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First published in the US by G.P. Putnam’s Sons
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This edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
FIRST EDITION
Text and illustrations © Mara Altman 2018
Internal design © Ashley Tucker
Cover design © HarpercollinsPublishers 2018
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Mara Altman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008292706
Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008292713
Version 2018-10-29
For my mom
Contents
10. PIlEup on the “Inner” State
To become a master at any one thing, it is said that one must practice it for 10,000 hours. I have been living in my body for 306,600 hours, yet I still feel like a novice at operating this bag of meat. As soon as I feel like I’ve got everything figured out, something changes—boobs spring out of my chest, I sprout a mustache, floaters homestead in my eyeballs—and I’m left shocked, bewildered, and yet ultimately quite curious. I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve wondered, especially after a spicy meal, why evolution wasn’t smart enough to build us with buttholes made out of something more durable. Lead piping, perhaps?
I’d like to say that I spend my time trying to cure cancer, eradicate hunger, and put an end to global warming, but my brain is naturally inclined toward questions about the human female body. I spend most days wondering about the potential aerodynamic advantages of camel toes and why, when we are built to sweat, I often find myself hiding in a public restroom, drying off my pit stains to pretend that I don’t have glands. Why does my dog, every time I squat down, make a beeline for my crotch? The only other thing she’s drawn to with such consistency is the garbage can.
I want to be one of those people who, in the morning, sip an espresso while filling in the New York Times crossword puzzle—what a respectable hobby!—but instead I’m busy wondering why, as I hump, I never sound nearly as cool and moany as the porn star Sasha Grey in the film Asstravaganza 3. Is there a meet-up group for sex mutes?
Let’s, for a moment, suspend the idea of self-accountability and attempt to blame these bodily fixations on my parents. They grew up during the 1960s and were the kind of hippies