I like to think of myself as a silent but mindful champion of the disenfranchised -- the genetically fat, the ugly nosed, the stupid -- they all reap the benefits of my allegiance. I see in them me. My bones are weak and crunchy, and the occasional phantastical kidney pain reminds me that I will soon die. I am like them in that respect; already a little weak and on the down side of life. Them with their paunches and overflowing bellies and retarded thoughts, I with my palpitating blood flow; we share something special.

The bond really means nothing though. We share a deservedly retarded version of the relationship usually relegated to a mother and her child. They support me with their weaknesses, and I indulge their efforts at living. I keep these thoughts to myself of course. My mind should not be a prison.

I'm interrupted from my free-roaming, organically fed thoughts by the fat, eager girl in the front of the lecture hall. She tends to raise her hand often -- one finger pointed to the sky -- and wave it about in a frustratingly distracting semi-circle until the professor calls on her. This specific time she hungrily explains to the professor the sociology of societal distress. Everyone knows she comes from a poor family. It's written all over her clothes and mannerisms. Besides, on the first day of class she matter-of-factly exclaimed in an ice-breaking exercise that her family were "mostly large pieces of feces" that she had chosen to shun. The girl direfctly before her had only said her name, Jenny Watson, and her favorite ice cream flavor, orange sherbert. The remainder of the exercise became unbearingly uncomfortable.

When it was my turn to introduce myself, I spoke in a British accent.




I take a drag of my cigarette and put it out on the table after one breathe. It's a large lecture hall, and I want to make a statement.