ZOGGING OUT

Part 2 of Lord knows which chapter

A few days later, unable to snag an appointment at the Russian-owned nail salons off of Dizengoff Street, I found myself getting in a pedicure in Jaffa instead.

"You know Arabic, right?" Ofir asked.

"Yes," I admitted.

"Then, this place is perfect, and you'll be able to communicate with the ladies at the nail salon," he suggested.

And so, armed with my choppy Masri, I engaged in conversation while getting my nails done. Later, my husband joined me, and together we wandered the streets of Jaffa. I couldn't help but notice a hijabi fervently shaking the literal shit out of her child. As we passed by the Setai, a thought crossed my mind.

"Have you ever considered staying in old Jaffa?"

"My dad would loathe it," he mentioned casually.

"Why's that?" I probed.

"Arabs," came his simple response.

"Fair point," I conceded with a nod, then felt gross inside.

The following evening, we rendezvoused with my husband's cousin, a slender homosexual with a laissez-faire approach to work, much like myself, and his more grounded partner. Tales of this cousin had reached my ears beforehand. According to my husband, he bore a striking resemblance but exuded flamboyance in every gesture. Our meeting spot was a chic club-turned-cocktail bar; the specifics elude me now, for they seem inconsequential. There was an interplay of blue, pink, and purple, positively bisexual lighting, the outdoor patio consisted of resilient concrete and lush foliage, accompanied by a soundtrack of tropical beats and the clinking of overpriced libations.

At that moment, my husband and I came to a realization: financial strain was ubiquitous in Israel, a land where living beyond one's means was a common practice. These people were addicted to credit, yet discussions about its consequences seemed conspicuously absent. Did Israelis even pay heed to the judgments of Moody's and other financial prognosticators?

"Look around," my husband remarked, sweeping his hand to encompass our surroundings. "Every time we've hopped from bar to bar, especially near Frishman Beach, have you noticed how the young crowd barely sips on their overpriced cocktails and beers? Remember that one craft cocktail joint where that tipsy girl compared you to Ofra Haza..."

Returning with old-fashioneds, my husband's cousin and his partner, Mishi, rejoined us. As we conversed, I learned that Mishi worked as a buyer in the retail sector, while my husband's cousin peddled jockstraps by an Aroma in a strip mall.

"Yeah, there's still a leak in my mother's ceiling in Rishon LeZiyyon," my husband's cousin confessed with a fruity flick of the wrist.

"Still?!" My husband exclaimed, incredulous. "It's been a few years now. Is your imma still giving you money?"

He's been leeching off his poor mother for years.

"Yeah, but she's cutting back now," he replied. "She's spending more on herself. She recently went to Cyprus with my abba, crossed over to the Turkish side, just to catch Nancy Ajram live in concert."

The most Mizrahi thing I've ever heard—ignoring a leaking ceiling to catch a Lebanese pop star in Cyprus.

"It's okay," my husband's cousin continued, massaging Mishi's shoulders. "We'll be able to get an apartment soon because we won a raffle. And if that doesn't work out, maybe I can go to America. America is the true land of milk and honey. America is my Israel."

As he said that, I couldn't help but think about all the Israelis peddling Dead Sea products in that run-down mall in Fayettenam, North Carolina, pestering my mom to try on Ahava lotion.

"Just don't end up in Fayetteville, North Carolina," I warned my husband's cousin.

"Why? What's wrong with Fayetteville?" he asked.

"Trust me," I replied. "Petah Tikva looks like heaven in comparison."

Perhaps Israelis living in debt was commendable in a peculiar sense. After all, they should know better than anyone else that the world is bankrupt and money is fake. Why bother with repaying credit card debt when you can simply declare bankruptcy? The only downside lies in how it affects your ability to rent or buy property without cash, or lease a car, and both of these things are scams.

If you can't come up with cash to cover these expenses, or if you're not willing to embrace the Diogenes lifestyle, you might find yourself in a worse situation than being dead in the next five years.

Maybe the Yehudis get it because they have a direct line to reality through Talmudic manifestation. They directly construct meaning and reality. Whatever they think, is.

This is also why usurers are commendable individuals, as they provide broader access to credit, and why the Rothschilds epitomize European excellence.

Meanwhile, Marx was covered in boils and a hater of all homosexual money counters.

Honestly, I don't really hate Marx all that much. He understood much of the political economy, much like Veblen, but unlike Veblen, he failed to grasp the spiritual, which exists predominantly within the realm of aesthetics and is accessible to less than one per cent of the population.

