It is like God’s piss on my face, one cannot avoid it. It is like stuttering, to to to trtry to speak, but not being able to to and cannot help myself. Fear of being present, one have to overcome by overdoing, like shamming even more, make a real fool out of myself, a clown and an idiot, because you are not able to be yourself. So I’ll be sure the reaction will be negative and I will be in the dirt as a whole. Down and under dragging myself forward.

I was quiet. Didn’t speak, I was quiet, did not speak, they say I was quiet and they wondered why. It was clear to me, there was no one who wanted to hear me. I had nothing interesting to say. Interesting is something I don’t know what. Price of timber, apartment bought, new car, family vacation, what? That is the reason, there was no reason to say anything. Speak my dear so we can hear what you are thinking, because otherwise we might think you do not think at all.

I know that. I know that. This. I become to exist through verbal expression, through my gender, female quality, which is stated by what has been before and stamped upon me, because it is what is between my legs and on my chest, on my head and how I walk. I have a female voice, female hands and legs, female fat and female thoughts, things that go around about my body. What do I see? My hair and color. There are stony barriers to climb over and they, men, might stare at my ass as I climb. It takes a lot of cock to do manly things like climbing. I do it with my skirt up my ears (imagined).

What do I see? A folded paper with numbers on it. Six and four. Didn’t see what else was there underneath the foldings. Bent and wrapped, Q hat, on the floor. Too tiny though.