Best–I mean Beast–no: Breast Reduction

Breasts. We all have them. What’s that? I’m getting word that we do not all have them. What’s that about? We should all have them. They are so fun.

But they’re not always fun. Sometimes they’re just like, “Emma, we hate you a lot and we’re going to make you suffer because of it.”

And I’m like, “Hey Milton, Eustace, maybe let’s calm down and talk about this!” I’ve named them Milton and Eustace.
And they’re like, “We’re a body part and we can’t talk. Also why would you name us? You wouldn’t name your neck!”

And then I’m like, “Don’t talk about Clarice like that!”

And then I take off my astronomically expensive bra and put some aloe on the grooves it wears into my shoulders and go to sleep (but not on my stomach or my back! Thanks guys!).

In one month I am sending a team of assassins to kill Milton and Eustace. In one month I am getting a breast reduction. I got really lucky and found some surgeons who moonlight as assassins. Thanks Craigslist!

Milton and Eustace have been around as long as I can remember (oh god, I can only remember the past ten years of my life?). I got my first real bra at Victoria’s Secret the summer before sixth grade. It was a B cup. Blue, with an inexplicable little lightning bolt on the left side. It soon became obsolete. Then I sized out of Victoria’s Secret. (The secret is sizeism!)

So I ventured to the department store lingerie section where your great aunt buys pantyhose. Roughly every six months, I would have to get re-fitted because Milton and Eustace grew so fast. (They’re precocious, you could say.) Each time I would take off my shirt and let a stranger wrap a tape measure around me, she would say, “Oh honey, me too. But you’re so young.” Then she would help me shove Milton and Eustace into varying sizes of strange cloth domes. Big bras come in roughly three colors: beige, dark beige, or some insane purple polka dotted mess.

Catherine wears my bra as a helmet, circa 8th grade

I tried fight back. I lost some weight, hoping Milton and Eustace would get the message and head for the hills. My pants got smaller, my back got smaller, Milton and Eustace did not.

I was once a swimmer, which was often difficult (Milton and Eustace make me less than hydrodynamic). My first swim teacher, Ms. Peggy, had dolphins tattooed on her thigh. If you weren’t doing the stroke correctly, she would grab you by your ankle and pull you back to her until you did it right. She made a lot of kids cry. I loved her. After that, everything I owned smelled like chlorine for about ten years. Until 11th grade, when I quit swim team because  I was embarrassed to be spilling out of the largest size team suit they offered. And I was sick of morning practice. But mostly the other thing.

Helmet bra

I got approved for the surgery in August. First thought: excited. Then: afraid. Settled at: ready.

Reasons to be excited: less back pain! More fitting into normal shirts! Fewer stares! The ability to stand for more than two hours without being in pain! More bathing suits! Less shoulder pain! No more getting stabbed by underwire because I don’t want to buy a new bra so it breaks when I’m at my most vulnerable! Less embarrassment! Sleeping on my stomach! Cheaper bras! Less neck pain! The ability to run and go down stairs quickly! No more weird eternal sub-boob rash! More wearing dresses! Less trying to hide what is arguably the most central part of my body!

Reasons to be afraid: when I wake up wrapped in white gauze and look down at the blood and the stitches, how long will it take for me to feel like the body I’m in is my own?

Milton and Eustace are assholes. But they’re also my buds. And they had a good run.

A place between the places we call home

There they were suspended­–or were they?–in the black nothingness–or was it? The nothingness was colorless, shapeless, wordless, full, devoid.

The nothingness wiggled.

A different sort of nothing appeared from where there wasn’t anything, a nothing shaped like the rest of the other nothings in the dark bowl of space. This nothing had been away for a while, though it felt like the blink of an eye. Whatever an eye is, or a blink.

“Hey–You’re back! Everyone, Ed is back!”

“Hey!”

“How was it?”

“Tell us everything!”

Ed, a blob of nothing, appeared out of the nowhere into the nothingness, sighing. “Call me Gloria,” he said. “I was just Gloria for seventy-one years,” she said.

List: Make Your Involuntary Celibacy Fun and Flirty

This piece was originally published in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency on August 5th, 2015.

Wear a funky hat while you’re not having sex. It will make you feel carefree and sexy.

Read only the preface of the Kama Sutra. It’s a historical text and will enrich your life experiences in countless ways.

