Sunday, March 22, 2015


Identity is a slippery one, tough to wrap your hands around. The question of who are you may seem more easily approached when one is altered – drunk, high, something else – but sober it’s so much more of a bitch. Life conspires to both structure and steal your identity. You can’t allow it. The influences may come from without, but the strength springs from within.

I’m trying to figure out how to say this to Adam without sounding as though I’ve preemptively smoked six doobies. Instead I say: “I’m sorry.”

Ah, the knee-jerk feminist reaction that may be imagined at that one! Why should the woman, as vessel, apologize to the man as invader? Penis as pirate, really; a one-eyed Captain Jack. In any event, I am truly sorry. For once my body has functioned as might be expected, and as it turns out it was the wrong goddamned time for those sorts of uppity tricks.

My mind-body connection malfunctioned. I planned and my uterus laughed.

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