Rejection Letters

Barbaric Yawps and Methane Emissions

Kids are born into hopelessness, now.
I mean, other people’s kids. I don’t have kids. I wouldn’t, it’s not fair to them.
I roll my eyes at every wide-hipped woman I see.

There is no one as anxious as I am.
I suckle all the coffee I come in contact with.
I haven’t slept since the Reagan administration, and I wasn’t even alive for it.
We have desiccated this planet, and for what? Some…some iPods? Unbelievable.

Did you know, that Florida’s fucking gone dude? I mean, the bottom bit, all flaccid and low low
low, right at that sea level. Well, it was.
Did you know that a baby sea turtle is more likely to die from plastic consumption than, like,
seagulls or whatever?
I haven’t used a tissue in like nine years cause it isn’t worth the oak.

Oh, I’ve been to protests. I can’t even tell you how many. Lots.
And I know how greenhouse gases work. I went to University.
I’ve always been gifted.
My mother praises me for each dish I bring to the kitchen sink,
Celebrates every ounce of my gratitude—and they are ounces—when my sisters do my
laundry.

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Madison Hyman is a SF writer and anthropologist at the beginning of both of these parallel careers. She can be found on twitter @MadisonEHyman, or in the mirror if you say her name three times in the dark.

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