Last night I thought about how it’d be better to have really huge fists than really small ones. True, with huge fists, I’d risk looking like a slow-witted thug, but by picking up a kitten or acting depressed (or even fatigued), people would know I’m all warm apple turnover inside.
Small fists, though, shit. I’d always look like I was trying to compensate, no matter how physically deteriorated I was. And there’s no need to go into the degree of penile slander I would experience, but you can imagine. I don’t even think if I pulled down my pants and had a 15-inch erection I could get much recognition. “Well, you can buy those things now, you know. And look how wrinkly it is right there. Cheap bastard.”
