Dear Lyn H-E-J-I-N-I-A-N I thought of you the other day as I watched the six hundred, ninety pound woman speak her life on the television set. Crying she was no longer woman. No longer lady No longer human. As Maybelline flipped the Christi image in the two minuet breaks. Am I a woman? Practicing startling accessible? natural in flow and perception? She logged her life in fat curls which bleed over to consume her husbands former rest spot. I counted my life in the ever increasing sags that plagued my breasts in deep dark multiplying freckles on my back. But it was raining. My hands frozen - freezing - cramped! No pen could take all the mind could give. I'm pressing on. Pressing like the thin girls thighs working the Thigh Master. Pumping pumping pumping out the old image in with the new. While six hundred pound lady becomes 515 pound lady 439 pound lady 364 pound lady I hug my three pound fat curl claiming "I am the fat image of my former self!" Gotta make a change gotta make a change. Lyn, my image is burned has burned out the socket of my eyes.
No pen can write it.
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