Part V: Snakes – Lady Troddenhill #3 (Chapter 98)
I’m the opposite of Kafka’s hunger artist.
While
the artist of minimalism cultivates and prunes his hunger – nurtures its lack
into high art – I fear mine.
At
the first hint of emptiness, I must chase it, snuff it out, with refined carbs,
overcooked meat, and oil: fluffy, white McDonald’s sesame buns; seared meat
patties; special sauce; hot, crispy fries. A little lettuce on the side.
I
cultivate my fat, feel it shake when I walk, struggle as if I’m carrying a
heavy piece of overstuffed luggage.
But
I want to be like the hunger artist.
I’m
jealous because he lovingly embraces that big empty hole in his stomach; he
embraces the thin skin that stretches taut like leather over sharp, angular
bones.
I,
too, want my bones to stick out.
I
want to bump my bony pelvis into those catty women who would dare talk about
me...
Stab
them with lethal bones.
Self-acceptance.
Hell,
no.
Just
when I thought I’d come to terms with my body, my body has rebelled, screams at
me, begs me to do something before I drop dead because my heart is weary and
can no longer support me times two.
I
feel like a Judas, but I don’t want to die before my time.
I
want to fend off death…
I
want to die an old woman with translucent skin stretched over bone.
I
don’t want to be buried in a piano crate.
“Little
girl Samantha, I want you,” Lady Troddenhill whispers.
If
she had fingers, she would be beckoning to me.
Yeah,
sure.
She
just wants to entice me so that she can toss me to the floor and crack my
spine.
She
wants Sheldon.
Lady
Troddenhill.
She’s
a bitch, I tell you, a judgmental bitch who dares me to take her on, climb her
virtual hills, pound her tread with my heavy gait, huff and puff miles across
the country, yet going nowhere important –
In
front of the TV, where I’ll watch the daily dramas of characters whose
obsessions would land the rest of us in the psych ward.
A
switch in my head flips on.
I
dig out my workout clothes out of the size-22 box and pull my dusty Nikes from
under the bed.
I
still hate that Lady Troddenhill, but I swear –
I’m going
to whup her ass.
That is, until the doorbell rings, changing my life forever.
______________________
About “A Hunger Artist,” by Franz Kafka
 |
| Franz Kafka: AI Generated Painting |