Hipparchia
Primus registratum
Happy Birthday my Ass!
So, I rolled out of my bed upside-down onto my chair one early morning in late October, and restarted my daily internet-ting routine, when I suddenly catch the following headline from my.yahoo.com:
Happy Birthday phronesis20!
Here’s your special Birthday Horoscope!
Here’s also your Lovescope, Lifescope, Wellnessscope, Genxscope, Techscope, Teenscope, and any other possible _____-scope you could think up.
You think I took this to mean: you're not 20 anymore...you, too, have succumbed to my decaying power! To decay is your fate! And there's no escape. So don't even bother deluding yourself with make up and plastic surgery.
BUT, no, dear reader, that's not what I thought.
Imagine my amazement at that moment! Didn’t I feel good already! You bet I did, you’d think. Who could resist such a virtual, feel-good surprise? Who could resist checking her LOVE-scope on such a fabulous day I had almost forgotten, and reading about her future as imprinted in the mating positions of the stars? Not even I, dear reader. Not even I, because it is such a damn treat to let yourself be guided by the stars rather than by reason on that particular day. Or everyday. Have you tried it? Set your my.yahoo.com as your default homepage, edit the news, the recipes, the suggestions and advices you want to receive, add all the various scopes that Yahoo offers for free, AND do not forget to check it on your birthday. You could learn so much about yourself on such a special date. You could also learn about that special date itself...not only what it means to you, but also what it means to so many other sexy pop stars who may be celebrating it at China Club. For you do believe it's a special date, don't you? You don't have to feel ashamed for it. I won’t point my finger at you for thinking so. As a child and in my early teens, I also used to feel that it was so special...that when my parents forgot about my birthday--which was always--I would remind them to make me a cake and buy me presents, or give me a hug and tell me how precious I was for them. Don't laugh! I was just a child then...that is, until one day I realized the absurdity of it all; of celebrating the date of my monstrous birth and beginning decay, the consequence of an incidental, unwanted conception...that led to my becoming my parents' third delivered victim. For you should know, dear reader, a third victim to their genitals was not fucking wanted in my family—it could not even be afforded for one thing…which would explain my falling teeth already. And “why?” would you think? Why did they forcefully pull me out of my mother’s ass? Indeed, why. Well, just because my beast of a father felt like fucking, and fucking without responsibility. (But then, is anything [sex, above all] real, true, or good if it's done with a sense of responsibility?--a topic for another time perhaps). Anyway, I see my father as the culprit because I've always perceived my mother as a sexless creature, and have always felt sorry for her; and also because the intention to commit another crime was not there...it was by chance that their crime who is I was committed. In any case, they did manage to pull me out of my mother’s ass...what could she have done, poor creature that she was (and still is). Her "purpose" seems to have been been “to carry"....no matter what, just carry, whether it be weight, or pain, or words, or grudges, or tears...a submissive yet hysterical creature such as her could only carry...how could I not pity her, my dearest child indeed, not my creator.
So they pulled me out thanks to their crude techniques, which—besides inflicting more pain to the cursed creature condemned by God himself since the time when mankind existed in the form of shooting sperm within the Garden of Eden—to even break my left leg. Those veterinarians were very good at it, and so they outdid my inborn wit as expressed through my attempt to resisting their pulling force. Alas, I knew what I was going to get into, as I was soon to find out. Instead of indulging my mouth through my mother’s breast, I had to be fed with a spoon already, because I had to be THERE for the next three weeks, but in a different bed and with my little legs up the whole time. (because they broke my leg, as I told you, from being in a breach position). And then I was fine, but I think that that once broken left leg and my womb position and the ensuing familial calamity contributed to my becoming left-handed, left-footed and also a libertarian leftist. Which, in turn, also explains my tendency to keep my legs up all the time; against the wall, on the computer monitor, on the seminar table, up and around men’s necks, waists and backs...in other words, just UP.
