A discourse on objects

It all made sense to her, she said.
Being an object, she meant.
Being objectified, sought after, bartered for, positioned into.
Most people want to be an object for the right person.
The safe person.
The person that has opened a can of beans up and let them spill down their face, down their chest, onto their shoes and then the floor.
Standing there with a ghastly look upon their face and crying with red eyelids and a glazed upper lip from snot and an ugly look of horror all upon them.
Their body a crumpled, shivering, heaving mess.
This shows how miserable they are.
How insecure and fragile they are.
This allows them to be picked up and to be loved and caressed and made love to.
After this, they can start a painstaking ascent.
An ascent into being precious, then wanted, then worshiped and objectified.
Mine is a powerful word. My, mine,
ours. All very powerful.
I don't have time for all that, she said.
I want to be objectified now.
By everyone.
At least thought of as an object.
An object of desire that can be had.
By the right person, anytime they want.
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8.31.11