I think predistigation, or flair in dexterity of the digits and limbs of the torso, were not fit for an artist to have, because art should be more intuitive and passive so that one does not stall at every moment of success, and one does not develop a useless baroque elbow that lacks flexibility due to ego. I love dancing as if I cannot smile and frowning and lithe and disconcerting on my face, because facial charisma is too energetic and too social for me to be doing. I like to do this until morning arises without the alienating experience of questioning my sexuality as aopposed to women who might be watching me because that were much too masculine for me to do and have twinkle in my preferably non-self-conscious-ego eye.I treat straight men who hit on me or talk sexually, deviously to me as if they are a gay twink hitting on a straight man who has a problem with gay males expressing themselves merely. If someone on the street threw piss on me, well I'd only think about. "Is the piss sanitary?" Even the ignorant ahistorical sonntag was imbribing her colonialized french lieurich name by sonntag's volksbuch, just like tangyang was completely joan stambaugh and viccianne cisgender-pants despret was a complaint of ad hoc memorizing talent. Of course, I met some wacky person with a vocal re-appropriation thesis, which sounds like the exotic way one were to say Nisei or Nikkei in Japanese were way too slow and much too revered to by healthy. Herausge-varlag is nice... Derrida's sociological law of signified after the age of adulthood, which is just free choice then in Leibniz's theory, which deflates just as Shranken losigkeit (comfortable ambiguity), would inculcate and cathex the poor philanthropist that is named explicitly a bad guy. The evidence must be monolingual therefore, because realism last ya whole lifetime, and I'm a tired lady that doesn't superficially internalize Anglo-Saxon patriarchy. Also, aggravation can land youself in prison and I can sympathize with the perverted. Even if I had a straight bias for my lesbian identity, I am such a minimal and non-consumerist person that even if you were a governess that should have taken care of my body, like a partner would have the duty of, I would just be the artist that that one old female philosopher financially supported?. Gabriela Mistral is my favorite! The lesson of death in college, wherein because death in discourse awaits you, you must re-appropriate the lesson of, "I don't care how I was dressed, in fact that is the curse of the conservative paranoid fate!". That damn humanities professor who I wandered into a class with, because I am extremely experimental and apathetic, since I'm of poverty-skein, except as Hegel reminds me, my intellect was higher than internalizing the environment, like Stirner's Australian enthusiasm. And there was that time I skipped school in high school to check out the miserable face I saw on a woman fancer's face, and my friend invited me to check out y reaction at a mature young age. Back to the feminist professor, well, she cursed me like Cordelia, so that I could ask my professor who affirmed my mission, and found in my other philosophy professor's evidence case, that in fact, the innate me did take away ability to be cynic, that would have been obviously caused by a mimetic mode of thought. The child does not internalize harm from their environment, but when another perception thinks that they should have, then the corrective psychoactive factor of backwards psychology will corrupt the exception until they are dispossessed of hermeneutical sealedness, which was the older method of our last generation, in replacement for lunacy and accomedation:ruined non-competition. Explaining Lexicon by remembering the title of that Palex Degrassi two 30 minutes, a recession by recession jeans, elitism by theeves trucks and mullen uberlight, cherishing that I always forget if addidas or adidas? going comatose when I hit the black comedy joke of reappropriating historically derogatory terms for purely low mentality. Whereas Jorge Borges gets free will in fiction, my consciousness predicates that I am a bigot before I get to use the suffix -ly. My skull shape when I took an x-ray for braces looks like anamnesis the primitive relative that actually stands for schizoprenia, or the return to a paternal primitive, inane sadism. Black comedy is just deadpan of the pacifist scientist who does not understand that knowing the elder's antagonism as made up as utter narrative warfare for comprehension in their mind is completely absurd to pin the scientist as internalizing as well, but the internalization is itself irrational, hence beyond control... unless one uses it to write philosophy of historical contiguity in massive future phenomenal time of need... which would typically be too abstract for practicality because irrationality of the subconscious will pin oneself into a naive camp, such as not respecting the Jewish rights of today, because