I KNOW WHY I'M FAT! I KNOW WHY I'M FAT! Marta Tapiero inserts human fat in me at night from unknown sources by syringe because she hasn't learned the ShinBeths, this necessarily to my unbeknownst during her night crusades. Arline "kidney stones" Lasberg intimates something about geological occlusions for me, recruiting once more, through mysticistic contractions, me, us, in concentration camps, since 1799, endorsed by the Squid of England. They're chasing a new priest, for them same as an old priest, at Saint Kevin's. He must be of Irish descent, unlike Paul Ryan. Also, the trafficking in nun's habits in the Upper East Side yesterday may have included evidence of something that has been occurring to me for years: the smallest sliver of brown stuck under my nails, from who knows where, too fine to extract . Arline Lasberg is relieved: being illiterate she uses her emotions to tell me that she's had my skills disappear so I can't work and be a prostitute for her. She feels accomplished and at peace at this, and says she always needs an Italian prostitute who looks German and hairy in my keep, and when I say my keep, I mean my keep. Bette Midler laughs at this, relieved, and flings herself at me as Mc Vey, revealing even the color of her nipples to better dog me with.It'll be Linda Pimmon's pleasure when that happens to me. It's from the Cluny order, venal and nasty in its cordials still persecuting "heretics" (read brains) as camp guards determining who (alas) survises (thanks!Thanks so much!) and who (doom.doom de doom doom.) doesn't. THE DASHBOARD! I'VE LOST CONTROL OF THE DASHBOARD! THE FONT SIZE HAS GONE SMALL! WE'RE CRASHING! WE'RE CRASHING!