Marry Me

MY LITTLE BOOK OF HATREDS--an introduction
I CARRY THIS ‘little book of hatreds’ around with me nearly everywhere I go. Especially when I feel that I may need it (which is most of the time now; it’s therapeutic). Like when I go to meetings at work (department meetings, committee meetings, all-school meetings, etc.) where I hear the most incredible nonsense coming out of people’s mouths--introducing terms like ‘stellar,’ ‘institutional effectiveness,’ ‘social constructs,’ etc. (You come to expect this kind of rubbish from colleagues at work, but still it’s no excuse. I’d never say anything like that! I’d rather use words like shit and piss and cunt and cum.) What surprises me and saddens me at the same time (and makes me glad that I have my little book along) is when I am with friends (perceived friends), and they express outrage at the most natural things that come my way. For example, a number of years ago, the first time I’d hiked in West Canyon, I had my brother drop me off from his boat at the mouth of the canyon. I was alone. He said that he’d come back and pick me up in three days. By noon on the first day, I noticed that I had seen no one else--had not even seen any other footprints. And so, of course, I took off my clothes (except for my shoes, which I did discard the next day) and continued hiking. (I usually wear clothes when I hike; I don’t want to offend strangers (although their wearing clothes does offend me.)) This is desert hiking, and I always carry with me lots of water. And, of course, I’m drinking the water; and, of course, I’m having to pee. Often. In fact, it seems that I’m having to pee every ten or fifteen minutes (I’m drinking a lot, remember). And I’m wanting to see as much of this canyon as I possibly can because I’ve only got a few days to do it in, and it’s a long canyon, and . . . . And so, I think to myself: Can’t I just walk AND pee? At the same time. And so, I do. And I tell this to my friends. And they’re shocked. They can’t believe it. ‘You pee right there while you’re walking?’ one of them says. And the other one says, ‘Don’t you get it on your leg?’ And after a moment of my own shock, I reply, ‘Well, of course, I get it on my leg.’ Pause. ‘That is, legs. What’s wrong with a little urine on your legs, anyway?’ (These folks would probably be shocked to learn that the bread I bake (and which they claim to love) contains lots and lots of little weevils kneaded in and cooked right along with that wonderful, home-ground flour that I make and use.)