Most everybody can agree on what's s**y. I've often liked to think I was above such consensus. But with the doors locked and my drawers dropped, I'm no different 'cause these pictures have been training me. Mission: worship counterfeit bodies. Is this a shakedown? No, no this ain't how I usually find myself when I have a revelation. So here's the breakdown: a total fakeout jumping off the page. Synthesized, sanitized, glamorized. Surprise, surprise. Black bile expulsion: our hopes for beauty make an exit and get flushed. Three courses of self-confidence deported daily from the throat with a middle finger thrust. We're so sick. We have ingested a parasitic tour guide. I clearly have misplaced my trust. An industry built on the backs of insecurity, airbrushing out the human honesty. They've defined "s**y" so narrowly. I'm getting tunnel vision and I'm terrified that my willing complicity means that I will only desire what they have planned for me. I'm so scared. I'm so scared. I'm so scared. I'm so scared, somebody please shake me. Screw this. I'm posting signs: "No Hunting and No Trespassing." These dealers pushing rank moonshine can get the hell out of my pants and get the f*** out of my mind. I'm so sick. I have been sucked in but I'm hacking my way out with this simple ambition: All I want is to be free of judging everyone against a standard that doesn't even look human, now is that too much to ask?