01. -en ūtero.

She had to have been about 98 pounds—

“See,” I thought to myself, even letting my right hand point out the window at the woman I fawned at;

“She got a Mercedes.”

Not that I had ever really wanted a Mercedes, as my mother had always driven them and even compared to such as a Lexus or Cadillac, the quality, at least to me, of any of the Mercedes Benz I had driven were inferior—but, assuming that as with most women who drove Mercedes that at least I had met or known of— it had been a gift from an admirer.

Kayla Lauren was 108 pounds—and though my thought-to-be quest for Sonny in an altered state of dillusional romance had ceased, it was the admiration from any such man of intelligence I desired. I found myself to be, by now, entirely sapio sexual, and guided to mate or nest by genetic attraction.

My sagging skin and matronly figure made me an easy target for ignorant men who preferred to prey on the vulnerable, lacking the self confidence anyone with a tight, flawless midriff should or normally did naturally have, with great reason. It just so happened that any time I would spectate a man I was as dangerously attracted to as one should be to their partner, he was always trailed by one of these tiny, petite, perhaps between 100 and 110 pound “women”; I declined to question any progressive reason, perhaps, as I sometimes gandered at teenagers—not sexually, but with admiration, thinking to myself “that's how I should look”, often mistaking children for at least young adults, but only because the type of men I usually found myself magnetized to were always with girls who shared the same petite childlike figure—especially DJs; and as it turned out, DJing was as attractive to me as any physical feature I could admire—Like eyes, or hair—a good DJ was sure to turn me on with the turn of a knob, especially because I knew now exactly what they were doing.

I thought perhaps since it had been so hard to just be a great DJ as I had wanted, I could settle firmly in simply being a DJ's girlfriend, if I could get small enough. I would never be white (maybe, also admiring whatever had happened to Michael Jackson, in the sense that if he had unnaturally faded himself to match his transraciality, it was just as acceptable in my mind to do so as it was to change ones hair color, or gender.)

I was approximately anywhere between 40 and 50 pounds heavier than my new goal weight—slated most recently in my cry-for-help of a podcast series to be 108 pounds—when more seriously it was about 100 pounds; “How incredible would it be to have been once 380 pounds, and then a mere 100 in the same lifetime?”, not that I was sure I was even alive; I hadn't been properly loved or liked by any one since leaving my ex husband—I was certain I had been truly cursed, either by him or his father, as I had often reflected on how he had asked for a strand of my dead son's hair after his passing—a disgusting, wife beating, suicide inducing self-slated ‘shaman'—I had been left at the mercy of both God and The Devil—who i actually ascribed to be two halfs of one entire entity— unable to have a home or proper job since leaving Alaska.

My ex husband's father had beaten his mother, leaving my ex husband's last conversation with his mother at the age of twelve to be “son, never hit a woman”—words which sent him running and reeling in a suicidal rampage after he had first hit me, snd still, as I was bleeding and running away from him—he had begged me not to call the police, then wailing “I should just kill myself!”, before leaving our small apartment; I, of course, rather than calling the police—only then called his phone over and over again, fearing he would leave me with our-then 2 and less than 6 month old sons—more worried about losing him, than the bloody mess in our apartment, or myself; Sitting with our sons in sheer disbelief of what had happened at all, in a sleep-deprived and probably altered stupor; and, though he did eventually return, I never did call the police, or tell anyone besides Annalicia what had happened, and perhaps later Davies and Johnny— the friend who had introduced me to the term “spinner”, for “petite girls who could do anything in bed”, who I had fled to seeking work—after failing to tell my boss at the time what had happened, and being let go as a result, due to, of course, my “poor performance”, and probably the fat lip and swollen eye i had earned from “slipping doing burpees”, or push-ups, or something— which—I now realized was as transparent an excuse as it sounds, or may have sounded—and, everyone I told the lie to seemed to at least loosely believe it, probably even understsnding my then-need to protect someone I saw not as “my attacker”, as I was somehow still more preoccupied with the knowledge of the infidelity—and even then was quick to take the responsibility for being hit; I had, in fact, pushed him to it, as he became angry and fed up with my constant crying and deep, paralyzing depression after learning of his cheating, just 6 weeks after the birth of our son

