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I live on 2611 N Oakland Ave, Milwaukee, WI in a half house next to a housing project.
I believe in not taking care of myself, with a unbalanced diet, in a rigorous Twitter routine. In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I'll eat an entire Entemann's crumcake as I call people child on Twitter. I can do a thousand now.
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After I finish calling people child, I then move on to calling people stlaker. In the shower, I expel last night's four chilidogs into the shower drain and use my prediabetic foot to mash it down into the drain.
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Then I apply the nigger pepperoni of the child I killed the night earlier onto my face as I prepare the rest of my routine.
There is an idea of a Patrick S. Tomlinson, some kind of fatbody, but there is no real me, only a Twitter account, something lazy, and though I can hide my cold gaze in endless selfies and you can shake my fat hand and feel flesh gripping you and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably incomparable: I simply am fat.
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