The Housewives’ Guide To Anatomy

“More things went wrong than you could possibly imagine”

“I’ve never slept backwards before”

“I’ve forgotten my daughter’s name.”

“I’m not here for your rebirth”

“I wish I were a typewriter.”

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?

“For God’s sake, will you stop throwing around epigraphs [and deal with the facts for once]…”

Dear Housewife, What is your preferred way of coping with a hangover? XQ

Dear XQ

Today I stayed in bed all day reading Proust; I find Proust is the best hangover cure out there. His description of the flowering hawthorn makes me wonder at how mechanical my life has become, how predictable. I wish I weren’t a machine! I’m like a living keyboard, but my escape key is sticky.

I haven’t traveled in years, not since that last trek across Siberia. The miners were so generous, cooking me squirrel stew with an obvious Tuscan influence. But while their squirrels were delicious, their bears were authentically Russian. I sat in the snow watching the bears dance, and after a while I noticed that their arms were prostheses. You could just make out the plastic and ball bearings where the dark fur had worn away.

The queen of the miners sat yawning in her furry hood, and I thanked her for her kindness, especially touching in the frozen wastes. Lady Wristband’s delicious squirrel is a meal I will never forget!

“I stayed in bed all day reading Proust.”

“their squirrels were delicious, but their bears were authentically Russian”

“Lady wristband’s delicious squirrel”

“Their arms were prostheses”

“I wish I weren’t a machine”