Chew on some mint leaves before you don’t have sex. This will make your mouth feel refreshed and clean for all the cool air you’ll be breathing in.

Try talking dirty to the sad, sad face in the mirror. Dirty talk is exciting and surprising and it echoes in the empty spaces.

Rub an ice cube on your nipples before you go to bed alone. Let the melting ice form a big wet spot under you.

Use a fake name while you’re fantasizing about receiving the touch of another human. Who’s that exciting flirt? It’s you!

Make a game of trying to score points by successfully throwing your un-needed birth control pills through a small hoop. Reward yourself with one jumbo marshmallow every time you make it in.

Every time you get aroused and do not have intercourse, put a dollar in a jar. Soon you’ll be able to go to the movies alone for free!

Author blurbs from the outskirts of society

Marlene Smithson is a local beekeeper. In her spare time she likes to trick pedestrians into believing that she only has one leg. Her favorite snack is possum feces with fresh rosemary. You can find her in select caves during the nighttime hours or on twitter at @sadbearcubsgonewild.

Lawrence Doyle is so grateful that you took the time to read his article; English is his 34th language, please bear with him.

Albert Tucker is a full-time homeless man. He likes having food, having a place to sleep, and strangling stray dogs with his bear hands (the hands of a bear that he strangled to death with his bare hands). His signature has never been seen, as he cannot purchase/manage anything due to his homelessness. He would appreciate some sustenance, probably.

James Crack likes sandwiches (only if they have been cut into quarters), having consensual sex with wimmyn (a rare breed of cognizant frog), and going to the bathroom when he feels the urge to do that sort of thing. He can’t be found; we’ve tried.

Erin Doringer doesn’t believe in talking, so most of this information is guess work. She only interacts with her pet Pekingese, Rochester Von Helzack XII. She frequents the local elementary school’s parking lot in the dead of night and appreciates a well-crafted cupcake!

Thomas Doop just died. He always hated tortoises.

Abigail Liagiba only wears traditional Native American headdresses and writes exclusively about toasters that were designed before 1973 (but not necessarily made before 1973). She loves to paint houses that she does not own and after every few incidents spend the night in jail. She can be found in the cemetery or at least her left foot can (she buried it there after it fell off when she was 14).

Edna Jones loves the entire works of Sylvia Plath and tentatively sticking her head in her toaster but just as “a joke you guys come on I wouldn’t do that.”

Tanya Jay was raised in a remote village where the only currency was sand. She loves the beach. She can be found heckling her reflection in the bathrooms of local bars.

Rick “that meatloaf” Carlson is a novice wine maker. He plays the flute, but only for even numbered audiences. He makes a mean mac and cheese. His mac and cheese will murder you post-ingestion.

Darla Fwong can’t stand your shit anymore, Marcus.

Ellen Young once touched a zebra’s penis at a petting zoo as a child and she really can’t deal with anything else. Her hobbies include crying.

Leon Ross is a pottery fanatic; he specializes in cremation urns for (formerly(?)) redheaded people. His favorites memories of childhood all took place in an abandoned Gap Body. When he’s not crafting urns, he likes to have long conversations with telemarketers about loneliness and his relentless search for the perfect taco.

Todd is Ageless

None of us are even alive!

LUCIFER Eggplant sucks.

IRENE I don’t disagree.

LUCIFER Why would you phrase it like that “I don’t disagree”

IRENE Because I also don’t extremely agree.

LUCIFER What does that mean

IRENE I’m ambivalent about eggplant. I spend close to zero time thinking about eggplant.

LUCIFER Well good for you. Is that you bragging? Fuck you.

IRENE Why do you think about eggplants that much.

LUCIFER Because I care about the issues

IRENE Eggplant is an issue now?

LUCIFER You really don’t care do you?

IRENE I guess not? Whats the deal with eggplant then?

LUCIFER I don’t know. But it’s problematic.

Silence.

Lola

Coming soon to theaters

Cheesecake Dog Coronation Murder

Amelia French, human extraordinaire

DEDICATION: A MONOLOGUE FOR AMELIA FRENCH, WHO, TO MY KNOWLEDGE HAS NEVER COMMITTED MURDER. MAY HER JUICE ALWAYS BE COLD PRESSED. AMEN.

Amelia is doing it. She’s doing it all. I’m so proud. Also, she’s on stage, there is a body next to her. It’s so dead.

