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I know you probably think I’m some kind of uniquely filthy, completely nasty woman, but I’m not. Just because I like picking the wax out of my ears and rolling it into little balls, or because I spend an equal amount of time picking my nose and hoping that a little hair will come out attached to the snot.
I’m both fascinated and revolted by my food baby. I look at it sometimes and stroke it, pondering the wonder of life — the awesomeness of the human body that it can contract and expand in such a way relative to what’s inside it. And then I look at it sometimes and wonder why, WHY, must I always look like I have a fucking small human growing inside of me every time I have a meal?