fuck-witted socialist from California be so impolitic as to tell me I'm ugly, this is a brush burn on the grain. His daughter is too a spaz, and why not, as the most common birth defect? Even after all these years, of wounded naiveté taught so many lessons, I let my guard down for parents with crippled children, purportedly comparing. My Roman father's blunt cruelty is oddly preferable. I'm fully aware, however, even with Demi Moore's resources, or her former resources, which I'll never have, I'm a homily peasant, with a madam's airs, and plastic surgery would have Phyllis Diller results without the moxie. I also feel at least a slight commiseration for the daughter of such a jackass. Wouldn't it be nice to have an auto hypoxia button for parents, bagging them for alien lizards nesting ships?
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