But don’t listen to me because I don’t even have a credit card.

And as I thought all this, a strung-out bimbo, a bonafide frecha with long acrylic nails and really thick green eyeshadow and fake lashes dropped her yipping dog, yes you guessed it, a Pomeranian, onto my cocktail.

A few days later, we went to Tzfat to embark on a wine tour and soak in the spirituality. I documented parts of my trip, uncorked bottles of wine with gold Hebrew lettering, and shared them with the Ocean people to see. Lo and behold, I came across my anti-Zionist former Trotskyite friend, who converted to Russian Orthodoxy after reading too much Tolstoy and not enough Dostoevsky. He had been canceled by his Trotskyite brethren after being accused of sexual assault at Trinity College in Dublin, also known as Celtic IRA Gaza with Silicon Valley startups. I remembered consoling him for years after the accusation.

He'd cry to me for hours, and like many of my friends, I only knew him from the Ocean and never met him on the Land.

He reached out to me. He was not happy.

"You’re in Israhell, I see," my acquaintance mentioned to me.

"Yeah, I’m just visiting my in-laws."

"You are such a floozy, and you support apartheid. Are you not ashamed?" he asked.

"No, you idiot. I’m visiting family. The first time I’ve ever felt like I had a family."

"That’s not an excuse," he contended.

"You’re screaming at me because you think I’m an easy target," I responded in kind, "I don’t think I belong anywhere really, but certainly not with people like you."

"What do you mean people like you, you wanton kike-loving whore?"

"People like you. You, especially former or current Trots, are the worst. Your rejection of revisionism and subsequent embrace of Russian Orthodoxy feels like a scam. You’re Ivan Shatov, lashing out because you crave belief in something, yet lack conviction in yourself. You project your narrow views onto others, expecting conformity. As an American and ex-Trot, you embody the worst of both worlds, amplifying criticisms of the Soviet Union beyond Trotsky's scope. You are a stupid American. Jews can be really annoying and thin-skinned, but Jew haters are generally losers in every sense of the word, materially and metaphysically, and you sure as hell aren’t Céline. You have nothing going for you."

"Shut up you Zioslut. Go to hell."

"Suck a retarded Samoan man’s cock, you faggot. At least a Gazan has an excuse to feel some type of way. I’d be just as angry as any one of them. They’re justified, but every day you choose to be a dud. Go become a McKinsey consultant already and stop being mean to your mom who makes you mac and cheese and chicken tendies, you psycho. You live with your parents in upper middle class luxury reading stupid books all day. You worship Bifo Berardi one day then Seraphim Rose the next. You’re a theorycel and third worldist. I’ll strangle you with a keffiyeh then tear your nuts off and feed them to you for breakfast in hell, you piece of shit. You’ll see the real Arab savage come out of me."

We never spoke again.

I chugged two bottles of wine…

…and vowed to avoid all granular Marxist types for the rest of my life.

We headed to Jerusalem after our time in Tzfat, checking into the King David Hotel where our needs were attended to by courteous Christian Arab staff. I don't know how to describe how this all felt without sounding flagrantly American. I felt like Thomas Sowell or a Black Republican being served by mammies. As the designated liaison for all interactions with service personnel, predominantly Arab, I found myself in various exchanges throughout our stay.

One instance involved the cleaning ladies wanting access to our room while we were still packing up to leave. I politely explained, "هنرجع هنا بعد نص ساعه," indicating that we would return in half an hour.

Later, when my brother-in-law hailed a taxi, I found myself guiding him on avoiding potential scams. "You have to tell the taxi cab driver to turn on the meter or he will fleece you," I cautioned him in English. Switching to Arabic, I addressed the driver, "ممكن تشغل العداد؟" He grumbled, clearly displeased at my interference with his potential earnings, but begrudgingly complied.

However, as we traveled, it became evident that the driver was attempting to take us on a longer route than necessary. With our destination only a five-minute walk away, I intervened once again, requesting firmly, "نزلني هنا لو سمحت," signaling for him to drop us off at that point.

"Wow, that sure comes in handy," my daft brother-in-law said, oblivious to my irritation.

I suppressed the urge to punch him.

We then attended a funder's event at Hebrew University. The winners of the Startup Nation contest were announced, with third place going to a company that bred infertile mosquitoes in droves to control mosquito populations, second place to a startup that 3D-printed and compacted sawdust, and first place to a startup that used fungi puree to create protein substitutes.

