To Womb It May Concern: An Open Letter To The Jackass Who Thought That It Would Be A Good Idea To Give Me Ovaries.

Fig. 1: Recent Evidence.

Dear Journal,

Phew, what a week it's been! Lemme tell ya, guys, I was pretty busy! Doing what? Well, like, only all of this!

- Racing boys half my age and twice my size on the track by the East River!
- Climbing scaffolding and vaulting over walls in SoHo! Parkour, bitches!
- Playing Assassin's Creed II!
- Reading graphic novels, webcomic archives, and back issues of Wired Magazine!
- Working at the World Science Festival!
- Watching free porn!
- Jacking off! A lot!
- Fantasizing about gender reassignment surgery!

Well, I've gotta go now. Victoria's Secret is having a huge sale, and you know how much I love walking in there like I'm gonna buy something (HAHA YEAH RIGHT) only to spend my time checking out the hotties instead!

Peace!
Katie

Fig. 2: By Request.

If there’s a God, I hope that he’s an asshole.

See, if I weren’t constrained by the limits of mortality and morality, I’d channel my divine energy into an attempt to be as douchey as possible, I’m talking the Father, the Son, and the Holy Douche; the Douche Almighty; one Douche, forever and ever, A-fucking-men.

The God that I believe in wears baseball caps and boxers and wife beaters and, yes, he calls them wife beaters without worrying about offending anyone.

The God that I believe in spends his Saturday nights playing poker with Satan, and spends his Sunday mornings drinking crappy black coffee and leafing through vintage issues of Playboy and jerking off like it’s his job.

The God that I believe in isn’t a father figure, or a Father Christmas figure, or a Father Time figure. He’s actually that uncle that no one invited to the family reunion, and it feels like he’s always watching you because he is.

The God that I believe is a projection of the part of myself that I’m too much of a pussy to show anyone else, or perhaps a manifestation of the insecurity that drives me to overcompensate by peppering my language with words like “pussy,” and “manifestation,” and “overcompensate” and “peppering.”

I’m inclined to think of God as the manliest of men for the same reason that I tend to immediately picture cleft chins and strong jawlines and robust facial hair and dicks when I hear the terms “Wall Street” and “Doctor” and “Lawyer” and “President.”

I don’t know what that reason is.

Which is a complete lie, because I know exactly what it is, but I’m too ashamed to admit that sixty percent of the time, I’d rather be a misogynist than a feminist, or that seventy-five percent of the time, I’d rather be living a world that I created than in one that I didn’t, or that ninety-eight percent of the time, I’d rather be an Adam than an Eve.

It’s like this: I buy my coffee from a man who looks like Jesus Christ. He always uses way too much sugar, but I figure it’s okay because he resembles a man who died for all of our sins. And because, if he were a woman, I know that I’d equate her liberal use of sweetener with the fact that dumb bitches have been screwing up since the first bite of that apple.

When I’m stroking my chin, it looks like I'm thinking.

I’m actually just hoping that, someday, I’ll feel stubble.

Fig. 3: What Now?