open-minded subjective respect is "so" advanced. I also look like ichi the killer, but then again she looked awful in "monster", the sociopath homicide movie. Everyday I just think about the unheard minority of objectified people who are coerced into a maternal camp by conservatives. So that maternal, defining (symbolic naming) language is seem as illiterate to myself and (Modern European) other philosophers. So I think about Native Americans who are not really living a stable, traditional life to the visitor/journalist's noticing. And about the jazz musician Sun Ra, who is conflicted internally, irregardless if he wanted to consider himself within the sanctity of the white majority, due to symbolic propganda. Anyone remember Saving Face? Well I am the severe version of nuclear winter if Vivian is rationally thinking self-compassion for complete severed stoicism. I think X's boyfriend is so cool because X looks like the main character female from feminin-masculin by jean-luc-godard. I think another X tricked me into pretending to be Napolean Dynamite because she said Michael Cera, but the prior is probably more like the sexually incompetent with women. I mean even Cecilia thought X was totally hot in an interesting way, even though I used Cecilia as a memory device by inviting her to go thrift shopping with me to display to her my theory on the sociological environment as creating an always false rebellious attitude in the moral saint, just by her agreeing with another person in my environment's outrageous disdain toward the world even. Fking that Hawaiian dude related to that dude who got to be on American idol and that Indian dude who ate Chobani in the morning made the most horrible, infectious jokes about masculine phallic nature. I lack an oedipus complex because I believe in, like Max Stirner, the natural child development as utter skepsis that ought be reflexive ideology privatized in oneself, rather than actual reconciliation, hence I believe in conditional family that one decides who shall be fit for oneself to concern for. I actually find it hilarious that my biological father looks exactly like this one Russian existential director that I watched a documentary interviewing him on his philosophies, and he looks very effeminate this director. And my biological father also looks like Natsume Satsuke, of whom is a Japanese British English writer, and he actually did understand God as immaterial, but for my reasons of understanding that God is a stain of language for philosophers who are agnostic-atheist, so in the least it must be cleaned up of an issue for no error of humans making up problems of the image one would beholden in the God symbol. I use these two representations to mask my own biological father, and play a class self-deception, for self-deprecation by belief in class as a real thing in the socialist first world is enormously wrought with pessimism. Coerced by empiricism by defending the masculine, pacifist, rational Western psychology, I imagine then able to use it, the image of the attractive Spanish people holding the placards of "No" up, from the movie "No!", about Pinochet. And then I notice how I can sympathize with XXY's intersexed female protagonist by defending a Parent as vagrant for their noble desire for a daughter who is successful in school, but which also usurps the daughter's singular role model of oneself as oneself arbitrarily. The way I sympathize with the intersexed there is to undermine the embarressment a parent feels over a mental disease of heredity, schizophrenia, that I have as a daughter, because I believe in a perception-based, progressive acceptance of the disabled. And then I sympathize with the paralyzed male lead in "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" by his being spoken to by a priest when he is athiest, by saying that the parent that thinks they are my parent is really not my parent, but a set-up symbolism for could be any mother/father so that I can defend in philosophy, those that are merely shunned and framed nd sickos for their rationalization over biological empathy with the socially taught meaning of biology. I always romanticize about a radical, non-biological de-constraint as the perfectionist ideal of the human being, through an absolute meaninglessness and accident of the aestethic that cannot give irrational guilt to collective in the motive of the terrorist. I became the two main characters from "My Own Private Idaho" after I saw a lesbian that goes to UC Santa Cruz, and that I met while she was wearing femme clothing at a goth-disco party in a Mexican Cantina. She had a picture of herself in the back of a darklit dormroom, and long curly hair under a trucker cap that she used to shield her face. Does meeting her turn me on more to Medieval-French-including-Middle-Eastern lesbianism? The answer is no like California was never in those countries, but I can sure use her body as representation when I read that "Crossing Borders" book!