The thing no one tells you is how much you’ll hate them most days Continue reading
Your rage is butter. Your bitterness a warm crusty baguette. Slather it in the honey of your wrath and stuff a too big chunk of it into a throat that is choking anyway on all the unsayable things. Chew chew chew and chew.
Second course. Now that you’ve taken the edge off, find some cheese. Cheese is the answer to all the world’s problems. Drop cheese not bombs. Whatever your pleasure, sharp, mild, soft, dry, aged, fresh. Slap your favorites on a platter and pay homage to the gods of fromage. Meditate on the series of events that make all this cheese possible: the pulling and pressing and preserving. Imagine the only people left in the world are the people who make cheese.
But then again, woman can not survive on cheese and bread alone, not forever anyway.
Start a fire. As though coals are the bones of idiots who elected this odious sack of bile. Don’t just light them, set them ablaze and throw chopped up things over them (hopefully you used a cleaver.) Char it all up and eat it straight from the grill. Imagine you’re a different person, one whose appetites would have you elect a man whose only wish is to hate-eat the world. Shovel it in, let the juices stream down the front of you and drip all over what remains on the grill. Think of blood spilling all around the world, drenching us all in the destructive decisions of duplicitous men, the people who voted for them, and the women who fuck them. And the women who fuck them. And the women who fuck them.
There are women. Who. Fuck. Them.
Save room for dessert.
I’m a triple tapper.
A friend yelled at me for it once and I felt so sorry for her.
She had gone her whole life thinking there was only one way to crack an egg.