*Flow

I found something in the drafts here that is bewildering.  I can't tell if I wrote it, or what my point was.  It's very very very long.  If I wrote it, it's one of those relentless parodies of someone who had a conversation of sorts in the comment.  I remember the kid.  I would edit and twist his comments and repost them.  Really goading him.  He'd react with 'that wasn't me everyone, I didn't say that...'  It went on longer than it should have — poking him with a stick.  He'd been antagonistic, and didn't know when to disengage.  That sort of interaction is entirely about foolishness.  The draftpost is so long and strange I haven't bothered to read it — well, reread, after all these years.  If I wrote it, I must have been simulating a diseased mind, conspiracy, obsession.  

But it might have been someone else, an actual comment, one of those copy/paste manifestoes that people used to, and maybe still do leave randomly on blogs with open comments.  Hey, great piece!  Check out my blog at sexyboobsdothot4u!  (Don't check that out.  I just made it up, very creatively.)  

What is it with boobs.  I was not breastfed, and I have the theory hypothesis conjecture that this is why boobs aren't a primary sexual stimulus to me.  Not bonded, no earliest associations.  Lovely, indeed beautiful, when they are.  But not primarily sexual. 

Maybe it's a cultural thing with us, formerly unseen (in pre-bikini days), hidden fruit, somehow sexualized more with boys than girls at puberty.  I said to my son when he was about 12, "If I had boobs, all I'd do all day long is play with them."  He thought for a moment, and said, "No, because you'd be used to them."  I said, "Yeah, you're right."  Now we see labia.  Immodest.

The floating ribs are 'sexy' to me.  I notice lips — lipstick is a distortion.  And just as an observation about the quirkiness of taste, in this case my own, a specific part of the nose — not sexy, but almost intimate.  

It occurred to me maybe last year to notice that inside the nostril, if I can be so graphic, at the tip there's a sort of shelf.  Everyone has them, two.  What is that for, I wondered.  Why would we need a shelf, two, inside the end of the nose.  Storage?  Yick.  

My instant answer was that it has to do with air flow.  There's a lungful of air expelled with each breath, and the opening of the nostril is smaller because of this ledge than it otherwise would be.  Like a thumb over a nozzle.  It directs airflow downward. I envision it as creating a turbulence, disrupting an otherwise laminar flow. 

To my point, it shapes the nostril — long or flat or small or large.  It's a subtle but important aspect of natural beauty.  Apes don't have a tip of the nose.  

They say it's eyes that even newborn babies track.  Maybe it's nostrils.  Kidding.  

And in looking for something else, among these millions of words, I looked at this old post.  As usual, forget all that attitude I used to think I needed to hide behind.  I'm much more mature now — I'd never pretend or mock like that anymore.  But by now, looks like 15 years later, we have an entire generation raised in the Church of Climatology.  Scientology, phrenology, iridology, ufology — the "ology" means it's true, and it's really true if it's capitalized.  

So the kids received Gore's revelation, full of passionate intensity....  Here I'd build up an image of a zombie host, zelf-mutilating as a blood zacrament to ... yes, polymastic Diana of the Ephesians, 

but more to thirsty Baal and voracious Moloch.  

But why bother.  

Pagans have the easiest gods.  Whether the goddess has many breasts or many testicles, they are to be added or removed as thou wilt, a function of fashion and membership in a clique — typical, a genre of YA fiction.  And does Moloch here, the god of abortion, have a tip of the nose?  Get in my belly.

Which brings to mind good ol' Tom Beatie — media-reported as The Pregnant Man.  Step right up, folks.  Tom was the Dylan Mulvany of his time, or her time — I'm not sure to which the pronoun refers.  They're both blips, infinitely less than mugwumps or locofocos.  What after all is "news"?  Chinese spy balloons (biden 2024!), train wrecks in Palestine, tranz-murdered children in Nashville.  Next.  Step right up. 

I expect by now "Tommy" is what she'd prefer to be called — whether "man" still, or "woman", or

both.  Classically, hermaphrodites were always given female gender fashions.  Is that female-gender fashions, or female gender-fashions.  

But if women are people who produce eggs — menstruate — or have eggs, or a uterus, then Poor Tom — whom I, only I remember — then shpurmless Mad Tom is not a man.  Very hurtful and non-inclusive, our current critical gender theorists, all hatin on poor ol mad Tom, outdated, outré, déclassé.  Embarrassing, really, his traitorous uterus, reproducing like that.  Old fogey's probably past menopause by now.  Shih.

It's the logic, the consistency, that gets me.  The illogic and inconsistency.  How can I, we, anyone zurvive in a world like that?  In order to survive, you first have to be born.  We — we-all seem to be against birth itself, when we expect it to be men who give birth.  I for one am not up to it.  

The times they are a-changing.  Climate, gender/sex/identity — I guess it has to do with fluidity, whether Arctic-Atlantic currents, or how we feel about our boobs and nuts.  

See how I did that? 

J