This Bitch Will Never Have a Dress
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The Minnesotans were put off by the breast hat on the bride’s head. Their faces droopied down at their spaceship phones when she came down the aisle on her unicycle. She had on a sparkly leotard and fuzzy thigh-highs.
I was not sure why the Minnesotans were invited, but then I was.
My best friend suddenly became a Minnesotan, too: she wears dress pants and drinks juicered vegetable juice and lives in a house now, too. I remember when she origamied in tents and rhumba’d with Kant and shaved our heads matching.
If you have ever ever wielded pumice, do not lay eyes on my feet is what I say to her sometimes when I don’t know what to talk about.
Admittedly, at her wedding I got weddy-minded and dug a little of my own grave in imagining. But in my imagining I did not have a dress with so much more surface area than myself that I appeared legless.
I pat myself on the ass for remaining “real” and “unchanging” all these years. I believe so ferociously in art. I will keep on believing so ferociously in art, I say. But the bride has outdone me again; I linger mid-life; the problem being, I let the ants in the zipper-door in order to feel them, not to understand.