Fat People Make Jesus Cry

Steppin'
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

I am officially pissed. And not in my pants, thank you very much. I am pissed in a way well-suited for analogies that would invariably get me into trouble and I like my freedom, so I'll have to leave it there. Let it suffice to say that I am redefining anger and frustration as we speak. And the floor is shaking. It is shaking because a fat American (of course) is waddling around the office, her mammoth weight ensuring that every fiber in the industrial grade carpet knows she's here. This goes on as another one - this one also an American mammoth, albeit of slightly smaller proportions - is screaming to someone at the other end of this professional work space. And yes, it is necessary to define the setting in a no-frills-this-and-only-this-way because you never can tell what people forget. Mammoth B, for instance, completely forgot the meaning of both phone and email. She must have forgotten - for what other reason would one have for choosing shrieking as their primary mode of communication?

Add to this five dollar Walmart plastic shoes and what do you get? Flip-flopping. You know, the sound made when a three-quarter inch piece of cheap plastic hits the underside of a human foot. Now maybe I've been living beneath a rock - beneath a lovely piece of kyanite perhaps - but it is my understanding that the mere act of wearing flip-flops does not necessitate the flip-flopping noise otherwise known as white-trash-look-at-me-complex. But as I said, maybe I've been living under a rock. Maybe I missed the memo.

Alone is Better

Crushing at Street Level
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

Don’t let those Wrigley Doublemint commercials fool you. Two is not better. Neither is three, four, or their numeric superiors. One’s where it’s at. And that’s where I’m at. Alone and loving every damn minute.

Considering a move to the Land of Solitude? I say jump in. Head first. There's no membership fee and here's just a small sampling of the pleasures you'll enjoy:

1. Traveling becomes stress-free. No one's schedule or forgetfulness or lack of organizational skills to accommodate but your own, and how could you get mad at yourself? I mean, really! You're too sweet for anger.

2. Shocking restaurant hosts and waitstaff who initially cannot believe that such a gorgeous creature is dining alone. (Even Bob W. aka The World's Greatest USPS Counterperson acknowledges your beauty and if there's anything Bob W. isn't, it's a liar.)

3. The aforementioned shocked folks ultimately go on to regard you with a lovable envy-admiration-intrigue combo. And that's envy in the best sense of the word meaning devoid of malice or any members of its extended family. Oh yeah.

4. Your bed becomes a diagonal playground.

5. Compromise is magically transformed into an idea more abstract than the intersection of Op Art, Suprematism, and Surrealism. And it feels fantastic to be right all the time, doesn't it?

6. You recapture a level of privacy that's guaranteed to send chills up Porter Goss's spine. It might even make him puke and soil his pants at the same time and that alone seems incentive enough to migrate to the Nation of One.

And if you happen to be a young woman, you automatically gain the right to carte blanche pepperspray. So think about it. Better yet, don't think about it. Don't think, just do.

An Ode to Longfeather

open
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

You are the mountaintop who fills every creek and snow cap with desire. You are a conifer who turns all others deciduous with a single glance. You are the mother of fatherhood and the child of the Inanimate. To say I love you is not enough; to say you love me might do the trick.

And on the Seventh Day

falling
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

I’m finally tending to an academic necessity I’ve put off for five years. Some call it annoying, others say “Biology.” And though the name doesn’t particularly matter - I had my first session of fill-in-the-blank last week and was privy to an incident that rivaled the “Negro talk” travesty. In this course, we were discussing – of all things – Biology. So in this discussion of life and its scientific appendages – and by “in” I mean before, during, and ever-unfortunately after – there was a genius seated in the back of the room who asked the same question three to five times in a row and without much, if any, modification. Did I mention she was a genius? (And by “Genius” I mean “fucking moron.”) She was a genius eligible for AARP membership, but wasn’t a member because the other end of an 800 line wouldn’t answer her inane questions in a manner she deemed accessible. So during this discussion of life’s essential qualities, Genius raises her hand and asks the professor “Do you think Noah was a biologist?” And no, this wasn’t CCD class. (Shocking, I know.)

Is my calendar off by a few decades? Is some silkscreener having a great laugh at my expense? I hope so, because sometimes I feel guilty being the only one laughing. And if not guilty, at least gluttonous. And digestion can be a hell of a time investment. By the time I was through, the class was a blip on the map of yesterday and my brilliant retort must now be delivered electronically to a surrogate audience. Here goes:

Listen grandma. And listen good because I will not repeat myself even if you ask ten times and modify sentence structure and content with each turn. Here’s the deal: Noah was not a biologist. Nor, like popular belief, was he a zookeeper or shipbuilder. Noah was nothing. He was and remains a fictional character existing on paper in perpetuity with his fictional brethren. In fact, I think he and Hester Prinn have a date tonight. They’ve plans to debunk Copernican “theory.”

Was Noah a biologist? I don’t know. Or, sure, yeah, a biologist. And I’m a hibiscus blossom.

Things Men Will Never Know

Sold Out
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

Men will never know what it’s like to walk down the street an object. They will never know what it is to be a gorgeous young woman walking down the street alone at night fearing rape. Men will never understand, no matter their attempts at cognition, feigned or genuine. Never will they know what it’s like to fear for your safety – for the safety of your reproductive organs and their privacy, their sovereignty. Men will never know what it is to live beneath a leer that never breaks for sleep.

And if you own a bike shop and are a man, take note: when a pair of humans walk into your shop and one of them happens to be a woman, don’t avoid eye contact. Resist the patriarchal urge of the privileged gender; resist assuming decisions are only made by men. And while you resist – or try to – I’ll be in the corner of your shop making vomit art. And it will be in the shape of a womb.