Could you be more in awe of the shape I am taking?
Shedding a fist full of blubber and feeling less inclined towards peanut butter was never my idea of what a woman's constitution would be. It used to be straight straight straight; my hips, my knuckles, my eyelashes. Now it's spilling out, soft and loose and curves and tremors and kinks within kinks. Each day is a new eureka to poke and prod and sigh about. Rarities to nurture and purities to forget.
Methuselah, at age 969, exasperated and blasé and calm to a fault, waits by the oven for toast.
It blackens with a crunch, and Methuselah, at age 969, crunched and blackened himself, takes a mouthful.
Still reading. Please keep writing.
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