I love sundays especially lazy sundays. But this sunday is my favorite one of the entire year. What a wonderful surprise as today had all the makings of a super crappy one. I spent about 4 hours sorting invoices at work and to be honest I'd rather stick glass in my eye. However, this sunday my life got about a zillion times better. That's right!! IT'S EGG NOG LATTE SEASON AT STARBUCKS!!!
Whoever thought of combining frothy egg nog with a shot or two of espresso and a sprinkle of nutmeg is a freakin genius who I credit a great deal of material happiness to. Time is limitied - I have only about a month and a half to enjoy the ultimate of seasonal delights... Egg Nog Latte, you are AWESOME & worth the enormous amount of sweat that will be required to reverse the damage you'll do to my ass.
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Just so you know you're not alone, here's what the Canadian poet Sonnet L'Abbe has to say on the subject:
"Theory My Natural Brown Ass"
I've paid for too many degrees,
posited too many historical positions,
made too many semiotic apologetics,
forwarded far too many feminist responses
to too many textual materialities
to have an ass this big.
In theory, my ass
does not signify.
But this insistence of the body,
this non-linguistic expression
of inertia and caloric lust,
is a corporeal truth that mental exercise
can't deconstruct.
Or is it just an inverted absence?
The presence of the lack
of any Aryan heritage?
I'm the post-colonial girl
who went abroad and squatted and lunged
while the maid, snapping out
wet laundry, watched.
Skinny brown bitch, was what I thought!
The poor men looked at my ass
like it was a pair of Boston Cremes.
But I was raised
on white girls' dreams.
This juicy back might fly in hip hop,
but I meant to fit
into tinier social circles,
and JLo's butt's already taking up
two stools at the representation bar.
Missy E's already gone
bonh bo bonh bonh
all the way to the bank.
My ass doesn't give a shit
that my mind is post third wave.
It is imperialist, a booty-Gap,
expanding into a third space: the place
beyond my seams. Who cares
that sizes are all 'seems' anyway:
you shop, you walk
the slippery significatory slope
on which an 'S', 'M', or 'L' might fall.
The mall
is the spatial organization
of desire, I know, but
does that make my ass look small?
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