We had hoped for flying cars and lasers shooting out of nipples, but instead, this is what we’ll get. A mind virus from fungi, eventual bans on meat consumption because of Fabian social credit, living in ugly sawdust boxes, and contracting malaria and destroying natural ecosystems because some imbeciles decided to play God.

Then, I attended the last event of the day, a commemoration for my father-in-law and his deceased wife. It took place in a tiny auditorium at the Hadassah medical school, marked only by a small plaque. Filthy rich geezers delivered speeches, most of which were painfully banal. However, the nadir was reached when an old blonde French lady, resembling a geriatric Afghan hound, proceeded to recite an encyclopedic entry I recognized verbatim, in both French and English.

She requested to deliver the same speech in Hebrew, but two elderly men advised her against it. It seemed that she would need to donate millions more to the Hadassah medical school to earn that privilege.

As the speech dragged on, some attendees began to doze off, including my spouse, who had started drooling on my dress. I roused him from his slumber with a shake, exclaiming, "Holy shit, she's reading an encyclopedia passage."

"What?" he whispered groggily.

"Look," I showed him, pointing to Chaim Weizmann's biography, murmuring softly, "She's reading it word for word. This is hilarious."

"Why can't you use your photographic memory for good?" my husband quipped.

I was at a loss for words.

We gathered for somber family photos before heading to a capital gains fundraiser for Hebrew University, which I believe was held at Sultan’s Pool. Under the stars, which were partially obscured by lighting tech, we engaged in awkward small talk. You know the kind – tight-lipped compliments, anxious chatter to fill the silence. It was the kind of conversation where one had to strike a balance between being cultivated and witty yet not too erudite to become offensive, all while resisting the temptation to overindulge in appetizers. And let me tell you, everyone in attendance seemed ancient.

I don’t remember the speeches given.

I don’t remember who was there.

And most importantly, I don’t remember what I ate or drank.

I just wondered if these people left any inheritance for their children and how much they typically allocated to them.

I vaguely recall witnessing a scene where elderly Canadians and Americans uncomfortably pretended to applaud while a makeshift Israeli version of Bruno Mars and Cher serenaded the audience. There was also a cringe-worthy interpretive dance routine involving traffic cones, medicine balls, and balloons. It seemed to be some bizarre celebration of Israel's infrastructure and, well, physical fitness, I suppose.

If I found myself at that age with that level of wealth, I think I'd adopt a strategy of feigned senility. I'd retreat to a villa along the Spanish Costa del Sol or the Côte d'Azur, absolving myself of any accountability while basking in the sun and maybe hanging out with gypsies, tramps, and thieves…

…and maybe a rotation of gigolos.

As my husband and I parted ways with our in-laws, we embarked on the final leg of our journey: a road trip. Heading southward from Jerusalem, the scenery transitioned gradually, morphing into a landscape of arid desolation. The road snaked its way through the desert, offering glimpses of Bedouin encampments along the route— corrugated tin shacks, tents, and scattered rugs.

We’d occasionally step out of our rented chariot, a Kia Picanto, to capture pics.

For some reason, my senses were heightened, and I found myself scanning the desert for any signs of life. In the distance, a solitary figure emerged from the haze, the silhouette wavering in the heat. As the profile drew closer, it became clear he was a weathered man. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he approached the car, his intentions uncertain. Draped in a billowing white thobe, worn by the years, he wore a keffiyeh atop his head, held in place by a black agal. His feet were clad in well-worn leather sandals, their soles toughened by the harsh terrain. Our Patagonia athleisure felt silly in contrast.

He belonged here, while we belonged in a glass and steel monstrosity.

Exchanging wary glances, we instinctively moved to protect the Picanto, and I feared if the man brandished a dagger.

Attempting to reason with him, I spoke, "من فضلك متحاولش تسرق العربية، يا باشا. لازم تدخل الكود عشان تقدر تسوقها."

In response, he chuckled and replied, "طيب، يا ست اللي بتحكي مصري، هرّبتي بالفعل. انتي نجحتي في الاختبار."

Confused, I asked, "أي امتحان؟" Yet to our surprise, he simply smiled and gestured toward the vehicle, his hands extended in a gesture of peace. Relieved yet still cautious, we watched as he circled the car. Sensing our unease, he chuckled softly, then stepped back, raising his hands in surrender before disappearing into the haze.

