Monday, June 2, 2008

On every occasion, I'm waiting for a funeral.

On the event of my 30th birthday, or 29th.

Put to death, or put to rest: the pegged blue jeans; David Hockney swimming pool colored pegged jeans; and ancient polyster pin-striped pants that I use as my 'nice' pants. I no longer fit into these. (goodbye 28 waist.)

(Do not hope to 'lose' the weight. Do not ignore who you are and who you have become. Idea that your body is essentially you.)

Put to death by live burial, death by shooting, burning, drowning.

Put to rest, set sail in the sound Valhalla bound; bury in a casket; cremate and throw burned fragments into a river for turtles to eat. Consume (probably not possible). Document everything.
Take out large ad in the obituaries for jeans. Do this un-ironically.

Imagine that the shed parts of you are no longer you. The wolf that gnaws off its paw to escape a trap does not consider the part its anymore. Is hindered by.

Public humiliation. Subsuming humiliation.

Document everything.

3 comments:

OCD OD said...

Ah yes, and then 30 looms ever and ever closer and you start to waffle. I love this idea though. I have yet to marry the idea that my body is me. As of today it is merely this thing that I content with. Years past and on bad days? Is is my enemy and must be stopped at all cost.

Carrie Deming said...

Jason how I have missed the hoof. -carrie

Trixolina said...

I just adjust my ideal weight up 10 pounds once a decade. When I was 15 I weighed 110 and thought that was perfect. At 25 I weighed 125 pounds and thought that was really the ideal weight for me. Now that I'm 35 I feel pretty hot at 135... It's a good strategy.