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A public letter to my body

Dear Body

I would really appreciate it if you could kinda just start working again.

I know you like being sneaky and devious, I know you enjoy the pretence of looking like you’re totally functional because you put on clothes and occasionally brush your teeth but we really need to revise our strat plan here.

This thing of you waking up with a nose full of crap is just no longer acceptable. I gave you holy herbal herbs for a reason. So you could smell like lavender, taste like cow dung, and FEEL like a new age guru. Not so that you could stay filled with gunk. Please try understand.

Also, this eczema thing you’ve got going. I get what you’re trying to say, okay? You’re trying to convince me to move to Mauritius, and do nothing but tan and have sex all day with various Frenchmen. Well body, life sucks just a little more than that, so that’s currently not an option. Also if I did that, the eczema would probably be replaced by HPV.

How about you give skin a break and let him grow a little? I hate to break it to you, but it is almost summer, and I can’t keep wearing socks and gloves in Durban. People will think I definitely have leprosy. That’s right. They’ll judge you baaad.

About your aching teeth, I know it’s not your fault that I took you to a lousy dentist on the outskirts of town. I know I should have run away when I drove into the parking lot and realised this was pretty much the parking lot of Dante’s Inferno. Or when I discovered the dentist liked making bad jokes. Or when he wanted me to hear the noise the drill makes. I’m sorry I was too slow, and then too anaesthetized, to be smart about things. I’m sorry I bit a chunk out of your tongue in my spastic numbed state. But it has grown back, and I’m hoping you’ll learn to forgive the Doctor too.

Furthermore, I spoke to the apples and they’re really not enjoying being eaten on one side of my mouth only. Also it’s a bit of a struggle going to Red Café when I eat like a lopsided chipmunk. Please understand my plight here; I’m just trying to look normal.

Also, hair. Now I know that here the fault lies definitely with Romus and Remulus, Julius Caesar, and pizza. But here, in this society, aptly described by Athol Fugard as “one of the last bastions of chauvinism” (Morrell, 2001:1) (Yes, sir! I have been studying!), if I am going to get anywhere I really need to be all sexy and bald-like. Non-Italians seem to treat hair the same way they treat AIDS or HPV. DO NOT WANT.

Given my deep love for you, body, I can’t just attack you with hot wax because I know, you would probably cause me a hemorrhage. But we need to do something about this, because people are starting to notice I am not bald, and it could cause some setbacks for my eventual Mauritian-Frenchmen-sexchange plans. Please just suck back all the hair you spit out through my pores. You can leave the mess you made on my head, but please, the mini-moustache has got to go. Everything from the neck downwards too. I need to look like a prepubescent boy. That or I’m going to have to grow my nails to 15cm, paint them purple and rename myself Holga. Because the only acceptably hairy Europeans are the whack jobs from up North. Italians must either conform or go back to the kitchen making pizza.

You can see how this is a problem because with your co-ords, even making pizza doesn’t quite work out.

Also the fact that you no longer want to eat pizza is troubling me. See, you used to rock the whole teenage anaemic-skinny rag-suicidal look. It really worked for a while, you know, with dog tags and see-through skin and whatnot. But now you’re trying to look like you’re not going to die after all, like you’re going to impress people with your skillz, impress young children with your holy maternal ways…you really can’t afford to get kwashiorkor. Don’t pull that face when I try hand you an apple. And you can’t always use the excuse that you have sore teeth. I give you flipping smooth yoghurt and you still want to cry. I just don’t understand. You and I used to go on beautiful binge-eating sessions, for weeks at a time. Now the sole thought of bread crumbs makes you retch.

Speaking of which, and conclusively so, puke. I don’t know much about biology, and you probably think you’re Miss_Understood, but I do know this. Puke does not belong in the human mouth. It’s supposed to chill out in the stomach, intestines, pancreas? Maybe the liver if you’re really feeling adventurous, but please, stop re-directing it into my mouth at random moments. I can’t be barfin’ it up every time I bend down to tie my shoe. It seriously compromises my bend-and-snap procedure, and I don’t think you understand the repercussions of that on my ability to attract boys.

We have to go home soon and I really don’t know how I’m going to present you to the parents. They always warned me about troublemakers like you.

Yours sincerely,

Marty

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Comments on: "A public letter to my body" (2)

  1. Hilarious! I knew I liked you for a reason 😉

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