I have a tail. A fluffy green and pink tail. It’s not just stuck onto me. It’s part of me.
I found out, the hard way. I thought it was just another one of their pranks that they think are so clever. I suppose running all the way back to that flea-hovel they call home exhausted me. I had palpitations. I asked them to call an ambulance. Begged.
They are entirely devoid of public decency. They laughed. Called me ‘fatty’. I’m not. It was no use pointing out that this of discriminatory insult is pejorative and was a compliment. Or that they’re insensitive clods. Or that I was just growing. I told them so. They said “yeah sideways, wobblebottom.” And “Doesn’t he half thrash his tail about when he’s mad.”
It’s true. The tail has mind of its own. It had come up from between my legs and was now thrashing about. I don’t believe in keeping your feelings in. Like empowering women emotions must be allowed full flow, or you can damage yourself psychologically. But having your tail express it for you is quite another matter. I saw what it was doing… and tried to cut it off.
Yes. I resorted to violence. I’m ashamed. And it was very sore.
And just then the ugly big goblin in curlers called: “Dinner! come and get it or I feed it to the pigs.”
It wasn’t macrobiotic.
It used to be the pig.