To the twenty-three-year-old face-down topless in the sand with the B-cups, blonde dreads, and translucent skin that, I might add, you have no real chance of tanning:
It isn’t that I think you’re a bitch
so much
or think you should gag
so much
on those grapes you keep sucking down—
it’s just, let’s say, that if you happened to craptastically
crap yourself and shuffle off this beach in shame
with your black bikini bottom bulging
in the wrong place
it would make my day,
If you could just for a minute lose control
of that bladder, that rectum, that easy decorum,
if your innie became an outtie,
if your boobs became bagpipes,
if your tan little tummy puffed and popped
on a scalpel and a parasite leaped out
and attached itself orally to your teats—
and if I could watch it all, record it all,
play it back over and over in some sped-up,
slo-mo time-lapse,
it would really improve my mood.
See, it’s not even that I resent your face
so much.
It’s not even that I resent myself
so much
for once upon a regrettable afternoon,
letting some academic shitwit get his
dick wet (at a time, I might add,
in my blossom of youth, I might add,
when I looked not a little like you,
only hotter, surely, hair coiffed
more carelessly).
It’s just that these fantasies, like TED talks,
motivate me:
Kirstin, shave your damn pits,
trim your damn bush,
get your damn ass off the towel,
and make sure the kid doesn’t drown in the lake,
And another thing: don’t tell me
this is all symptomatic of postpartum depression
or that I should cut back on my drinking
or mind my meditation
or do some fucking yoga
or run a fucking mile
or find some dude who’s not a loser
or beg my mom for a little more help
or go and make some female friends
for like the first time in my natural life
or find a sense of community by reaching out
to my tech geek pothead green-thumb neighbors.
I don’t need that.
I got a Hitachi on my nightstand
and youporn on my iPad.
I’m a blissed-out
21st century
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