Women Die When They Decide To

I knew things needed to change when it became clear that Isabella Rossellini wanted nothing to do with me. How could she? I, a woman in her budding years resigned to the pace and pain of the aged, has no place in the swimming pools of those brewing potions for eternal youth. My tits don’t sag too terribly, but I act like they do. Stupid girl!

Man revels in his mission to trek out west and “find himself” among strangers and solitude, each of us on a hero’s journey. Ha! How generous of us all to believe that we are the hero. Isabella Rossellini doesn’t think she’s the hero. She knows she is more than that, she is the puppet master, the one who wrote the story that the hero went on.

You can never out sin God’s forgiveness, fingers crossed, because my punch card is filling up quick. He won’t send you to hell when you die, he’ll just place you there while you’re still here in paradise- all the more maddening. Perhaps eternal forgiveness only counts for the prodigal son, he squanders money. It feels more likely that the prodigal daughter would squander her time.

To regain favor with Isabella and God, I cleaned out the garage and dug up dirt in the backyard. I rolled out a beautiful rug, a rug much too beautiful for a garage because irreverence liberates like nothing else. It has since been covered in mouse droppings and inspired three new paintings.

Next, I sift the dirt to get the tiny rocks and the tinier living things out of it. This endows the dirt with a smooth finish upon setting. Once sifted, the dirt must be wet in order to be sculpted. To use water would be too obvious, instead I collect gallon jugs of my own spit. This requires hyper-hydration which aids in the maintenance of youth prior wasted. I am so jealous that I am made of the Earth, I want the Earth to be made of me too.

I construct cities from the wet dirt, cities soon populated by other tiny people made of Earth. They get angry at the noise and the smog so they move out of their city to the woods to write one-woman shows and sculpt things. I hang my head, children ever so ungrateful. If I had used water and not my own spit they might not have such a proclivity for dissatisfaction.

In the dark, I lie on the rug, my big white head surrounded by mouse droppings, disheartened by dryness, rubbing to reach climax in effort to fall asleep. The moon lies on its back on the black blanket of sky, nearly full and certain that it will be soon. In the distance I hear the faint toll of Isabella Rossellini cumming, proud, honest, and erotic on expensive sheets, no lube required, even at 72.