To this day, I still wonder why he let us go.

We eventually arrived at the summit of Masada and transitioned into our formal attire. I changed into a buttermilk asymmetric one-shoulder dress with ruched sides, while styling my curls into a messy chignon. As dusk began to settle, a woman with a shrill and nasally Tri-State area accent remarked, "Wow, Mark, Masada reminds me of the Grand Canyon."

I thought, no, you dumb bitch, even though Mesoamerica is Ancient Mesopotamia, Masada bears no resemblance to the Grand Canyon.

This performance outshone any I had seen before. There was the desert vista behind the stage which was elevated and tiered while the orchestra was nestled in a sunken pit. Obelisks, hieroglyphics, and temple facades graced the set.

Priests, courtiers, and soldiers donned regal attire, their robes awash in saffron, emerald, and lapis lazuli, embroidered with lotus blossoms, falcons, and scarabs.

As twilight descended, I found myself on stage, draped in indigo silk and sinuous gold threads, wearing a weighty headdress. With a new tan, I was Aida, torn between duty and my infatuation for X, whose roots lay far from Egypt and who was not exactly the best representation of Radamés as he was a mischling with roots from Lithuania and Poland.

Transformed into Amneris, I was swathed in crimson silk and golden beadwork and crowned with a gilt diadem. Jealousy consumed me, directed towards my likely rival—myself.

"L'aborrita rivale a me sfuggia" resounded with thunderous percussion. In a delirious state of mind, I was filled with wrath and rage, longing to reclaim what I believed was rightfully mine—a life less ostensibly shallow.

I resented my husband's betrayal and intrusion and dreaded the return to Toronto with its loathsome therapy sessions.

Once more Aida, "O patria mia" stirred memories of my parents unseen since my nineteenth year, and I speculated of my younger brother’s whereabouts.

Then, "L'ultimo suonar delle mie labbra" descended solemnly, and I was Amneris, heavy with the burden of my actions— the pain I had inflicted upon my husband, and even the Painter, should I decide to ever resume communication with X again.

I thought about fleeing to live out my days in solitude, doing fuck all in a shanty studio, away from the marital discord fueled by my restless imagination and disdain for societal norms imposed in the wake of the Plague.

Back as Aida, entangled with X, torn apart from my husband and his kin, shattering the sanctity of two households. Our transgressions led to a punishment as severe as being entombed alive beneath the Temple of Vulcan before a cataclysmic explosion killed us.

Perhaps X and I would draw lots to determine who kills whom first.

As the final curtain descended, my husband urged, "It's time to head back to our lodgings. I'm grateful my dad managed to secure those tickets."

As we prepared for bed, a tiny golden spiny mouse scurried along the limestone floor. I screamed like a scaredy-cat, but then quickly calmed down. My husband attempted to catch the rodent, but it slipped through a tiny junction box and squeaked its way under the door around four in the morning.

We drove along the Dead Sea. I noticed the retreating waterline and the exposure of more and more salt-encrusted land that was once submerged by a healthier Jordan.

The world would be fucked if I had a CFP or CFA.

The world would be fucked if I was a doctor or an engineer.

I just want to drain a man’s balls, nest his home, make candles, stay thin, be sexy, and write stuff that could land me in speech jail.

At that moment, I wanted to bolt from the car, sprint across the salt flats, crystals cutting my soles and heels, and hightail it to Jordan.

Obviously, I didn't do that.

We reached the supernatant sea. Shaving the day before, the saline stung my legs and my asshole burned.

I must be sheared at all times.

We drove down to Ein Geddi and set out for a hike along the wadis. Many Orthodox groups were also hiking in the area. Upon reaching the wadi, I stripped down to my bikini and enjoyed the water. From a distance, I noticed a woman in a tichel and a long skirt sitting on a rock, discreetly observing me. I sensed her secret desire to join me in the water, but she refrained due to the presence of my husband and the rules of tzniut, or modesty. Despite her restraint, I could feel her longing to approach the roaring waterfall and feel the mist on her skin.

As I waded, I recognized the rules I was breaking due to my conversion, filling me with guilt. "God couldn’t have possibly made those rules," I thought. "They don’t make any sense to me. Should one’s skin not touch God’s creation."

I always loved being nude, and in this way I have rarely felt naked.

That is, up until the age of twenty when I really started to feel naked.

Then, it struck me: "Maybe God was bored and decided to write those silly rules."

