Every time that my parents tell me that I will make a suitable cumrag for some man, I wonder how uncouth it would be for me to crack my sternum and bleed out. Whenever the prospects of my romantic future is brought up, it is always in the context of how someone will get to enjoy: I will bear my mother grandchildren, I have curves in all the right places, therefore my husband will enjoy fucking me, etc. They also lament the past, all of the men that could have made this a reality far earlier. Another hand on the leash of their prizes cow.
It might be the reason that I am afraid of losing weight. If I do, then more eyes will be on me, and they will not hesitate to sell me to anyone with a passable income for breeding. And you would think that I would trust my family to care about my mental and emotional well being, but I don’t. I write this because I am tired of explaining. If they are unable to see how their words would have a negative impact, then I am in no position to explain it to them.
It’s not like they would listen anyway.
I often wonder if this would be the case if I did everything right. If I became a doctor instead of a degenerate. And I keep coming up with the same answer: no. I was a filler child, a place holder for parental guidance until the once and future offspring arrived and, when they did, I was to disappear. My continued presence is an affront my need for compassion a nuisance. Since I continue to be, if I am not producing revenue, than I need to extend the bloodline.
But I failed. I have not expired and I am not popping out offspring like fireworks. Perhaps the knowledge of this is why I continually shove food down my throat to like some sort of doughcap: holds down venom, bile, and the realization that I will have to untangle myself from my family to breath freely. Mayhaps it is also the reason I reject all forms of attraction, or even the exploration of my identity.
O.K. ONO 