Parasite

Twiggy is your saviour. Your unearned, bony “beauty” is not loved elsewhere, not that you seem to know what love even is. That’s right; gorge on the First World; let the white male’s American English glisten as it dribbles down the sides of your smiling, goofy chin, and smear it like the shitty mud (from the sties of the sows whose pleading squeals of desperation you gladly drown out with Lana De Rivative) that it is over your A-cup breasts of censorship and your librarian's clitoris of privacy, before taking pride in polishing your parrot-coloured regurgitation so that it will look great in your ivory tower. Revel in the filthy pleasure and egotistical obesity that you deny that your meticulously ornamented depravity brings. Only keep and only output that which feeds your bad faith, and snip out all threats. You pose as a delicate parasol, but you’re just a voracious