I haven't shaved my legs in three weeks. A week ago, I was floating by on general laziness, but by now, it's officially A Statement, whether I like it or not. In all reality, that statement is, "I no longer need to adhere to mainstream beauty standards." But then again, I suppose that that's what all non-leg-shaving statements boil down to, really.
I tried to write a poem a few weeks ago, and it morphed into the same nonsense that this is morphing into. A Statement. In the biz, we call something like this an "Advertorial." An advertisement disguised as an editorial. And on nights where I can't sleep and I'm not half as tortured as Don Draper but I'm drinking like him, and I want to write a poem, the only thing that comes out anymore is A Statement. The kinda thing you write when you're looking for attention or admiration or something. Applause, maybe. An advertisement for yourself. And you hope someone's buying.
I live in the woods. I ride my bicycle into town, my leg hairs floating in the wind. I get buzzed by rednecks, in ridiculously large trucks, screaming obscenities. Or maybe they're just trying to hit on me. They can't see the leg hair from here.