Dear Summer, Fuck Off!

Dearest Summer,

It’s not you, it’s me. I sweat profusely, I don’t know how to dress, and, frankly, I don’t know how to treat you right or respect you baby I don’t know. Maybe I was supposed to know you, love you, respect you, feel you because you remind me of my body. An organism with a self-cooling capability that produces water as easily as Mother Earth does from the sky, and I wonder if this was part of your game? To create forced connections with water? To sweat out the discomfort to prove my humanity and to force me to feel something. Yes, I have this body, yes I am real, and yes I do feel … discomfort being reminded of my body’s homeostasis. Its liquid sliding scale.

However, I do intensely enjoy the other component of my fluid homeostasis, but why is cumming so much more pleasurable than sweating? Both create pools in my bed, but only one is a pleasure to sleep in. Okay, in reality neither, and I really need to wash my sheets. Why do we sweat things out? Why do we (some of us) squirt? Why is an orgasm a flood or a push? Why do we create things we push away from when we are really pushing away from ourselves? Why is it so uncomfortable being human?

So you see Summer, I hate that you remind me of myself and my humanity. You will never be Autumn, Summer. Whenever you are in full bloom, I always want to recede and hibernate. Whenever you are smiling, I want it to rain. I know its strange being a Summer baby, but I grow in winter while the trees reserve their energy for the next cycle. You don’t do that Summer, you drain me.

And yet, I do have a fondness for you. Memories I will always associate with you. You are the hills on fire and the ash that I had to wipe off my windshield like snow. You were scabbed knees and burned feet. You will never be Autumn. I didn’t know Autumn growing up. In Southern California, we had two seasons, fire and sun, and there was no mention of Autumn. What did she look like? Who lived with her? I had heard about the changing color of leaves and the rumored “coat season” but had never experienced it myself. Even when visiting Ohio, I was only ever witness to Summer and Winter. You always did like to follow me wherever I went.

But where is Autumn? I had met an Autumn in high school and thought I had found her, but she moved a year later. I wondered if she would ever return. Where did she go? And what kind of cruel parents would raise a kid named Autumn in Southern California. I didn’t have the courage to say hello and, I mean, what would she think of my clothes? I had hoped she was not as judgmental as Wednesday or Noon. Fuck Noon. Her parents paid her full ride to college and she never worked a day in her life, so fuck Noon. Also, your name means “bread.” God I love bread. Bring me your sweet loaf, so I may nestle in your yeasty folds. Okay, that sounded disgusting. Why is “yeasty” so gross? Why is discharge? Why is everything associated with the human body perceived in such negative connotative terms? Especially for women? I can’t help where my sweat collects in my folds.

“The Girl who Melted”

My tits are melting. My armpits are melting. My eyes are melting. I’m producing more fluids than an orgy and feeling far less sexy.


Do people ever truly feel sexy in an orgy? Do people ever truly feel sexy when they’re melting?

sexy metal melting

hashtags of heat

extra savory salaciousness

twisted twilights

never ending numerical

determinations of comfort

25, 31, 38

75, 82, 96

numbers, grades, degrees, and fahrenheit

Does knowing the melting point help ease the inevitable discomfort? Why are melting and freezing given points? Does the spectrum help humanize and personify our bodies subjugation?

Perhaps. Perhaps they remind us that we are subjects lined up on points and spectrums of creations we do not make but give name to. Are we no better than cretins or parasites? Viruses easily disturbed by numerical extremes. Or, maybe we are more like bacteria rather than a virus. Depending on the spectrum and refusing to fall off the edge.

Sometimes, I wish I could melt when the rain falls and that each drop would pull me down into the earth, down into its core, where the temperatures are unfathomable and it’s vulcan movement blends all the elements together to create new ones.

Sometimes, I wish all my elements had melted and been absorbed in the core, so I could no longer feel what it is to melt as my skin pools pockets of sweat in all my glorious folds and crevices sitting on the underground thinking about if they had dug just a little deeper, we would be in the belly of the Earth pulsing with her rhythms and reminded that it any minute she could swallow us whole, break us down, and make us into something new.

I once met a girl who had melted. She explained it quite matter-of-factly. She had gotten up that morning at her usual time, took the same tramline, and drank the same two latte macchiatos she always did. She was giving a presentation to a major tech company about the importance of employee engagement and receiving feedback when she pointed to the board realizing that there was a dripping stump where her index finger used to be. As the presentation continued, she was forced to slam her elbows on the keyboard to switch slides as her hands had completely dissipated. Yet, she persisted until her tongue had melted in her mouth, and she had accidentally swallowed it like you do with snot when you have a runny nose. She continued until all that was left were her shins and feet rigidly planted between the projector screen and the computer.

Three days later, the attendees submitted their presentation feedback report unanimously agreeing that it was the most informative presentation they had ever had, but the presenter herself was a bit “lackluster.” 

She re-emerged two weeks later, still no head, swimming in the canal, splashing and bubbling about. She paddled through me as I melted into the Spree.

“5:33AM 1987”

It was never going to happen. It was never supposed to happen, but his eyes opened. The heart monitor flatlined as he unplugged himself. Legs weak from dystrophy, they bowed beneath the weight of him. He toppled into a wheelchair reacclimating himself to being alive again.

Where was it coming from? The window was left open and the song was falling from the sky.

The hospital was hollow and the note drops echoed loudly on the roof. He climbed steps his muscles having forgotten how to do so. Forwards and upwards. Pushing the emergency bar to the roof, he was greeted by the the coarse morning air, and there she was, almost translucent. Hospital gown blowing in the moonlight, pale and thin, the waning moon radiated through her.

Stumbling forward behind his words, “I’ve been asleep.”

She turned around, eyes pressed deep into her skull, hollow cheeks, and skin wrapped tight over degenerating muscles. She looked into his eyes, “I refuse to die from this disease.”

She turned around, looked over her shoulder, “Welcome to this world,” and jumped.

Translation Tuesday: “Heimat Who Lives in a Box” by A.E. Sadeghipour (Asymptote Blog)

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, inexplicable shapeshifting, bad table service, tangible numerals, and a loving friendship that defies spatial logic are on the menu in “Heimat who Lives in a Box,” written and translated from the German by A.E. Sadeghipour. In this surreal microfiction, a dinner date is marred by embarrassment and a rude (and seemingly inhuman) waitstaff. Sadeghipour’s ability to flout realism while preserving the conventions of the short narrative leads us to a conclusion that is both ironic and “happily ever after”-esque.

Read the short story here!

White Cow and Brown Bull

I was a white cow
being led by a shadow tree
back to the barn. I could not
fit
through the door until
I was
shrunk down
to a more manageable size.
Inside the barn
the brown bull was mounting the heifer.
I was guided to my stall.
On the clean hay
lay two calves,
one two and the other one,
dead from neglect.
I felt nothing
and trotted back out to pasture.

I Am the Square that Moves Like a Circle

I am skeleton buildings and pallet furniture

I am insulated under armor

I am a loophole on repeat

I am pinto beans and pineapple rings

Consummation of voracious cultural consumption

I am a threshold

A door frame that presents the

Pretty picture of me

For the rest of the world to see

Because I am a square that moves like a circle

But squares are not supposed to move like circles

They are sturdy and unmoving

There are 4 corners

And 4 sides

4 90 degree angles

Which is the exact circumference of a circle

We are never as we appear

Because we have so much potential symmetry

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