Lacking
Reception
Allison Landa
I may
never live to be 100 – God, I hope I don’t – but even if I do, I will never, never understand the compunction to yap
on the phone in public. Especially when you’re supposedly working out at the
gym. Especially when you’re standing –
standing, not using – on the treadmill that I always prefer.
I
mean, this woman? She’s a sow. Porcine to the max. It’s less in the shape of
her body – though it’s there too, trust me – than in the buck of her teeth, the
way she holds her lip at gum level so you can see just how little dentistry she
received growing up. I mean, they make Invisalign
for a reason. She can still make it happen. Am I right?
It’s
in the curve of her calves, the color of a sheet of paper just barely blushing.
Maybe she’s a cow, not a sow. Bovine, porcine, does it really matter? She’s the
kind of creature that I might see if I had a kid and if I took that kid up to
Little Farm, but even if I had one of those creatures, I would rather take them
anywhere else. I mean, really. Little
Farm. If I wanted to feed celery and lettuce to indigents, I would never
have to leave downtown Berkeley.
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