maybe this and maybe that
Babes and bots,
How's it going? Are you also dairy-free? Do mysterious Thanksgiving leftovers make you fart silently, atrociously, or fantastically? Are you reading this in a bedroom? A living room? At work? In the car? In an office somewhere you'd rather not be? Are you sad? Is your dad a jar of ashes in your car? Yeah. I guess that escalated quickly. Don't be alarmed, read a book. Maybe one by Alice Wong called Year of the Tiger: An Activist's Life. It has pictures!
Or maybe read this poem by Chen Chen about poop and buttholes and anal sex, somehow titled "Winter."
Or maybe read this other poem by Chen Chen, "When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities"
Or maybe talk to yourself the way you did when you were younger. Give yourself that agency. Do it!
Or maybe half-ass something, like I half-assed this blog post. And then realize you can't half-ass anything, not really. Not even wiping your butt. Everything you do you do with your whole ass.
Or pet a dog. A husky. Maybe find one named Mambo who twirls when he gets excitedd. I hear he's a really good boy.
Or make music with your fingertips. Tap the table. Tap it again. Tap it again. What do you hear?
Or make a new friend with a new wound (maybe one like yours or maybe a different one) for you to open, give yourselves something to talk about. Be nosey. Be apologetic. Make space for their questions. Share something stupid, and then share something real.
Or open your neighbor's mail, but don't tell anyone. Choose the magazines! No one has to know.
Or tell yourself a secret, and then find a turtle and tell the turtle your secret. Know you don't have a secret anymore.
Or make love (not war). Write Joe Biden about it. Or George W. Bush. Or Barak Obama. Tell them you came quickly, as though you spent your whole day on the precipice of pleasure. On second thought, maybe don't tell anyone about that without their prior consent.
Okie dokie, that's all for now. Thanks for taking a bite out of the sandwich with me!
XO BLT
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