Ms. 1990s

I think I should like to mate with a female born in the 1990s. So I am accepting applications. Here is what I propose: you must have a symmetrical face and lean muscles, like only the finest of the muscles on the cattle that have had their brains abruptly and fatally destroyed so they can be served to me under the guise of a euphemistic noun, instead of “cow muscle.” I will get from you the visual and tactile aesthetic of skin cells that are still capable of full dihydrogen monoxide absorption, and that have not been marred by the inevitable process of senescence. Skin cells that my eyes have been trained by other humans — assuredly older and better at the numbers game we call economics in this social aggregation we disastrously stratify under a particular banner than you or I — to recognize as beautiful and scintillating.

And you can tell your friends, despite the reality that I work a banal office job just as grinding and joyless as any other, that I am a “professional,” with a suffix after a comma after my name, even, and I wear daily a certain cut of cloth — assuredly made by some Bangladeshi stranger crushed by poverty, if not by an actual collapsed building — that we all arbitrarily pretend is more dignified than other cuts of cloth. And the others you tell of my pompously inflated profession will respond with impress, or at least feigned impress (which is nearly as satisfying), to the degree they are socially normative. And I also have very strong credit, because I have proven myself again and again to the multi-generational wealth interests to be a very observant debtor, so we can eat as much lean cow muscle as you would like.

So win-win. I look forward to meeting you Ms. 1990s!

♥ Sterl