Aging, Coyotes, Magic

Time passes and species migrate, or, if you’re a coyote, you colonize. Let us colonize culture, Cavedwellers. Let’s plant ourselves in places that need magic and enchantment and then make it happen.

As I move toward this activity please forgive some moments where I fail in the despair that inevitably rises as life slowly drains from my body.

 

 

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Neck Fat

Some guys have really fat necks.  Below is a fat neck, though not the fattest neck that I’ve seen.  How the human body decides to store unsightly fat is a mystery to me.IMG_20170606_175805272-1

 

I have the unfortunate advantage of a hyper thin frame and flesh.  This means that my neck is the width of the proverbial pencil.  When I call a guy pencil-neck I have three fingers pointing back at me, and together they equal the width of my neck.  I’m what they call, “skinny.”  You think that’s good?  You think that’s some kind of super power?  I have a news flash: It ain’t.  It’s the opposite; a super-disempower.  I tried to get a job as a mover and the guy behind the desk eyed me and said, “Him?  He ain’t got nothing!”

People love to ridicule me, tell me how skinny I am.  My own mother, every time she sees me tells me how I’m losing weight.  I walk into a room and everyone suddenly feels self conscious of their neck fat, arm jiggles, and Milwaukee goiters (hypertrophied bellies resulting from beer over-consumption).  It’s my fault so they insist on using the worst  term for my body as if I love it: skinny.

Skinny means, no power, no strength, no girls.  It’s a curse, I tell you!

Last summer a middle school girl yelled out the bus window, “I wish I was as skinny as you!”

Women want my body.

Do I need to say anything else?  Wait…yes I do.  After a quick glance at the above sentence I see that it gives the wrong impression.  Women want to live inside my body, wear it like a coat, a bizarre and macabre furless coat.  They do NOT want to own it as a toy.  They do not want to touch it, pet it, or embrace it.  I once had a promiscuous knock-out refuse to date me because I was too thin. “I would feel like less of a woman,” she told me, meaning: too fat.  So she walked away and immediately shacked up with a short pudgy character with a micro-penis.

It’s so true, I’m crying.

Neck fat.

You don’t understand what this narrow body of mine means. It means that when the stool his the fan and all tech fails and we’re reduced to 19th century farming because grocery stores have stopped working; I will be dead. I will die of starvation long before any of us get or acts together enough to produce did again. And as I lay dying, my body aggressivity devouring itself, I will do so in ill-fitting shirts and high-water pants.

Now that I’m walking through the foyer of middle age I’m loosing the thin body that has held me back for so long; I’m getting fat, but there’s no hope in this. Unfortunately, I’m not getting fat anywhere good: pecks, thighs, biceps, Milwaukee goiter.  No, I’m getting fat over (under) my perineum, if you want to know the gory details, and you didn’t, but now do.  I can feel my urethra falling asleep when I sit in hard chairs.  I shift over, tilting onto one or the other buttock to alleviate pressure.  It’s an unnatural way to sit.  “Hey, wake up buddy, keep the lines flowing!” I have to give it a pep talk.

Fat neck.  I’m relieved that at least I don’t have one of those.  Though if I did I could probably get shirts that fit.  Made in America!