emma b. says

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Drink me up Sinnerman, where you gonna run to

I said rock.

And then I said not so much, and then I said harder, and then I shimmied and I quaked and in rising I said welcome to operation Emma 2.0 , in which Emma redesigns her corporeal self and lays the plans for total world domination.

It goes something like this, the Architect is not exactly happy with the notion that we might shave off our best gals in the name of brevity and the name of gravity. I told him I was sick of following my tits around, and here is the thing. It's a gift and a curse to be young and sort of beautiful and blond and very, very buxom. You spend your life fighting for the urbanity that is rightfully yours, fighting to subsume the stereotype of stupid by flabbergasting and simulataneously offputting with your less than forgiving intellect - not that I am any great brain, but I get things on an intuitive level that others percieve as my big fat brain, when it's my big fat common sense, and it's just my big fat rack that's leveling the playing field.

I am still young and dumb, I am still just as blond(possibly blonder) as I ever was. But I am just not that young and certainly less dumb, and I am too old for my tits. So I am going to divest myself of this excess weight, and I no doubt I will miss them. Don't get me wrong my girls got me into many a jam and charmed my way out of just as many. I don't want to be anybodies cliche of the florida granny, lizarded with pendulous breasts and rediculous hair....

thoughts are straying -- interlude of dancing.

right. I already have the pendulous breasts and the ridiculous hair.

alright then, more dancing.

I sort of feel some kind of eulogy is in order, dear Emma's future formerly spectacular rack, thank you for all the fish, I kid, thank you for all the trouble, thank you for giving me the wiles and the shamelessness to be able to extract myself from any number of dangerous situations. Thank you for making me so goddamn insecure. I thank you for preceding me in calamity and giving me that extra second to plot my course. You were glorious in the days before gravity, we dined and drank freely on you with a minimal amount of exposure. The boys of course were are hard wired to think you were easy, and more often than not you indulged, but not for their reasons. As crass as it is, since I never planned on suckling any babies, my big rack was my crutch, my cross, my whimsical delight, my subversive source of power, my secret manipulation, my shame.

And just like that I will halve them, in the name of vanity and in the name of I Just Don't Want to Follow You Stupid Chicks Around Anymore, I'd rather not have my tits announce me to the room any longer. Tits make room for mojo. Which is not to say that wont be fantastic, and still mine, and still get me into trouble. I still love the trouble. Wouldn't trade that silken shimmy, want more of it, wants all of it.


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