Walking Practice

by Dolki Min

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.

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

My body is a filthy jerk that is constantly keeping its eyes peeled for any chance to betray me.

Some humans stick their noses too deep into other people’s business, especially when the other person doesn’t want them to. At times like this the best course of action would be for both parties to take some deep breaths, don’t you think? 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. Don’t be full of regret, like me. Regret isn’t a very enjoyable emotion.

Ultimately, I turned my sights on humans. My mind was opened to the prospect of murder!

It is thin and made of brown leather—but whose leather?

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.

T h e p a s t is a discarded thread of s p i d e r silk. If I am not careful, I could s p e n d m y w h o l e l i f e unknowingly w r a p p e d u p in it.

Everyone, please masturbate! A l t h o u g h , there are times when self-p l e a s u r e o n l y l e a d s t o m o r e p a i n .

Happiness is an incredibly rare and dangerous emotion. I’m someone who can’t bear the fall from happiness to despair. I need a safety net to prepare for it since the higher I climb, the greater my injuries will be when I fall. That’s what’s so frightening. You never know when an iron mace will beat you out of your drunken happiness, casting you into hell. Am I incapable of fully enjoying even the smallest moments of happiness? As soon as I’m happy, I start having ominous thoughts of ruining that happiness.

For them, life is so boring that if someone doesn’t walk with ease, taking steady steps on two healthy legs of the same length, they violently overreact as if they were waiting for it. I think their bar for reactions is pretty low. They can’t wait to ogle a monster. Without monsters, how would they withstand the unrelenting futility of their days?

You say that good things come to those who wait? Nothing good comes, but I keep waiting.

To act the part of a woman, you’ve got to memorize a hefty script. Men should do the opposite. Just don’t act like a woman.

He’s a real fucking dog. Ah, forgive me. I’ve accidentally lumped dogs in with the likes of him.

Being a mess is totally different from knowing you’re a mess.

Can you understand the agony of hating humans so much but shoving that hatred aside to look just like one? The desire to become a member of society always overpowers the shame of being embraced by their system.

The physicality of the text and the way it embodies and weaponizes conventional understandings of sex and gender as a way to feed the violent hunger of Mumu’s loneliness is what makes Walking Practice a profoundly queer work of literature.