Desde la cueva

I’m usually contaminated with the author I’m reading at the moment. That being said, I’m currently reading Jonathan Ames. If you know something about his work you should know that he’s either an honest (almost poetically) savage brute or a gifted, scatologically creative, fiction spawner.

So I’m reading these brilliantly comic short stories featuring frightened testicles, crusted bed sheets mapped with onanistic eructations (look for this word, quite handy), self loathing in the form of homosexual fantasies, unlooked for anal plugging, colonics, love for enemas, alcoholism and the likes. And I’m laughing out loud sitting in a Starbucks filled with morning gatherings of gossiping housewives. I feel both, dirty and intellectually superior. Then I realize that’s just a reaction counterpointing my envious feeling: I have to get to work (tedious and nerve-racking at the same time) and these women are with good company, not worrying for the moment about nothing more than the number of calories their skinny vanilla latte has in comparison to black coffee.

For a blissful moment I wish I was a desperate housewife wearing dangerously high heels for an early get together with my friends and speaking with a perfectly balanced undercurrent of self-loathing and superiority-amongst-my-peers.

I think Ames would appreciate the faint transsexual fantasy.