Should our delicate limbs trudge through a sorghum field when we might repose at table, our heads covered in white linen as we savor the tiny life of the ortolan? “What songs were in its wee heart?”, we may wonder as we swallow it whole.
Cottages and mason jars, we may be dirty, but we are not *filthy*. Those who are bored with the finer things simply lack imagination. When was the last time you had a sliver of carpaccio served to you upon the eyelid of a dwarf as you lay prone upon your shiatsu pillar? You have neglected yourself far too long. Did you know that for a paltry sum, you could be shot into space, to float in a private celestial womb? Surely, the pressures of being “you” merit a brief spot of weightlessness. I bet you have not even given yourself the consideration of booking passage on the ship that is even now tracing the route of the Titanic. It is about time the Arctic had its comeuppance, and it is a lucky party indeed that will wear tiny hats and feast on marrow farci, roasted squab, and Maynard’s glaze. To say nothing of the fresh shavings of iceberg tinkling in highball glasses. It really is just *better*. To say that we are jaded by finery is to admit that we have overlooked the limitless nature of pleasure, we have overlooked our very selves. To fail to properly esteem oneself is the worst of crimes, and can only be righted by shooting something silken-furred right this instant, and sporting the entire carcass for a smock. I have always wanted a bunny’s tail to wave from my bosom. It says “adieu, adieu!”