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You know, even in this age of morbid obesity, there are some folks who need to start scarfing down some cheeseburgers to get with the program.Ladies, just for the record, only fetish guys like they Auschwitz/heroin overdose look. 99.98% like a little cushion for the pushin. One burger is fine. The 20 family pack from White Castle which you plan on downin yourself indicates a problem. Find the balance. The rest of America does so don't be rebel.
B is for bulimia.
"C" is for "control"...and "compulsion"
Diving Into Anorexia. I offer that title, free of charge, to Principia Manelbaum-Von Thyssen IV, typing the next tome tailored to appeal to the ladies who lunch on lettuce leaves.
Mandelbaum. Mandelbaum. Godfrey Daniel Mother of Pearl!!!
Marianne Moore lived in Brooklyn for most of her life near the Lafayette Ave. Presbyterian church in Fort Greene. She often described Brooklyn in her poems. One place you might visit is the Prospect Park Audubon Center which used to be called the Boat House. It's in the southeastern part of the park near a pond. Just next to this Center is a Camperdown Elm that was the subject of one of Moore's last poems. I'd love to see the tree again, so if you took a photo of it, I'd really like that. The tree has an iron fence around it, and a small plaque commemorating Moore's poem about it.I mean, that is, if you take recommendations.Next door to the park is a wonderful conservatory of plants (between Prospect Park and the Brooklyn Museum) and I wish you would get a year's membership there and photograph some of the flowers inside. But would you mind getting the little bronze plaques in your photos with the Latin names? I'm always trying to figure out the names of the flowers you are photographing, and this would save me a step.By the way, Moore was a lifelong Republican who wore a Nixon button, and was for the war in Vietnam at a time when everybody else was against it. You might find in her a spiritual ally. She's tough to read. In fact, you can't "read" her. She has to be studied, and her poems only come together slowly -- like a crossword puzzle.
X isn't for anything.
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