A Short Story About An American Girl

Sometimes a song that I’m singing in my head will escape from its skullblocked cage and make a run for it across the border of my lips. When this happens, I can go fifteen minutes, maybe hours given the retrospective nature of the discovery, before my conscious awareness is alerted to the fact that I’ve been whistling a happy tune in public like a damnfool. It’s a bad habit.

One of these times, my whistling must have been especially loud and taunting to fragile ears, because I was shocked into awareness by the shrieking of a chubby gargoylette, who whipped around from in front of me and demanded, “Did you just wolf whistle at me!?”

Caught completely off-guard, I stared at her flushed cheeks and fleshed body for a half second, dumbfounded. She continued glowering at me, as if seriously expecting an answer to her accusation. Pulling my head back a little, knitting my brow and squinting, I blurted, “Fuck no!”

She fumed. If she were a pig, which with a small tweak of one or two genes she could’ve easily crossed the species barrier, she’d have stamped her hooves in the mud a few times, threatening a charge. As it was, she turned on her heels while delivering a perfunctory “fuck you” and flipped me the fat bird over her shoulder as she walked away.

I felt embarrassed for the spectacle that had caught the eyes of a few passers-by, but also satisfied that my reflexive defensive parry poked a pig in the id.

I moved on, pissed that a pig deigned to shovel me a handful of her compacted shit, and pissed that I lost the tune in my head. smh…smh…smh… the rest of the walk I wondered, in vague outlines of indignation, how many American women were miserable in this way, cracking under the pressure of their fat and their delayed marriage schedules and their royalty complexes. How many women I saw every day were hiding blocks of TNT up their asses, just waiting for some misapprehended spark to blow the lid off their facade?

The feminine American woman harboring not a lick of resentment toward men is as rare as the HB10. I wonder, equally, if she knows this? I know it.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *