1. The penis pretending to be civilized, patient, and selfless; everything he is not.
2. The vagina pretending to be independent, confident, and unemotional; everything she’s not.
If they play their cards right and no one flinches or cracks, they get to collide for a while. The length of time they are permitted to do so is dictated by their ability to maintain being everything they are not.
I don’t want to pretend anymore. Not anything. I suspect that resolve will leave me all alone in life soon. Which I guess is ok because I don’t want pretenders around either… which I think should cover most of the pesky human populace of penises and vaginas. Excellent. What will I do with all my time? What will I be?
A dove farmer!
I'll pick up my big silver bucket and walk over to my large silver trash can of chicken feed. I'll carry it, full of scratch grains and corn, to my ducks and chickens. Never mind the duck and chicken part, in moments hundreds of doves descend on the food and the ducks and chickens get almost nothing. Which from now on will be just fine because I’m a dove farmer.
I could be a professional typist!
I type things. Stories never read. Collective Underground writer’s studio pieces never posted. Movie and TV scripts written and rewritten. My fingers clack on keys by day, by night, candle light, sunlight, moonlight, or sometimes just the light of the glowing screen. I type on my phone and iPad and laptop. If I had a dollar for every first chapter of a book I’ve typed, I’d have a hundred dollars. Sometimes I type on a table with bored fingers seeing if my hands will stick to the invisible keys they’re so used to. I type all over the place! I wonder what typing pays.
I’ll sleep my way to the top!
I like sleeping. Maybe I can join some sort of sleep experiment where I can be studied with electrodes and monitors gathering data. I’m going to go practice right now!