Hello, I am a woman on a blue-and-green sphere that has dollops and doinks of mountains all over it. Some of the mountains on my cosmic sphere splooge out thick liquid fire spurts that run downhill and cool and turn into vacation destinations after a few thousand years. I am a woman living on a planet that has noodle-shaped guys squiggling silently in the soil and four-legged mammal kings with hammer feet, or horns on their heads, or coats covered in spots and stripes. My planet also has live, feathered, beaky skeletons flying through the environment, and big, heavy creatures that are tusked and trunked and have sad, long memories and wash their bodies in cold mud puddles and know who their babies are. There are large, deadly cats watching everything in the dark, sneaking through the fanned-out ferns. There are delighted pigs and gossiping geese and dogs that sprawl with their mouths open so that they can cool off after running around.
There are arrows of extra electricity ripping through the air, and loud drum noises in the sky when two temperatures collide. Deep, wide dents filled with water are populated by animals with scales or blowholes or no eyes, and ones that live in shells that look like tiny purses made out of little plates. There are white puffs floating in the air here; they hover high above my house. The puffs turn into wet water bloops and fall down and turn my hair from straight to curly. The water bloops also make the flowers open up; they turn dust into mudslides; they can intercept sunbeams and make them into arches that you can’t touch because they are only swoops of colored light.
Tonight I am going to the restaurant, where I will eat a killed and burned-up bird and drink liquefied old purple grapes, and also I will swallow clear water that used to have bugs and poop and poison in it but has been cleaned up so that it doesn’t make us ill. I am so excited at the thought of consuming the burned bird and the grape gunk at the restaurant that I put skin-colored paint all over my face and dab pasty red pigment on my lips. I also swish peachy granules onto my cheeks and use a pencil to draw a line around my eye, so that people know where my blinkers are.
Next, I take a little brush and swirl black paint over each eyelash, and then I heat up a metal stick and wind my head hairs around it, so that my face is surrounded by spirals. I stuff each of my breasts into a cloth bag, and then secure the pair of boob bags against my torso with straps, I guess to prevent the boobs from floating up past the white puffs and into outer space.
These are important tasks to perform if you want to leave your house and go to the restaurant and not have to stay home and be alone forever, which, on Earth, is bad.
I cover my body with a piece of fabric that has been cut and sewn into a certain shape so as to remind others that I have a butt and a vagina, but without showing the actual butt or vagina that I have.
I am a woman here on this ancient ball that rotates along with a collection of other balls around a bigger ball made up of light and gases that are science gases, not farts. Don’t be immature. I wear this paint and these boob bags and this butt-vagina fabric map so that I can be here on the globe and go to places like the restaurant.
At the restaurant, I pay with the money that I earn from pretending to be other women. I get that money so I can afford all the face paint and boob bags that I need, so that I can go to the restaurant and eat the dead burned bird and sip the purple grape gloop that sometimes makes me fall down or throw up all over this globe. I repeat this cycle so that I can go to even more places on this sphere, as it revolves through eternal darkness and endless space. ♦
