Friday, July 12, 2013


Seen waiting for the Red Line to 95th at about 8:15 a.m.

“Only if you make the effort.”

That’s what she said in her letter. I couldn’t believe she’d written back to me at all. It was a longshot. I told her about when I was little, and my sister would play with her Barbie dolls, how I’d undress them in secret and run my fingers over their smooth perfection. I told her that the media was horrible to judge her, that there is nothing wrong with wanting to look as beautiful as a woman possibly can. I told her about my dream—wrapping my hands around her impossibly tiny waist, gently kissing her plastic breasts. I promised to always love her. I offered her my hand in marriage.

And she didn’t turn me down. She said, “only if you make the effort.”

So I have set about doing just that. The first thing I did was legally change my name to Ken. That was the easy part. Next came my physical appearance. I started tanning, I dyed my hair blonde. I joined a gym and began lifting weights. My biceps are looking great—big bulges nearing the size of my head—but my legs need to catch up.

Last week I put a down payment on our Dream House. It has an elevator and everything.

The final step, however, is the one I’m most dreading. Not because I don’t want to do it; I can’t wait to get rid of that disgusting worm between my legs. My Barbie Princess deserves nothing less. But I can’t seem to find a doctor who will perform the procedure. I’d fly someplace else to get it done, like Thailand, or one of those little countries in Eastern Europe, but with the new mortgage…. No, I’m going to have to do it myself. And I imagine it’s going to hurt.

Have you ever read about those human Barbies? It's super creepy.

A busy weekend ahead. Work happy hour and Improv Shakespeare tonight. Going away shindig tomorrow. Go-go-going away shindig the next day. Oh yeah, and I have to pack. But I'm going to have some fun in the meantime. 

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