[interrupted for virtual reasons]
Hippy.
So, I rolled out of my bed upside-down onto my chair one early morning in late October, and restarted my daily internet-ting routine, when I suddenly catch the following headline from my.yahoo.com:
Happy Birthday phronesis20!
Here’s your special Birthday Horoscope!
Here’s also your Lovescope, Lifescope, Wellnessscope, Genxscope, Techscope, Teenscope, and any other possible _____-scope you could think up.
You think I took this to mean: you're not 20 anymore...you, too, have succumbed to my decaying power! To decay is your fate! And there's no escape. So don't even bother deluding yourself with make up and plastic surgery.
BUT, no, dear reader, that's not what I thought.
Imagine my amazement at that moment! Didn’t I feel good already! You bet I did, you’d think. Who could resist such a virtual, feel-good surprise? Who could resist checking her LOVE-scope on such a fabulous day I had almost forgotten, and reading about her future as imprinted in the mating positions of the stars? Not even I, dear reader. Not even I, because it is such a damn treat to let yourself be guided by the stars rather than by reason on that particular day. Or everyday. Have you tried it? Set your my.yahoo.com as your default homepage, edit the news, the recipes, the suggestions and advices you want to receive, add all the various scopes that Yahoo offers for free, AND do not forget to check it on your birthday. You could learn so much about yourself on such a special date. You could also learn about that special date itself...not only what it means to you, but also what it means to so many other sexy pop stars who may be celebrating it at China Club. For you do believe it's a special date, don't you? You don't have to feel ashamed for it. I won’t point my finger at you for thinking so. As a child and in my early teens, I also used to feel that it was so special...that when my parents forgot about my birthday--which was always--I would remind them to make me a cake and buy me presents, or give me a hug and tell me how precious I was for them. Don't laugh! I was just a child then...that is, until one day I realized the absurdity of it all; of celebrating the date of my monstrous birth and beginning decay, the consequence of an incidental, unwanted conception...that led to my becoming my parents' third delivered victim. For you should know, dear reader, a third victim to their genitals was not fucking wanted in my family—it could not even be afforded for one thing…which would explain my falling teeth already. And “why?” would you think? Why did they forcefully pull me out of my mother’s ass? Indeed, why. Well, just because my beast of a father felt like fucking, and fucking without responsibility. (But then, is anything [sex, above all] real, true, or good if it's done with a sense of responsibility?--a topic for another time perhaps). Anyway, I see my father as the culprit because I've always perceived my mother as a sexless creature, and have always felt sorry for her; and also because the intention to commit another crime was not there...it was by chance that their crime who is I was committed. In any case, they did manage to pull me out of my mother’s ass...what could she have done, poor creature that she was (and still is). Her "purpose" seems to have been been “to carry"....no matter what, just carry, whether it be weight, or pain, or words, or grudges, or tears...a submissive yet hysterical creature such as her could only carry...how could I not pity her, my dearest child indeed, not my creator.
So they pulled me out thanks to their crude techniques, which—besides inflicting more pain to the cursed creature condemned by God himself since the time when mankind existed in the form of shooting sperm within the Garden of Eden—to even break my left leg. Those veterinarians were very good at it, and so they outdid my inborn wit as expressed through my attempt to resisting their pulling force. Alas, I knew what I was going to get into, as I was soon to find out. Instead of indulging my mouth through my mother’s breast, I had to be fed with a spoon already, because I had to be THERE for the next three weeks, but in a different bed and with my little legs up the whole time. (because they broke my leg, as I told you, from being in a breach position). And then I was fine, but I think that that once broken left leg and my womb position and the ensuing familial calamity contributed to my becoming left-handed, left-footed and also a libertarian leftist. Which, in turn, also explains my tendency to keep my legs up all the time; against the wall, on the computer monitor, on the seminar table, up and around men’s necks, waists and backs...in other words, just UP.
[interrupted for virtual reasons]
Hippy.
