I’m pregnant.

Most darling Nan,

I have some rather terrifyingly wonderful news to share with you. I’ll be poetically perfunctory, as it’s what I know best.

The hysteria of the body… A tenement spilling forth its contents into the streets of the Lower East Side… An involuntary refutation… Theory meets practice… Going  down in the vernacular… Thunder only happens when it’s raining… And of course, players only love you when they’re playing.

To summarize, I am mother-to-be, hear my roar of perfumery and vixenhood!

And I quote “I’ve made up my mind… I’m keeping my baby!” end quote!

I’m deleting everyone who says Maybe Attending to the bundle of jouissance’s shower event on Facebook!

Kisses,

Claudia

P.S. Fourth wave all the way – we need to resist the exploitation of and violence against non-government sanctioned bodies! Let’s revolutionize the corrupt academy! Viva la vida loca!

Fuck… I’m Dead

**Things Camille Paglia Has Noticed Are “Rotting and/or Festering Corpses”**

structuralism
post-structuralism
secular humanism
atheism
the humanities
Europe (the stench is emanating from France)
socialism
higher education
secondary education
primary education
art
art education
Andres Serrano
the left
America
corporate America
Ivy League deans
Hillary’s health care platform
kids these days
post-modernism
baby boomers
Democrats
poetry these days
New York Review of Books
Time Magazine
publishers these days
the academy since she graduated
journalism
Susan Faludi

**In Need of Reform Only**

capitalism

the Republican party

**Axis of Evil**

Derrida

Naomi Wolf

Gloria Steinem

Thunder Road

I’m at the library frantically whipping out another brick of analytic gold for my honours seminar 9000 word bundle-o-joie (“Who’s Your Dada And What Does Ze Do?: Re\Visiting Proto-Matriarchy and Materialism in Early Modernist Can(n)ons”) and have been holding in my precious canary-yellow fluids for over 74 minutes because (I thought wrongly that) I was on the brink of an academic breakthrough. We’ve all been there, amirite ladiez??

Finally, the pressure became too much to bear (Critical Intervention!). I proceeded to the little boy’s room and made a beeline for the urinal. Then that classic scenario ensued (you know where I’m going with this one, gentlemen). The one where you unzip and realize you may have made a slight miscalculation. A visit to the stall may have been warranted. Oops, I retained it again.

I looked around. No one in sight. I could totally make it to the stall and no one would think I was a freak. I grabbed at the door. Locked and occupied (gasp) by the world’s stealthiest shitfactory on legs. Excretion foiled! You win this time, constipation.

In the end, I opted to let out a semi-audible (and unfortunately, only semi-satisfying) and semi-moist fart simultaneously with my golden stream and made (tentative) plans to return in 3 hours when I’ve further developed my thesis and brought in some heavyweight backup.

Sweet relief! Only one question remains: What would my dear fairweather friend Daddy McDefecation think about all this?

(The answer’s obvious: he’d purse his bee-stung lips disapprovingly and silently reproach me for my gaseous indiscretion. Ay papi!)

All my luv,

Judith

P.S. As my aural companions Antony & The Johnsons are prone to saying, “for today I’m a boy”.

P.P.S. Would “Touching You, Touching Me: Canvasses, Text(ure)s, Genres, HerstoriCities” be a more workable title? Gosh, this is tuff stuff!