through because you dont quite measure up. its an attitude, what
can I say. except to remind the public at large that the Constitution
is supposed to protect it.
so I go to cover the story and the ass wigglers are out in large
numbers. I mean they are fucking hanging from the chandeliers,
and there are chandeliers, ritzy hotel, lots of male journalists,
whither they goest go the ass wigglers.
so its a conference of women, and the point is that this particular
event occurred because a lot of tough shining new women have demanded this and that, like men not going inside them at will, either naked or with instruments, to tear them up, knock them up, beat
them up, fuck them up, etc. and suddenly, the ladies have crawled
out of the woodwork, so I go to pee in the classy lounge where the
toilets are, and one of the ass wigglers doesnt talk to me. I mean, Im
peeing, shes peeing, so who the fuck does she think she is. so the line
is drawn, but its been drawn before, in fact its been drawn right
across my own goddam flesh, its been drawn in high heeled ladies
boots trampling over me to get into print. I mean, I cant make a living. the boys like the ass wigglers.
so I work you know. I mean, I fucking work, but theres work I
wont take on, like certain kinds of ass wiggling at certain specific
moments, the crucial moments, like when the male editor wants that
ass to move back and forth this way and that, as a result, I am what
is euphemistically referred to as a poor person. I am ass breaking
poor and no person either, a woman is what I am, a hisser, a goddam
fucking poor woman who stays goddam fucking poor because she
doesnt fuck various jerks around town.
its the white glove syndrome, the queen must be naked except for
the white gloves, while hes fucking her raw she has to pretend shes
sitting with her legs closed proper and upright and while hes sitting
with his legs closed handing out work assignments she has to pretend shes fucking him until she drops dead from it. yeah its tough on her. its tougher on me.
I dont mean for this to be bitter. I dont know from bitter, its true
that morning fell flat on its ass and when morning breaks its shit to
clean it up. and I dont much like sleeping either because I have technicolor dreams in which strangers try to kill me in very resourceful ways, and its true that since the ass wiggler snubbed me in the toilet
of the ritzy hotel I get especially upset when I go to pee in my own
house (house here being a euphemism for apartment, room, or
hovel—as in her own shithole which she does not in any sense own,
in other words, where she hangs her nonexistent hat) and remember
that the food stamps ran out and I have $11. 14 in the bank, bleak,
Arctic in fact, but not bitter, because I do still notice some things I
particularly like, the sun, for instance, or the sky even when the sun
isnt in it. I mean, I like it. I like trees. I like them all year long, no
matter what. I like cold air. Im not one of those complainers about
winter which should be noted since so many people who pretend to
love life hate winter. I like the color red a lot and purple drives me
crazy with pleasure. I chum inside with excitement and delight every
time a dog or cat smiles at me. when I see a graveyard and the moon
is full and everything is covered with snow I wonder about vampires,
you cant say I dont like life.
