September 19, 2012

(Friends, I’ve been feeling feisty as of late. Maybe it’s because of how depressing current events often are. It could be because it’s an election year and all the idiots are being annoying. I don’t know. But I felt compelled to speak up in the form of writing a sassy little something. So that’s what I give you today. In other news, there are only ten chapters left in my haunted house novel, and hopefully, it will be finished by Saturday. By then, the wedding will be exactly two weeks away, and I might have just enough time to write a short novel. Or at least be close to finishing. We’ll see.)

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…..a clotted man tells me i have a beautiful uterus. he says it just like this: YOU HAVE A BEAUTIFUL UTERUS. IT IS LIKE A GOLDEN EGG. CAN I KEEP IT? this is after he blows my house down. HUFF, PUFF. HUFF, PUFF. THE HOUSE GOES DOWN. down to the ground. i stand in the ash and wood remains. what does that say about him? that he is a wolf. or at least, something furry. so this clotted man chases me around, a stethoscope in one hand, a curettage in the other. he bangs the instruments against the walls, spilling plaster blood onto the antiseptic floor. [give me your uterus, he begs. give me that little vase neck.] i run in circles. i run past him, run towards him, run past him, run towards him, run over him. i run and my heels hurt. i run and my uterus aches. this man screams like a wolf. he looks like a wolf. he has the same pointed nose. he drops the instruments onto the ground, lifts his legs into the air, and twists around to lick his ass clean. toilet paper pieces hang from his teeth. [give me your uterus, the clotted man shrieks.] he twists around and grasps me with his thumbs. but i am slippery. i slip right out of his hands and fall to the tile floor. i slide down the hallway. i slip around the corner. i slide beneath a doorway crack. i keep my uterus with me. i hide my uterus in a glass jar filled to the top with embalming fluid. anything to keep my uterus safe. but i worry. what if the glass breaks? so i take that semi-pickled uterus out of its formaldehyde brine and swallow it whole. it thumps against all my vital organs on its way down to the uterine slot in the center of my stomach. but now my uterine is too accessible. the clotted man can slice me across the chest, reach in, and yank my uterine right out. then i’ll die and my uterus will be his prisoner anyway. so i do what any smart girl will do. i tear that uterus out. i lift it out of my abdomen and stuff it into the garbage disposal, where it grinds away to a meaty nothing no one would ever recognize as a reproductive organ. and i am relieved. now the clotted man can chase me but never get anything he wants. what if i did give him my uterus? what if i opened myself up like a door, lifted my uterus out, and dropped it into his leathery hands? what if i let him treat it like a golden egg? he would place it in a glass case and spray those walls clean fifteen times a day. scrub, squeak, scrub. he would say: KEEP ALL YOUR HANDS AWAY. no fingerprints on this golden edge. no smudges on this baby. at night, he might sit in front of the case and dig his knuckles into his stomach, twisting the bones around until the skin collects like cotton strands. and the man might scream. he might smack his tongue against the glass case while my golden uterus breathes sadly, dying slowly from all the chemical fumes coming off the cleaning solvents. we speak about a golden uterus so let us think of the golden goose and the foie gras that might develop over time. this clotted man might lift the uterus high, bring the uterus right out of its protective case, force the cervical mouth open, and pour in three gallons’ worth of marbles. not just plain marbles. glittering marbles. marbles made out of precious stones, because a golden uterus deserves only the best gems when being force-fed by a clotted man. so the uterus expands. that golden egg grows fast and fat and those golden egg walls creak as tissue strains to keep the marbles collected. then what does the clotted man do? the clotted man brings a knife down and cuts the golden uterus along its center, using the blade to mark the diameter, the uterine hemisphere, and the golden uterus, my golden uterus, cracks in half, shimmering with marbled juices while the man prepares a plate of toast. he dips that toast into the uterus, collecting the marble bile on the bread, and he eats slowly, his eyes rolling, his tongue hanging over his lips. he mops up all the golden uterine yolk and his cheeks turn neon yellow with jaundice. bits of uterine whites catch on the barbed bristles covering the skin around his mouth and he scrapes those hairs clean while sobbing, I NEED ANOTHER UTERUS! he needs another uterus! he needs another uterus! so he grabs me by the throat and lifts me off the ground and his hands are rimmed with barbed wire so even if i slip through his fingers, i’ll still get cut. so i stay still. and his hands squeeze tight. he sticks his tongue down my throat and inserts a plastic bag behind my tonsils. [this will work, he says.] he breathes into the bag. he breathes until the plastic bag inflates. and maybe i scream. maybe i scream so loud, i go deaf in my head and can no longer hear my heartbeat in my ears or my pulse in my throat or my breath in my eyes. the clotted man pulls away and my throat is a synthetic uterine sac ready to pop with a needle. [does it look okay, i ask.] the clotted man smiles. the clotted man smiles so wide, his teeth break and his smile tears, and he looks over his shoulder at the smoking toaster, already imagining the golden-brown toast popping out of the heated slots, crunchy surface ready to be dabbed against some uterine yolk. [it is the most beautiful uterus in the world, the clotted man says. i've never seen such a beautiful uterus before. it looks good enough to eat.]


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