September 21st, 2025
Thirty mornings ago I woke up with a BBL. Some real Kafkaesque shit. And yeah, my shit was like the Metamorphosis a little bit, I guess. Only in my case, no one saw me and wriggled in fear.
It’s true that when I woke up, I assumed that I must’ve been tripping. That this was only temporary. That if only I went back to sleep, this would all go away. And then, when I woke up, my BBL was still there. This unwanted, body-altering manipulation of my autonomy. But when I woke up, instead of pushing me away, people embraced me.
I’m a lowly German traveling salesman and merchant. My life was, indeed, filled with, “always changing, never enduring human exchanges that don’t ever become intimate.” But now I have one million followers on Instagram. Kim K wants to link me. I’m the subject of discourse on Twitter.
My life is now filled with never changing, always enduring human exchanges that only ever want to become intimate.
Sorry. Forgive my passion. You must understand that my thoughts are not straight. For the spectacle of me is not just derived from my big ass butt, but the fact that I, also, have been rendered bedridden by this big ass butt. “What kind of butt is this?” you might ask. “What kind of butt can render someone completely immobile? What kind of butt are we talking about here? Let me know what we working with here,” is something you might say. Well, the biggest butt in the world, is what. Yeah, that’s right. The most grotesque, juiciest, nastiest, off-the-chain, meaty, slimy, round, off-putting, eye-turning, sexiest, prettiest, dirtiest, bounciest booty in the whole wide world.
And if that sounds like it contradicts, that’s because it does. Imagine how I feel, when it seems that the more nasty my butt gets—the more grotesque, the more macabre—the more people want it.
This, as you imagine, has turned me into a star of sorts.
For not only am I a subject of fascination for horny men on the Internet (one of the most attached fanbases you could have, certainly) but also am I high on the minds of literary types.
Writers for the New Yorker talk about me on their podcasts, edgy art-school graduated White girl transplants, who use blaccents on Instagram Create Mode, feel liberated in their defense of me. I am the profile picture of an entire class of MFA students. As you might imagine, this is another one of the most attached fanbases you could have.
So, yes, as I was saying before. Forgive my passion, my fervor. I am contending with the dual sickness of my body and celebrity.
November 22nd, 2025
Ninety mornings ago I woke up with a BBL. No one remembers me anymore. No one cares.
My family has tapered off my room. They used to leave the door open so I could hear conversations and join in. But they don’t do that anymore.
Horny men on the internet used to adore me. Now they’re just enraged with me for not having started an OnlyFans yet.
The Brooklynite Literary Types are really into Addison Rae right now for some reason?
There is no more celebrity to be sickened by. Only my body. That’s the way it always has been. And that’s the way it always will be. In the end, like in the beginning. You can fester now. Fester in all you want to. Roll around in the mud. In the gravel. In glass. In linen sheets. Ethanol, skin, gel, plastic, words, heat, heat, and heat.
In the end, the only thing that will sicken you will be your body. It will be your only love.
I am cold, and my ass hurts. Do you want to see it?