We went to a kibbutz in the area, and saw families and retirees leisurely driving around in golf carts. Date palms swayed. I twirled with heavy fallen fronds and shook off over ripened fruit. I walked among and along the blooms— oleanders, hibiscus, desert roses, marigolds, gazanias and lilies. There was an ancient and storied Acacia tree, its gnarled branches reaching skyward. I scaled the tree and felt better for a bit.

We went to the cafe in the kibbutz and drank iced tea before going on another hike.

We chose to explore a stunning location above Nahal David, near the Cave of David. The path, starting from Sde Ein Gedi school's western gate. We caught sight of a hyrax darting between large yellow rocks, disappearing into holes in the ground. Following the red-marked trail, we entered the Nahal David gorge flanked by ochre and rust walls. The temperature plummeted by fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, yet remained sweltering. The gorge opened up to reveal the window, the color of a seafoam tinted glass bottle.

Two handsome young men lounged by the gorge, clearly well-bred and traveled. One dove in to cool off, while the other turned to us, his eyes sparkling like the window. "שלום," he waved, the greeting echoing. "בחרתם יום מצוין לביקור. לפעמים המקום הזה נוצף באנשים."

I grasped only half of his words but managed to piece together a response in English, "Yeah, we sure got lucky."

"Do you guys want some coffee?" he offered, pointing to a titanium cezve atop a small portable stove.

"Um, sure," my husband replied, "Thank you."

The Turkish coffee boiled and brewed quietly for five to seven minutes, and we were handed small cups.

"Is the water refreshing?" I asked the other man in the gorge, who was retying his hair into a bun.

"Yes, it’s perfect," echoed his reply.

Twenty minutes passed, we sipped in relative silence, and I was sunbathing.

"We're heading off now," the man offering coffee said, "Nice meeting you both."

“תודה רבה,” I bid them adieu, making sure not to roll my reysh too much.

As they vanished from sight, I leaped into the gorge and settled opposite my spouse, unraveling my tangled locks. Then, I surged back, shedding my top to soak up the sun's rays.

All seemed serene until my husband broke the silence, "Are you still vexed with me?"

His words echoed our earlier conversation in the car, where I was prodded to pursue a career in finance or accounting.

"I'm not vexed," I replied truthfully, as the flapping of wings filled the air. "But you're disturbing the birds. Look." I gestured toward a starling and warbler fleeing into the sky.

"You don't enjoy conversing with me anymore," my husband lamented.

Yeah, he was right. It caused me a lot of pain. I still loved him, but I wasn’t in love with him.

I would and will love every man I’d ever been intimate with and that devastates me.

"That kibbutz was beautiful wasn’t it?" he asked.

"Yeah, it was really beautiful. They made the desert bloom," citing the common phrase, almost rolling my eyes.

"Maybe we could live there someday," my husband fantasized.

"You’d get bored, and it would conflict with your political aspirations," I popped the fantasy.

"Aw, come on. Don’t say that," he replied.

"It’s lovely, but I’d feel cramped. This is Desert New Jersey," I explained.

"But you love the desert," he argued.

I did love the desert, that's true. I'd gladly drown in the sand, perish in the desert—be it the Siwa Oasis, Erg Chebbi, Wadi Rum, Rub’ al Khali, the Negev, hell, even the Chihuahuan Desert.

"But I don’t like New Jersey. Not even Alpine, New Jersey. Any New Jersey is filled with angry, stressed-out people dying to get out. It's not that I’m opposed to a quotidian life. I just don’t like feeling trapped," I responded.

"Do you reckon you'd feel trapped? Or are you just wary of commitments?" my husband probed.

"Not really afraid of commitments. I mean, I crave purpose and responsibility, just not the kind that revolves around pleasing Human Resources or shareholders. And let's face it, my life's not about staying underweight either. Can't wrap my head around that," I rambled, my words stumbling.

"You do realize you can't model forever, right? Aging gracefully is one thing, but there comes a point," he stated plainly.

"Yeah, I get it. But I'll probably land gigs in Hamburg or Berlin soon. Still got some zest left. But after that, I think we should settle down, have kids, and figure out the next step."

"Well, this is why I keep harping on about grad school," he persisted.

"Why must I subject myself to more schooling? It feels like a squandering of time and money," I retorted.

"I truly believe if you put your mind to it, you could excel in mathematics," he insisted.

"No, math and science only bring back memories of the physical abuse I endured from my father," I confessed.

