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That's right. Stuff your face; cram your yammer; inhale you pale; consume the room. In other words....
EEEEEAAAAAATTTT
Be proud of your pendulous breasts, your elephantine bowel movements, your staggeringly excremental air, your chasm-like quim, your gelatinous flesh, you hot-air balloon belly. Who needs sex? Not YOU, you post-pseudo-ad hoc feminist, you.
Don't worry about all those NORMAL women. What do THEY know? While you're enjoying that sixteenth slice of jumbo pizza in your empty apartment, they're being brought to their miserable orgasms by their lame loving husbands, raising their miserable children and being loved by their friends. What a hooooorrriiblllle existence.
And when they come to carry you off in a piano case at the ripe old age of 42, your corpulent countenance shall wear the small smile of They Who Lived Until the Day They Died.
