Every time I encounter something bad, I’m especially grateful that I didn’t get married or have kids. When I turn my head and think, if I had married this thing, I’d probably end up so furious I’d vomit blood. I’m lucky after all. And it even tells me, “Losing you is my loss.” Come on. That pig mouth can chatter—once it starts, it can chatter for half a day and somehow sprouts a pig prick from its words. “Do this, do that.” It can’t get hard enough. Anyone who comes has to lick it up. It daydreams all day about being eighteen—still young, still at the peak of its powers.
The wrinkles on its face are more than my ninety-year-old grandpa’s foot rot. Every day it imagines more and thinks it’s some Dragon-Slayer youth. All day it plays the hero saving a beauty, dragging respectable married women into the water. It tries to persuade chickens to turn over a new leaf. Every day it hangs itself up high—like it’s about to be hung up on the family tree already.
Once it prostitutes enough, it tells itself it’s doing charity. It dresses it up with the fancy name “saving impoverished girls,” pretending it was moved by compassion. Then after, if it turns out to be a breakup, it goes “woo woo woo woo,” like, “I should’ve let go of the instinct to help others.” Once it’s done, it refuses to acknowledge anything or anyone. You only recognize the second thing that you can’t lift—then you’re afraid you won’t even recognize your own wife, and that the seed you leave behind will be donated to charity instead. Honestly, it’s really cute.
It always frames itself as a “deeply affectionate” character, acting day after day. Too bad those millions of cameras never film you. Every time it prostitutes, it’s always the one that ends up pretending to be deeply in love. The day I saw through you when you were “the client,” I already understood the truth. You can act until you marry and have kids, still lying to yourself. You try to fool me—but your little brain only ever stops at that second thing. You don’t understand that you’re just performing.
The wrinkles on its face are more than my ninety-year-old grandpa’s foot rot. Every day it imagines more and thinks it’s some Dragon-Slayer youth. All day it plays the hero saving a beauty, dragging respectable married women into the water. It tries to persuade chickens to turn over a new leaf. Every day it hangs itself up high—like it’s about to be hung up on the family tree already.
Once it prostitutes enough, it tells itself it’s doing charity. It dresses it up with the fancy name “saving impoverished girls,” pretending it was moved by compassion. Then after, if it turns out to be a breakup, it goes “woo woo woo woo,” like, “I should’ve let go of the instinct to help others.” Once it’s done, it refuses to acknowledge anything or anyone. You only recognize the second thing that you can’t lift—then you’re afraid you won’t even recognize your own wife, and that the seed you leave behind will be donated to charity instead. Honestly, it’s really cute.
It always frames itself as a “deeply affectionate” character, acting day after day. Too bad those millions of cameras never film you. Every time it prostitutes, it’s always the one that ends up pretending to be deeply in love. The day I saw through you when you were “the client,” I already understood the truth. You can act until you marry and have kids, still lying to yourself. You try to fool me—but your little brain only ever stops at that second thing. You don’t understand that you’re just performing.