Wasting Away

Sometimes I’d like to walk outside and uproot a utility pole with my bare hands. The problem is that I have the sort of weak, womanly hands you read about in such magazines as Women’s Day and Parlor Pastimes Quarterly. I also wear several heavy rings. Sometimes my rings are so heavy and my hands so womanly that I can barely lift my arm high enough to brush a wispy feather from my alabaster cheek.

Maybe I wouldn’t be so weak if someone would bring me my meals. I refuse to fix my own meals. My cooking is beastly and my baking is worse. It tastes like texture and salt. And that’s just my signature tiramisu.