If you tell me that I’m ugly. If you tell me that I’m only a 2. If you call me a fat girl, I can do only one thing. I can only grin like a crazed junkie, staring at a clutch full of cash knowing that my dealer is on speed dial.
You probably think that I'm ashamed of my waist to hip ratio, or for having a juggly fupa, or that my delicate flower is meaty like a rose hip.
No, I own those things. Dress them up in lace, latex, and language. Longing for that lingam, those lips to linger, lower.
You call me Fat Girl, and I'm going to tell you that I'm an American named Enola, and you remind me an awful lot of Japan. I will drop a verbal bomb so massive that the shadows of evaporated flesh created in 1945 will turn their heads to look, drop their jaws, and scream "Daaaaaaayum" at the explosion. If you call me Fat Girl, I will tell you that you know my true name.
And the sound