However, even then, in the midsts of learning of his rampant years-long infedelity, had already been set on a path of excersising endlessly when out of the house or at work as a veterinary technician, running and jumping the Greyhounds in boarding as long as possible—albeit, to the energizing bass frequencies of Skrillex, Diplo, and even Dr. P, respectively—I had, being obese at the time of my second pregnancy, magically lost weight while carrying my son; and, in the wake of the postpartum aftermath, psychically learning of my ex's indfidelity through a visionary lucid dream sequence—had blamed myself of course, also for being cheated on so rampantly; I knew, as I had been told all my life, being that fat and finding someone to love me wholly was too good to be true, but had somehow let myself believe it—especially because he, too, was obese. I had always hated how people played matchy-matchy in the dating world, as I didn't feel fat people only belonged with fat people, or black people only belonged with black people, as had been insinuated throughout the entirety of my lifetime—never finding myself much sexually attracted to men as dark as I was, I figured my attraction to light skinned men to be hereditary, as even my own mother had overstated as often as possible that she had never much been attracted to black men herself, and even at times admitted to “hating niggas”—which, as I grew older, listening to the sexist and misogynistic rap lyrics glorifying white women and light skinned, yellow girls—seeing girls within the African American culture of half of my heritage being put on a pedestal not only within the community, but in movies and television—music videos praising white girls, latinas, asian girls—and occasionally, light skinned black girls, who, if they were light enough could be seen with curls or natural hair—and dark skinned girls only admired for having perfect bodies, pressed or weaved synthetic hair—anything to make them look as comfortable as possible—which, of course, by now I understood fully, on the daily, repeatedly seeing the look of almost nauseating discomfort as white people in the southern city which I had been trapped in for weeks upon reentering the United States, forced crooked smiles, in an attempt to nutralize the racism I at this point had learned to be genetic, and intrinsic but not always intentional or even beknownst to them. I had experienced more organic racism and colorism in Mexico than perhaps I ever had, besides growing up in a racially divided, Mormon town in Nevada— and attending some of high school and college in súper-racist Utah—being allowed to play the maids and slaves they had for years wanted to cast as realistically as possible, but never could—and low-and-behold, me, the only black girl for miles, was happy to play the part—simply just wanting to perform.

Now, haunted and stunted in my own career growth or acceptance in the industry by Megan Thee Stallions, Mariah The Scientists—and, the almost all-white, all-rail-thin EDM world in totality, besides UNIQU3, who of course I was naturally jealous of, if not for anything more than performing at the only place I had seen in my mind's eye as the goal for being a DJ, for what seemed like a hellish eternity—and of course, Kaleena Zanders, who I more than actually respected and admired—even having been inspired to write on numerous occasions—but who was still in the spotlight I for some reason constantly craved—even more than bread, cream cheese, or French fries.

Everywhere I looked in the industry, whether it was the acting world, the music world, or anywhere I otherwise might have ended up out of sheer dumb luck, or bloodlust—the average weight was anywhere between 100 and 130 pounds—130 being on the “thick” side, and belonging to women with long, slender legs and torsos, who were tall enough that the weight was distributed evenly, making for an all-around average dress size of 2, but more-than-often zero, or the even more desirable 00.

So, I figured in my best interest, I should be as small as possible; not that I thought it would keep any man from straying, as I knew and had learned thoroughly that they all cheated and practiced polyamory, whether in secret or with honest intentions—but maybe, perhaps—I could in exchange for being miserable, skipping meals, and treading hours in the gym and sauna—could one day have a home, or a Mercedes—though, honestly, by now, I would have settled on a Honda.or just—any clean and private place to sleep.

I needed desperately to lose a grand total of a rounded-up 60 pounds or so, to capture the attention of anyone that would just as certainly waste my time as any other male would, but at least in exchange for something I needed or wanted—sex, or adoration, laughter—as was the way of the Instagram-Model-Run OnlyFans world; and, since I still carried the scars of an already-massive weight loss with me, I wasn't worth .99 cents or any amount of money per minute for my company, let alone the consideration of marriage or the children I wanted—or the family I needed, but probably didn't deserve.

I was obsolete.

~Tales of a Superstar DJ