The Housewives' Guide To Anatomy

The real housewives of Bushwick aren’t here for your fucking funeral. As far as we’re concerned, that coffin is made of glass, and we can already see the goldfishes flopping around inside. We can throw stones inside it, and not break anything but our own view of the street. You haven’t sold us a single vacuum cleaner, not even one with an attachment that can suck up the emotional residue of your own untoward death. You might as well stop trying.

And now that that’s settled, and you’re down on the couch, resigned to your highball in lieu of a bouquet, I can ask you: why is the desire to be a robot so universally selfish? It only takes a moment on the internet to ascertain this: millions of people wish they were, themselves, robots, but no one at all wishes the same thing for their daughters, husbands, boyfriends. It’s sad, really. Emotional remove, automation, appears to be a private luxury, something hoarded, something no one will give as a gift.

(And only one person wishes to be a machine. I don’t know who it is. Everyone else wants to gain the detachment while retaining the humanoid shell. They’re tricky that way. And no one wishes they were a typewriter.)

And are they so different from you, my dear, with your inhumed words, your turned-over goldfish, your legs always straddling that coffin? Don’t you realize we can all see you aren’t inside it?