I’m curvier than the Guggenheim and it makes me very sad.
I lie in bed online-shopping for hours, so long my legs go numb, scrolling through small outfits that fit small girls like small condoms. I could wear them as toe rings.
“What are you looking at?” asks my boyfriend.
“Nothing.” I lie.
He joins me in bed, rolling my fat dog across the duvet.
“Are you looking at dream hair?”
“Maybe.” I sort of lie.
I scroll through a slew of natural blondes. My soul crumbles – quite like the apple crumble I’m now craving.
I don’t mind the unattainable, it’s fun to pretend. Men do it with porn and perky- breasted women, I do it with blonde scalps and clothing meant for the flat-chested.
My hair is blonde but not luscious. Oily roots grasp my forehead while my supposed “bangs” escape outwards, shaped like the letter S sideways. There is not much I can do. If I brush it, I look like a composer.
I remember how much weight I’ve gained and start to cry. I wail at my boyfriend and then my dog Tina. He says I am beautiful. Tina understands: she’s “overweight,” according to science. I think she’s gorgeous and just curvy like me but her vet, Dr. Bunni, insisted on diet food. Tina is a chihuahua-pit bull and snorts like a pig, and her treats are literally pieces of celery.
Unlike Tina, however, I don’t lose weight easily. I don’t have the luxury of pre-measured kibble provided in a shiny bowl every morning, and my boyfriend refuses to cooperate with this desire. Though every once in a while he will throw some celery for me to catch in my mouth while I’m on all fours.
My lips felt like Coachella. I had never looked worse. My hair looked like a lampshade and my chin was sausage pizza, which according to Chinese face mapping, means I’m having gynecological problems. This is true: I just got my period and I’ve had a yeast infection for weeks.
For my uterus, Mercury is always in retrograde.
I truly resent my vagina. It does much more harm than good. Having power over men is only fun for a moment – then you get a UTI and cry on the toilet because it hurts so badly to pee. Now I’m bleeding through it, and will continue to do so for several days, and then again in a month, and then another, and for many months and years to come until I’m around fifty. I am a woman, which already sucks because sexism is alive and well – have you tried walking anywhere as a woman and not smiling back at a man? And on top of that I have to spend twenty seven more years – three hundred and twenty four months – bleeding from a centrally located orifice between my legs, furious for no particular reason, craving things like salty chocolate and Chunky Beef Soup.
Sometimes cramps hurt so badly I can’t even limp to CVS, which I often do in the middle of the night when I’ve run out of Gas X. So I used a delivery service to order a menstrual pain heat pad and a bearded hipster brought it to me via fixed gear bike, and we’ve formed an unbreakable bond.
“Why was I born a woman?” I ask my Dachshund who moonlights as a heat pad.
I press him into my uterus.
At least I’m not pregnant.