>I was only a freshman >I loved Foucault so much, I had

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>I was only a freshman
>I loved Foucault so much, I had all the books and audio lectures
>I pray to him every night before bed, thanking him for the discourse I've been recurring
>"Foucault is love" I say. "Foucault is life"
>One of my patriarchial professors hears me and calls me a castrated Nietzschean sell-out
>I knew he was just jealous of my essay on biopolitics
>I called him an in-the-closet fascist
>He bdsms me in his dungeon w/o lube, then returns to class
>I'm crying now, and my bum hurts
>I lay in my shackles and its really cold
>A warmth is moving towards me
>I feel a presence
>Its Michel
>I am so happy
>He whispers in my ear, "This is my dungeon now"
>He grabs me with his heterotopic aids-ridden hands
>I'm ready
>I panopticinize
>He subjectivates my solar anus
>It hurts so much but I do it for Michel
>I feel my ideology dialecting as my eyes start to water
>I discursively react to his interpellation
>I want to pelase Michel
>He discourses a might treatise as he fills me with his love
>My professor walks in
>Foucault looks straight in his eyes and says. "In its function, the power to punish is not essentially different from that of curing or educating."
>Foucault leaves through my solar anus
>Foucault is love, Foucault is life