"Fair enough. But you're an exceptional writer. Perhaps you could explore technical copywriting courses at George Brown College or even consider preparing for the LSAT," he suggested.

"For fuck's sake, I don't write to peddle things or ideas," I snapped.

"Well, that's where formal education could be helpful," my husband countered.

"And I'm tired of you and your father pushing me towards law school. I'm neither sociopathic nor technical enough to be a lawyer. I wish I were," I grimaced.

"What?" My husband was puzzled.

"Yeah, I loathe the law. I despise it. I doubt I could even grasp it. I aspire to rise above it," I confessed.

"Really? Because you wield language like a weapon, always ready to argue and tear things down. Your fascination with the law is evident in your conversion, this obsession with obscure chumrot and responsum like a Beis Yaakov girl. You crave structure and authority, yet you resist it at every turn," my husband observed.

"Shut up! That's not how I use language. My approach is chaotic and discursive. I chase rabbits. It's flowery, then I whip, like a cat-o'-nine-tails lashing out repeatedly," I protested.

"It's Arab. You may not be as loud as your dad, but you're just as stubborn. Maybe you should write," he suggested, undeterred.

"Why should I write? So you can incriminate me with a paper trail in the future?" I erupted, "Fine, I'll become an accountant. But do you even want children?" I pressed.

"We just have to reach a certain point," he replied vaguely.

"What point? What's the point?" I felt exasperated. Did I even want a child with him, or with X, for that matter? I yearned for children in general, my body aching for them. "How much does a child really need, anyway? Six figures isn't enough? Seven figures? A bassinet, maybe? A stick? An enclosed pen to play in? Pureed food? Hugs? Kisses? We're not staying in Toronto forever, are we?"

"Please, calm down," he urged, trying to soothe me.

"I feel like a girl, not yet a woman. What's the point of being a young wife if you don't knock her up? I could have at least chased a kid around during lockdowns instead of drowning in the Ocean. We keep playing this game, climbing up ladders slicked with oil and missing rungs, climbing up and slipping down. All my eggs will be gone, or I'll have to resort to IVF."

"Your wish to have children with just a bachelor’s degree in this era is impractical. On average, kids cost two million dollars a pop over a lifetime. What you’re aiming for is DMV behavior," he lectured.

"You earn well over six figures. Sure, wealth is relative, but for what purpose? And 'DMV behavior'?" I retorted, crossing my arms. "What exactly does that imply?"

"I'm referring to the demeanor you encounter at the DMV," he clarified.

"Oh, you mean angry black women? Oh it’s not managerial enough? Not bourgeois enough?" I explicitly stated the dog whistle, "Well guess what? I’m a nigger. They’re sane that way. They don’t wait till forty to have kids. They become grandparents at age forty. They’re welfare pirates. I want to be a pirate."

"You can’t say that!"

"Yes, I can. I just said it. I’m a Jewish. Well Jew-ish. I’m not observing halacha anymore. The beit din would be pissed off with my lack of observance right now. Arab? Well, Arabized against my will. Nigger! I’m African. North African."

"Stop saying that word."

"You seem to take more offense at the word itself rather than the underlying idea or action. I’m a Jewish Arab Nigger."

"Stop! Please stop! This is ridiculous."

"I’m not being ridiculous. I’m hyper-sane. There are serious limitations women face in terms of time and resources, and I feel that especially because of modeling."

"It's a distorted perception of time. Feeling old at twenty-six? That's insane."

"I wish I were a man! And no, I'm not a feminist," I shouted.

"Why not?"

"Because it's a farce. I have less time than you, and I lack sperm. I resent being a woman because I know that if men collectively decided to make our lives hell, they could at any moment. I never asked for any of this. I never asked to work in a soul-crushing office with fluorescent lights because some rich women in the past got bored and married drunk assholes and because of a changing technomagic. Call me lazy. I don't care. I am lazy. Every freedom we have is granted by men, who humor us because they want unrestricted access to our bodies. But it's a malicious form of generosity. They can crush us whenever they want. That's why I wish I were a brilliant man, not a mediocrity. Even if being a man means inherent struggles, I'd rather be good at math or science like my brother. We're mankind's court Jews and their slaves. Their ni—"

Maybe that’s why I wanted to wander because woman is the Jew of the World and Yoko Ono said, the Nigger of the World.

And indeed, I see myself as the female Lasalle, the Jewish Arab Nigger of the World.