Walking Practice

by Dolki Min

I don’t know what kind of human he is:

No matter how you couch it, riding the subway feels disgusting: you dangle like ripe fruit from a hanging vine, squeezed in among humans swarming like bees.

The high degree of concentration required to maintain my humanlike form was in tatters; my eyeballs drifted in opposite directions; my arms and legs contorted; and my abdomen swelled up like a balloon. They must have been thinking, if only you were just a little less repulsive, I would step forward and lend a hand.

I also get the impression that it is only after a gender has been assigned that you are seen as human.

You grow anxious when, wherever you may be, you encounter someone who you cannot immediately classify as male or female—or, to put it another way, when the “evidence” for your gender judgment is conflicted. This is because, according to your narrow system of understanding, it is difficult to decide how to interact—for example, what honorific should you use—with someone whose body you simply cannot decipher.

You, dear reader, are an old hand at the gender-matching game. No doubt about it! From a tender age you have guessed the gender of countless humans whose bodies are covered by clothes, coming to conclusions based on the gender you believe corresponds to the shape of genitals you believe match up with the remaining exposed parts of their bodies, and you have lived your lives in certainty, believing the result of your deductions to be true. The problem is, however, that you do not acknowledge the mistakes you have made and will continue to make. No one knows that the game itself is a mistake.

What does it mean to be a woman? Among other things, it means that you have to decorate yourself and act like a woman.

The passengers are hurriedly fucking off like blood that finally penetrated an artery that’s been blocked for ten years.

Who knows, I could even ardently love one of them.

Please continue to be so inattentive. Please only give me attention when I want it.

I’m in a terrible mood, and this man is just begging to die. If perchance he chooses me as his mode of suicide, I will make him regret that decision down to the core of his marrow.

There are a lot of times when this flesh suit is nothing more than cumbersome baggage that causes me pain.

You never know if one morning your planet will explode, breaking into hunks of rock floating in space with nary a fistful of oxygen for you to suck down. You should breathe it in while you can.

If you can’t get it up, I’ll fucking murder you. No, even if you blow my mind, I’ll kill you. You’re going to die.

Make your appeal with your body. Try to bring it upon yourself, try to become my prey.

I’m so happy that it strikes me I’d still be happy if the Earth turned to dust this very minute. I wish it would, so this moment would be preserved forever.

This man, however, hasn’t given me a bouquet, and he isn’t sucking my nipple because he loves me; he doesn’t want to cut my steak up into bite-size pieces and place them into my mouth, nor does he even have the skinniest rat’s tail of an intention to hold my hand and look at cherry blossoms.

Somehow, I’ve picked up the habit of trying to sense vibes of love coming from my one-night stands. I love you. I love you. I love you.

As a matter of fact, a woman I met three months ago had chanted, I love you, over and over while eating my ass.

I’m sorry. Actually, that apology is a load of shit. It’s just a formality, like saying, “How are you?” I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Throwing up hair on the sixteenth floor is my punishment for satisfying my craving for fresh head.

I am a being that always requires f r i e n d l y explanation. If I d o n o t e x p l a i n, no one understands me. Only beings l i k e m y s e l f must p r o v i d e e x p l a n a t i o n . The demanding you; the demanded of me. You are the d e f a u l t l i f e - f o r m . You are the c e n t e r o f the universe. It must be s o 0 O 0 o 0 O 0 o 0 O 0 o nice.