Lena Dunham

A symbol of "Body Acceptance"

Lena Dunhamplanet

Now usually when a fat woman is so revolting she doesn't take care of those nasty barnacles growing in her fat flabs, other women look away. But when it is a rich fat celebrity, she can afford TV shows that present her unkempt appearance as body acceptance, despite the fact that she photo-shopped the shit out of herself in all of the photo shoots she does. This obvious contradiction seems to have been lost on her plump fan base of Cultural Marxist shut ins with body issues. It is lost on them because watching 300 pounds of Dunham consume cake naked or fuck random dudes because she can feel good about it afterwards JUST LIKE THE CISHET WHITE MALE OPPRESSORS DO! The problem with watching a fat slut behave like a 13 year old boy does not need explaining. However Lena's behavior of being a fat narcissist has a special kind of shamelessness that recently opened up to her understanding fans about her incestuous sexual abuse of her little sister. But in case you don't believe me, Lena's own fucking autobiography does better justice of explaining how much of a sick fuck she really is. She quotes:

A symbol of "Body Acceptance"

I am dismayed over the recent interpretation of events described

“Do we all have uteruses?” I asked my mother when I was seven. “Yes,” she told me. “We’re born with them, and with all our eggs, but they start out very small. And they aren’t ready to make babies until we’re older.” I look at my sister, now a slim, tough one-year-old, and at her tiny belly. I imagined her eggs inside her, like the sack of spider eggs in Charlotte’s Web, and her uterus, the size of a thimble. “Does her vagina look like mine?” “I guess so,” my mother said. “Just smaller.” One day, as I sat in our driveway in Long Island playing with blocks and buckets, my curiosity got the best of me. Grace was sitting up, babbling and smiling, and I leaned down between her legs and carefully spread open her vagina. She didn’t resist and when I saw what was inside I shrieked. My mother came running. “Mama, Mama! Grace has something in there!” My mother didn’t bother asking why I had opened Grace’s vagina. This was within the spectrum of things I did. She just got on her knees and looked for herself. It quickly became apparent that Grace had stuffed six or seven pebbles in there. My mother removed them patiently while Grace cackled, thrilled that her prank had been a success.

in my book Not That Kind of Girl.First and foremost,

As she grew, I took to bribing her for her time and affection: one dollar in quarters if I could do her makeup like a “motorcycle chick.” Three pieces of candy if I could kiss her on the lips for five seconds. Whatever she wanted to watch on TV if she would just “relax on me.” Basically, anything a sexual predator might do to woo a small suburban girl I was trying.

I want to be very clear that I do not condone any kind of abuse under any circumstances

I shared a bed with my sister, Grace, until I was seventeen years old. She was afraid to sleep alone and would begin asking me around 5:00 P.M. every day whether she could sleep with me. I put on a big show of saying no, taking pleasure in watching her beg and sulk, but eventually I always relented. Her sticky, muscly little body thrashed beside me every night as I read Anne Sexton, watched reruns of SNL, sometimes even as I slipped my hand into my underwear to figure some stuff out.