Size Does Matter

They say it matters more when you’re in your twenties - that by the time you’re in your thirties you’ve moved past such shallow values. And maybe that’s true. But until I cross that irrevocable bridge towards certain demise, I insist on retaining my youthful perspective. Size does matter, so do cut, colour, and clarity.

I know that many men (and maybe even some deluded women) may feel threatened or offended by my statements. They might feel that such views are materialistic, superficial, and misguided. They might feel that only someone with a fragile ego would place so much value on a piece of pressurized coal. Perhaps they’re even right. I’m not here to argue that. I’m not here to argue with the sensibilities of the self identified morally superior. Rather, I’m writing here to make something clear. Let me simplify it: a proposer purchases a rock attached to a ring to give to a proposee as a symbol of their intent to marry. The appearance and monetary value of the ring (real or imagined) are meant to represent the value that said proposer places on said proposee. At the very least, that is how the ring is viewed by many curious women who coo and caw and then very subtly appraise its value. How gauche, I know. But we all do it, and those of you that don’t - good luck as your moral high horse races it’s way towards the finish line (aka heaven, aka the meek shall inherit the earth, blah, blah, blah).

Some might argue that the diamond in an engagement ring is a fairly recent phenomenon, spurned forward by the diamond companies in the 1940’s. Sapphires, emeralds, and rubies used to be quite common. My response is that if I were to have one of those stones, I would also require it to be quite large. A passionately red Asscher cut ruby would be quite lovely, with two smaller cut diamonds on either side in a red gold setting. Very art deco. Very moi. But I’m getting side tracked…

I was once an innocent waif, unaware of all of the complications that can come from choosing or being given an engagement ring. For those of you as yet uninitiated into this sordid world of commercialism and competition, I give these words of advice: if you want to keep the symbol of your partners love pure, where it on a clit ring.

Planet of the Apes

The nighttime growling has stopped but there's no one to share this exciting news with. And I suspect that no one would really understand. When I googled this problem I got a lot of hits. Of course none of them addressed the problem exactly. There were a lot of concerned pet owners who were assured that this was normal behaviour for their dog or cat.

When I posed the question to the limitless fountain of knowledge in cyberspace, I was referring to...

...myself.

I growl. Or I did, until very recently. In my sleep, of course.

The civilized merely snore, the troubled mumble, and I growl. When this interesting piece of somnabulistic peculiarity was revealed to me I began to theorize. My most promising theory was the post-Darwinian theory of de-evolution. I believe that during the day I was able to maintain the decorum and propriety required of a modern citizen but during the night my fantasies of confrontation, violence, and bloodshed reigned unbridled. My atavistic subconcsious was tapping into the universal behaviours encoded deep within my mitochondrial DNA.

I was becoming a monkey.

If scientists were informed of the 'problem' I was having I would most likely have been shot with a hypodermic full of sleeping potion and carted into a facility where they would perform tests on the newest missing link, "Aggie". They would marvel at my opposable thumbs, my locking knee joints and my love of Proust. They would be less impressed by my irritable bowels. But I get ahead of myself.

I began to reflect deeply and delved deep into my store of memories. I thought of that time I visited the Toronto Zoo, putting my curious face to the glass of an enclosure, and a previously benevolent gorilla leapt to its feet, storming the cell, banging violently at the glass as its distant relative enjoyed the freedom and pizza afforded by her ability to 'pass'.

I thought of how a baby monkey's pleading face could move me beyond words while a human baby inspired feelings of only revulsion.

The connections were revealing, though anecdotal. If my theory were correct, I had quite a problem on my hands. If I revealed my concerns to a medical professional I was placing myself at risk of involuntary incarceration. If not, total annihiliation of the charming personality those around the world had come to love! What a conundrum!

I decided not to be to rash, yet to take matters into my own hands I invested in a nighttime sedative. So far the growling has subsided but God only knows what mental and physical deterioration the future holds....

It's like a high speed chase. Shocking electric current streaming red hair parting, parting like the Red Sea.
Stop. You're chasing your own tail. The snake of endless perpetuity endlessly swallowing yourself and choking, gagging on the vile cannabalism of it all. Mirrored iris blind. REACH OUT. Flesh is solid touch on touch. The saviour wears a human face, just not yours.