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Posted in LITERATURE
22 Mar ’14

PEOPLE WHO LOVE ANIMALS BY JOHN YU

Notes from the Closet: Observations of a Fashion Anthropologist

Many people are eager to tell me they hate people.  Gawd, how they hate people.  They hate people, but they love animals.  Gawd, how they love animals.  Animals which aren’t people and people who apparently don’t count as animals.

They hate people. They hate people’s cars and what they do to the environment. They hate that people wear college jerseys, get their eyebrows pierced, and own memory foam pillows. They hate that people love but don’t love forever. They hate that people give but at some point wobble home to watch TV, having saved the best chocolates for themselves and their lovers.  They hate that people don’t stay best friends forever, that they by-and-large forget dead relatives after around three months, and eat ravioli and laugh coke out of their noses while watching raunchy romantic comedies as if nothing had happened.  They hate their father’s pickled meats and their mother’s salted eyes.  They hate their sister’s pretty blonde hair and perky ass (GAWD, HOW THEY HATE THAT ASS!). They hate the fathers of their fathers, the mothers of their mothers, how people talk with their mouths full. They would drop a bomb on all people if they could, except they hate people for dropping bombs.

But they love animals. They love the mouse’s tiny bone claws, its speck of pink nose jabbing at the world like a finger, the scorpion’s chemical stench, the armadillo’s reptilian obstinancy and mewling kitteny grubs with wet wood pulp on their faces.  They love the comical fuck-you’s of cats, the beeping song machines in birds, the jock-like gallop of horses and how stallions thump thump thump their penises against their chests like marching batons.  They love love love the copraphagic black lips of little dogs, the elephant’s minky, flag-waving ear, love deep sea-trench worms the size of a Volvo who, like a child’s drawing, have forgotten to have eyes. They love even the mallard duck which is by nature a serial rapist.

I say, “Why are you telling me this?  I’m a person.  And, um, you are too by the way.”

But they don’t listen.  Certainly not to this spiel.  They hate my self-indulgent little spiels, which I pretend are pieces of eternity.

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