AMELIA
So anyway, there I was, digging the grave, and I realized, why did I just murder my friend?

Like why was that I thing that I did? I’m going to assume that YOU don’t have the answer, so I’ll just wonder about it aloud.

Very loudly

HMMMMMMMMMM.
AHHH YESSSSS, HMMMMMM.

PERHAPS!!

Normalish

Anyway. ANYWAY.——- So there I am, at the dog coronation. Did you know dogs can get coronated? It’s a lot less work than human coronations, I’ll tell you that much, but still, I think it’s worth it. So the dog gets coronated, oh my gosh, I’m sorry, did I say God? Just kidding. I know that I didn’t say God. But now you’re like, did she? But I didn’t. I’m really sorry about the confusion. BACK TO THE CORONATION DOG MURDER CHEESECAKE—- oh I haven’t mentioned the cheesecake

So dramatic it hurts to watch

(maybe do something with your arms, oh yeah, just like that)

THERE WAS A CHEESECAKE

Normalish

And I know it might not seem relevant, but the night previous to the dog coronation I had had a dream about cheesecake. I hate that. Having to say “had had.” Like, “had” twice? No thanks! —-But I dreamed of cheesecake. it was so fluffy and dense I ached.

I can’t say it wasn’t sexual. I’m not ashamed. Well, I am, but I’m not about to profess that. So the dog gets coronated and there’s a cheesecake. And I’m there with my friend. This dead body here. I feel weird calling him by his name now that he’s, y’know, deceased as fuck, but here we are. In the graveyard. Here we are.

Dramammamamamamamamamaa

(to the body friend dead man)
I’m really sorry. This was mostly not pre meditated. I’ll take care of your daughter.

Back to us.

I probably won’t take care of his daughter. But it felt like the right thing to say.

So, dead friend here took the last slice of cheesecake. And he just ate it so fast. I don’t think he even savored it. And that’s a sin. But I didn’t kill him because he sinned, I killed him because he took the last slice of cheesecake and also I forgot that the toy gun I carry with me is NOT A TOY and is ALWAYS LOADED. I like to live on the edge, I guess. I’m hoping to fall off.

A pause. Oh yeah.

Now he’s dead. Gunshot to the trachea. Or I’m pretty sure that’s where the trachea is. I didn’t go to med school or high school. I feel bad about it though. Right? Yeah. I definitely do feel bad about it. “Remorse” right? I guess what I’m trying to say is, it was a sort of accident and I don’t want this to be like “that thing that I did.” This is no more important than the time I got third in the spelling bee in eighth grade. I’m still a person, or whatever I was before this. I’m still that. Don’t give up on me. Don’t even look at me differently.

She looks at Deceased As Fuck.

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong about the gun being a toy. But I’m going to be okay. I mean, I always am. Yeah. I always am, He’s so dead.

She sits down on the ground for a second. She stands up.

And now he’s dead. And his daughter has no father. and that dog is a fucking king! Pretty crazy how dogs can be kings. Also murder. That’s crazy too……. As soon as I finish burying him I’m going to get some cheesecake though.

Another pause. The last pause.

I feel like I deserve it.

Gwendolyn Cognac

Watch my short film, Gwendolyn Cognac.

WHAT’S IN YOUR BAG?!: Joan the runaway teen

Welcome to the first installment of WHAT’S IN YOUR BAG?! where I will be asking everyone, including (eventually) President Barack Obama, “WHAT’S IN YOUR BAG?!”

Today I caught up with Joan, the runaway teen, to ask her WHAT’S IN YOUR BAG?! I cornered Joan when she was coming out of the subway. Joan agreed to tell me if I gave her half of my muffin. It was a zucchini muffin so I didn’t mind at all. Honestly I would have given her the whole muffin if she had asked. I don’t even know why I bought a zucchini muffin. Like, who does that?

Joan’s bag, a dirty pillowcase, paired well with her old-ass tennis shoes. Joan’s whole look was absolutely disheveled, but in the fashion sense. Like at those runway shows when it looks like the models have rolled around in garbage? Like that. Hot garbage. Haute garbage?

So Joan, WHAT’S IN YOUR BAG?!

At this point, Joan began to quiver. Because of her intense frailty, the entire contents of her bag spilled out! Thanks Joan! Her sack revealed an absolute assortment of fun knick-knacks. Joan had more canned foods than the average teenager, unless things have really changed since I was in high school. Her assortment included: black beans, wax beans, pineapples in juice, condensed milk, and artichoke hearts. All low sodium! Good for you Joan. Health is important for young girls.

