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(62) Violeta

I was in Starbucks again. I was in Stratford-upon-Avon and so there were many American college students about; in theory, I like Americans—in practice, they’re loud and obnoxious. This great fat girl—like a large stuck pig—decorated with terrible tattoos (she was obviously middle class) sat next to me; she was accompanied by a simpering homosexual oriental of nondescript appearance (Indonesian?); his naso-labial area glistened with some sheen, curious—almost as if he were a plastic toy fresh from the box. Then there was a diminutive girl who resembled Harry Potter; relatively, she was attractive: you know how girls are, they always travel in twosomes—the attractive girl finds a munter to enhance her own looks, the runt is glad to catch the beauty’s rejects (an evolutionarily stable strategy, perhaps—sure to be modelled one day). Well, little Harry Pottina was very plain—yet next to Ms. Piggy she became a radiant beauty.

Ms. Piggy was very loud and obnoxious. At one point, I glanced over at her and she saw: being mentally ill, I was wearing my blue reflective shades. Girls love these, since they see their own reflection where my eyes should be—they see the most important thing in their lives looking right back at them. Hence, the day before, I glanced at an attractive schoolgirl and she immediately shook her hair loose—all for my artificial eyes. So fatty immediately began to chatter about her “totally, totally weird college roommate” who accidentally Airdropped her photo folder to the entire dorm.

Naturally, it was filled with dix pixs from her bf—much to fatty’s faux shock. I nearly turned to her—since this is what she really wanted—and said, “Look, if you want a dick pick that much, I’ll send you one, love—if you lose the flab.” However, my residual—very residual—sanity stopped me. The sad thing is that if she lost the weight she would have been attractive, more attractive than the little Potter.


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