Anthropologist/writer Antropologė/rašytoja
Anthropologist/writer Antropologė/rašytoja

Solveiga Zibaite



She struggles to open her mouth wide enough to fit the first bite of a large sandwich she‘s treating herself with. As she finally uncomfortably nestles the thick white bread between her teeth and chomps down, the innards of the sandwich begin falling out the other side. She takes a sip from her diet coke can, bends over herself and picks them up from the ground, does not waste a single bite.

She is insatiable and throwing perfectly good food away would be a diservice to her body. After all, her charms are in limited supply, her body is all she has, so she must address its primacy over her. She practices mindfulness of her value every day. In some rare moments of madness, the all consuming fear that she has nothing to offer to her future husband for his noble service of idolization comes over her like a wave. She is consumed by the promise of losing herself in another human being, but is fairly certain that she will never be courageous and noble enough to be truly devoted. She is the brick tied to her foot that will ultimately drown her in a fairly shallow but fatally acidic body of water – herself. She shrugs. There are plenty of those who are less than me, I‘ll take my pick. She made a wrong decision a few days ago. He was something else. He wasn‘t into acid.
Needs more salt. Bad for the heart though. She continued chewing without adding a touch of spice. I am at the point in my life which I will disavow in the future. I am irresponsible and plain stupid. Future me will be a slightly different person, hopefully a different variation of human – she will think of me with embarassment. But this is me now and by contemplating my future self‘s hatred on present me, I am being killed off by myself in the very moment that I am living in. What a counterproductive practice. What a bitch.

I am moved by his faithfulness to being human. He is nice. But truly, to exist in my human state and die in my human state? What kind of perversion is that? I want to be less than human in a man‘s arms and more than human in my fervent work. Just staying human doesn‘t seem like a viable option. It‘s too cliche, its too easy. A true working definition of a human – a single dust, mercilesly raised into the air by the stomping of a Lovecraftian deity that unwittingly stumbled upon the dirtroad that is Earth. Although now that I come to think of it, dust is too sterile of an epithet to be ascribed to humans. Ligotti was a bit more of a realist when he described humans a little pieces of phlegm coughed out from the great lungs of malignantly useless nature.

But that man markets it so elegantly its frustrating. I am almost sold on reconsidering choosing someone less than me – maybe I should aim higher. Nevertheless: I want to become a monster at the end, she thought, as she chomped away on her chicken heart sandwich, with a deep conviction that all she needs in order to prepare for consuming a real big human heart is more heart.

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Published on January 26, 2018