The last time I threw a dinner party, no one came. That’s all right, I thought, since I hadn’t made any food, or put out any plates, but still, after I had turned off the front-porch light and gone to bed, I opened my mouth and hollowed out words upon words of outrage, indignance.
This silent suffering is in vogue, now. Don’t you know?
The last time I fucked myself I hadn’t bought myself dinner first, which is incredibly rude, and presumptuous of me anyway, that dinner equals sex, or that tickets to the ballet equal a handjob, but really, we all know: there’s got to be a tip scale for this somewhere, and we’re all just playing along. Anyway, I won’t go out with me again. The sex wasn’t that great, and I’m still hungry.
If you remember the time I sat on the newsprint in the corner, and tried to toilet-train myself, you’ll also remember that I couldn’t even pee. My eyelids turned yellow and nothing came out. You rolled up a magazine and hit me on the nose; I yelped and hid, and later I ate your slippers.
Crazy though it may seem, I have unraveled everything you’ve knitted, only so slowly you won’t notice. I hid it under the couch. O, how I want you to hate me, with fist and fury and sugar. How I have unhated you in return.