Tyvek Quartet

So the last PTSD attack was the damned housewrap, like my brain was covering the beautiful now with that fucking Tyvek. I like Twin Peaks, but sometimes I wonder if plastic wrapped women's corpses would be less funny and prevalent in the Zeitgeist if Laura Palmer hadn't been so popular in her undignified demise. Maybe I should have made a workplace sign: days without joking about raping, murdering or disposing of women's bodies in plastic sheeting. 0. This is not a metaphor. Why do so many of you think about it so often? Or maybe you are just so loud about it. Mike McPherson, looking at you! Maybe the next time someone calls me sensitive for being affected by this, I will swoon and claim to be the reincarnation of Thoreau. I was meant to write deep thoughts and lounge around sun dappled shores of ponds, eating picnics brought to me by attractive men, not deal with these glass ceilings and sexual harassment. Just let me machete through a small forest in peace. I know I didn't smile enough while bleeding out a baby, but I know I still cut line and grabbed better shots than the man they hired to replace me. Better at my job than that fucker while hemorrhaging and wondering if I was going to get sepsis. Shrug. That's womanhood for you. I am just that one in four.