I caught a glimpse of some papers that said something about “emancipation of minors.” I guess that’s the new Twilight!

Joan’s bag was also full of loose, plain, and uncooked rice. Not sure what that’s about, Joan!

Her wallet had three dollars inside, but two of them were Euros.

Joan taught me a lot about what teens are up to these days. I asked her where she liked to hang out on weekends. Some place called “the shelter.” I had never even heard of it! That’s how cool it is.

Joan then started crying and asking me for money, which I think is a new sex thing? But I’m not sure. I’m just a silly old lady who’s out of touch with teen culture! Thanks Joan!

Stay tuned for the next installment of WHAT’S IN YOUR BAG?!

The Problem of the Garbage Opera

A small news crew is set up on the stage of the opera. It is the eve of opening night. The writer/director, Roberta, sits in front of the camera. Sam interviews her for the local news.

SAM Hello Roberta! So nice to see you today. Could you tell us a little about your opera. We hear you’re very excited for opening night.

ROBERTA Yes, the night of opening.

SAM What’s your opera about?

ROBERTA Garbage.

SAM So, a garbage opera?

ROBERTA (sighing deeply like yes bitch) A garbage opera!

SAM Could you tell us a little bit more about what that means?

ROBERTA Oh, I could.

SAM So, would you?

ROBERTA My garbage opera defies definition and transcends time, actually.

SAM Is it an opera acted out by pieces of garbage? Is it just a terrible opera? Is it an opera about garbage? Why garbage?

ROBERTA I firmly believe, Sam, that we all are garbage.

SAM Well that sounds kind of negative.

ROBERTA Only because that is what the media had led you to believe about garbage. You need to open your mind.

SAM Could you help us out with that?

ROBERTA (she begins to hum loudly) Are you getting it now?

SAM Not really.

ROBERTA Then I don’t know if there is any hope for you.

SAM There has to be some way to explain this.

ROBERTA A garbage opera is like the ocean: very deep. Probably too deep.

SAM What else is a garbage opera like?

ROBERTA Cotton candy in the womb. Several dull knives thrown repeatedly at a holiday roast. A bowl of oranges that doesn’t exist. Any prime number higher than 100.

SAM Roberta, can you please help me out here? I’m just trying to get a brief interview segment that we can show on the local news. Like, could you just say something that someone wouldn’t necessarily remember after they’ve had their morning coffee?

ROBERTA Unfortunately, everything I say is incredibly memorable.

SAM I can’t take this footage back with me. This doesn’t make any sense.

ROBERTA Life doesn’t make any sense!

SAM Like the ocean. Like a garbage opera. Okay then. Super helpful.

ROBERTA You need to reach inside of your garbage self and find the inner garbage-ness.

SAM How will that help me at all?

ROBERTA How could it not?!

SAM That didn’t answer my question.

ROBERTA That didn’t question my answer!

SAM JUST TELL ME WHAT A GARBAGE OPERA IS.

ROBERTA I think you’ve known all along. Reach within!

SAM There is nothing within! Also, if I knew the answer, I wouldn’t be interviewing you!

ROBERTA Who said you were interviewing me?

SAM Is this a garbage thing?

ROBERTA It’s all a garbage thing, when you get down to it.

SAM Down to what?

ROBERTA Garbage.

SAM You know what’s garbage? This interview.

ROBERTA (whispering) Garbage.

SAM Okay. I’m leaving. Thank you so much for all of your zero help.

ROBERTA If you leave now, you’ll regret it.

SAM I think I’ll be okay.

ROBERTA That’s what we all think. But it’s never true. Because we are all garbage. And garbage is never okay.

Sam sighs, then motions to the crew to turn off the camera.

SAM If you don’t like the cameras or something, we can do this off the record. I’m trying here.

ROBERTA I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand garbage.

SAM (whispering, leaning forward) Please. Please help me understand garbage. I’ve never wanted anything more.

Roberta grabs at Sam’s face and begins to chant.

ROBERTA GARBAGE. GARBAGE. GARBAGE.

SAM Oh my god.

ROBERTA Do you…?

SAM I think I…

ROBERTA Turn your cameras back on. It’s time for a garbage opera.