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    I'll be the first to admit I'm not a likeable person, but I'm going to attempt to change that. You should consider yourself extremely fortunate, since I rarely divulge this sort of sensitive information. I have found that when I know only the rudimentary facts about a person, I tend to like them better. But it has occurred to me that most people are the opposite, so I'll indulge your voyeurism. I have few passions in my life, but they are thought about often and lovingly. I like to take mental excursions the way wealthy people might go on trips to Aspen. It's a nice escape, but the knowledge that I have to return to the doldrums of reality constantly mars my treks up the bunny slope. That metaphor didn't quite make it. No time, though. We have to press on; otherwise, how will I endear myself to you?

    Take sailing. I think about sailing almost every day. I like to lie in bed and pretend the curtain moving back and forth in the breeze is mimicking the sway of my boat. I imagine the squawking of the children outside belongs to a flock of angry seagulls. If they were, I could toss food I don't want at them, and my troubles would be over. Back to the fantasy. The creak of the metal stairway outside my apartment is the rigging that groans under the weight of heavy sails. When I ride my bike past a car wash, the water carried by the breeze to my face becomes sea spray. When I prepare fish on Fridays, I picture the hours it took me to catch it. I imagine wrestling it onto my schooner, knocking its head against the side to kill it, and ripping its slick guts out. Actually, that sounds the opposite of appealing. I can see why people don't like me. Moving on, keep up please. No flash photography, it damages the integrity of the pictures.

    I enjoy gardening, although I have never successfully grown anything in my life. I've weeded, planted, and taken care of someone else's garden, but I've never lived in a place where I've had a suitable plot to engender life. Insert Freudian comment about my body. While I want to raise something that gives me pleasure and a feeling of accomplishment, I know a human child is not the way to go. Sometimes I pray that I'm infertile, so I won't have to spend more money on birth control. It's only about ten bucks a month for ninety-nine percent effectiveness, but I'd love one hundred percent for free. I envy those middle-age women who found that all their attempts at baby-making have failed. Don't you see?, I want to scream, I want to be just like you! I wish my uterus mirrored your own barren wasteland. The thought of planting a tiny seed in moist soil is exhilarating- in time, given the right conditions, it will grow into a lovely tree that bears fruit. If it doesn't, it's a bad tree. If a woman can't do the same, she can adopt; she certainly isn't less for not being able to pop a screaming abomination into some 'lucky' guy's arms. I wish my biggest problem was that I couldn't bring another burden onto this forsaken mud ball. Instead of worrying about whether or not I have a place in this world, I'd love to think about how I can't bring someone else into it. You selfish, entitled cunts. Your body has given you a blessing, and you curse it. I like to cite Ian Malcolm in times like these. "Life finds a way." And if it doesn't? Shut the fuck up and move on. The Biggest Loser is on. This brings me to my next passion, actually. Let's roll with it.

    I love fat people. I love them to fucking death. Their lard asses, their thundering thighs, those unsightly fat wings- everything that they hate, I love. Of course, I only like it when I know they are going to lose it all. I don't notice otherwise; they can go die in a fire for all I care. I am just entranced by the transformation a human body can go through. I watch 'Too Fat for Fifteen' like a sad, middle-aged woman religiously observes Oprah. I'm obsessed. It's my ugly porn; watching colossal figures pound it out on the treadmill is like stroking myself. When MTV featured a program called 'Fat Camp', I lost my shit. Don't judge me; it's not like I'm saying I hope your mom gets raped. Some people like to read Twilight, and while I think that's a terrible personal decision, it is their choice. My entertainment is more realistic, and less homo-erotic.

    I like taking rambles through nature. I enjoy watching birds flit from branch to branch, and I love smelling wet earth. One of my favorite places to be is next to a body of water. I could sit and watch swirling eddies for hours, little bits of flotsam and twigs creating miniature ballets in the ever-moving, muddy water. Another area that always piques my interest is some back trail that isn't widely patrolled by others. I never know what I'll find. Once, when I was musing on some happy instance of a canal lying next to my bike path, I stumbled upon a box chock-full of spent Durex condoms. What a find! I was able to discern so much about the creatures that left it. I could tell they were of at least average intelligence, since they adhered to their culture's insistence on practicing 'safe' coupling; they weren't bound in earthly possessions, like money or trashcans; and they had what can accurately be called inflated self-worth. The last one is easy to spot for any avid observer of human nature: 'XL Magnum' generally indicates a delusional breed of male, or Ron Jeremy. The latter is unlikely, since Mr. Jeremy only has intercourse on a set with a well-paid actress. Nature is so pure and unsullied by our perverted ideals. It's so neat!

    I love guns for the opposite reason. They are everything nature is not: clean, precise, predictable, and strictly man-made. I've had my eye on a gorgeous .44 for months. I tell myself I don't need to throw a grand towards an object I'll only use recreationally on Sundays in the desert, but that desire remains. I've held it a few times, admiring the weight in my hand, picturing it in a holster on my belt. Like sailing, sometimes I like to imagine my life in terms of the apocalypse. I'd scrounge the desert planet, caused alternatingly between zombies or nuclear winter, fighting the undead or radiation-infected mutants (respectively). Dawn of the Dead is one of my favorite movies. I like calculating how long I'd survive, given my present attributes. I'm not overly sentimental, so I wouldn't have a problem capping my long-time best friend in the face if she turned. I'm a good shot and know how to maintain firearms, so I wouldn't be that girl the men have to protect (who inevitably die, by the way). I grew up poor, so I know how to conserve rations. I also have common sense, which seems to be the highest ranking skill in zombie scenarios. The nuclear winter setting mirrors the game Fallout. Everyone not killed in the mass of bombs joins a certain faction. They fall into groups of raiders, military personnel, or drifters. I like to think I'd fit into the last category, since my boat fantasy is grounded in the same nature of Wanderlust.

    My favorite hobby is probably complaining about no-good, stupid fucking shit that few care about. That asshole who scowls at you for thirty minutes in the movies when your five year-old won't shut up? That's me. The impatient bitch who won't stop tapping her foot and exhaling noisily as you take twelve minutes to mull over what type of fat-free coffee drink to get? Me. The person who rages on about people bringing dogs into Red Lobster? That's my husband, but we are kindred spirits, so it's me too. You don't have a problem with married women, do you? Great. But more about me: if you are a breeder, an anorexic hipster or emo, or (and) an entitled shithead, I've talked smack about you. I don't know why it's so enjoyable, but some people like to crochet. I'm just saying, there are stranger things than someone who likes to talk shit.

    So now you know and love me, right? Let's hang out sometime, have a few beers. My other pursuits? They aren't really worth mentioning here. You don't want to hear about how I lure children to my van by asking if they've seen my puppy, right? Put down the phone, please.

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Sarah Garcia
Haters gonna hate