Circe hung out by herself in the woods with lions and bears that she’d bewitched.
She had this beguiling way that could turn men into pigs.
Her aims were usually unclear, perhaps she caused trouble for evil but perhaps it’s just funny to turn men into pigs and watch them root about in the mud.
Deep down they want you to because otherwise there would be no story of an alpha male beating a bitch at her mystic game and scoring a year’s worth of pussy.
I find myself in the same odd mythological position as Circe: a senseless, directionless multi-purpose invention of my misogynist and horny culture, out here in the woods with tame lions and bears and a loom and not much to do but turn men into pigs for fun and for evil and a decent fuck.
I know I belong in this story, but I’m not its subject and that is fine with me. The periphery is a delightful place to be, a sublime place to develop the magic of perspective. And when the story comes my way and I meet the formulaic embodiment of the human experience, I’ll be sure to make things interesting.