SLANDER AND TRUTH

Suitors kept coming to our house one after another.
Yet my heart did not warm to any of the marriage candidates.
Maybe it wasn’t their fault at all.
To be honest, I didn’t feel ready to run a household, to be someone’s wife.

That evening, more matchmakers came.
They’d already been turned down once — why did they come back? Didn’t they understand?
My poor mother looked at me pleadingly.

— Mother, I’ve already said no! Tell them not to come again!

— My child, — my mother replied calmly, — matchmakers come to a house with a daughter. How can we just slam the door on guests? That’s not our custom, my dear. Your fussiness is wearing me out. Now I swear, whoever next knocks at our gate asking for your hand, I’ll give you away and be done with it. That’s it.

You’re already twenty. Do you still think you’re so young?
Your peers are building happy families. And you? You’re being picky, turning your nose up at everyone.
“Be careful not to keep choosing and end up with something far worse,” she warned.

Seeing how serious my mother was becoming, I felt trapped, torn between my own wishes and hers.

The next morning, my aunt came over. Mother told her everything.
— Don’t worry! — said my aunt, as if she had been waiting for this. — Leave it to me. I’ll see your daughter married. Of course she’ll agree.

Not long after, I was engaged to my aunt’s son. There was really no other way — there were family ties between us. It was decided that we would have the wedding in three years…

After the engagement, I worked tirelessly, day and night, like an ant, trying to win over my parents-in-law.
They treated me like their own daughter.
But my sisters-in-law couldn’t stand it. They’d say openly to my mother, “Well, she is still just your sister’s daughter, after all.”

Little by little, their attitude toward me changed. Sometimes I was bewildered.
No matter how hard I tried to please them, they always found faults, whispered behind my back, tried to turn others against me, and humiliated me quietly.

One day we went out to the fields to plant tomatoes, cucumbers, watermelons, and melons. By noon, we had finished planting all the seedlings…

At one point, when my mother-in-law finally had a moment to breathe, she asked:
— Have you seen the scissors? Anora wanted me to sew a small quilt if I had time. I’ve searched everywhere but can’t find them. Did you happen to see them?

It was as if my sister-in-law Khadicha had been waiting exactly for this. She raised her voice so my mother could hear clearly:
— Why bother searching? Your precious bride has them at her house, under her quilt. I’ll fetch them right now. You see how sly your dear daughter-in-law is? Even when she hears this, she just sits there pretending to know nothing. There’s much more to her than you’d believe.

I was stunned.
I didn’t even get the chance to defend myself — as soon as one stopped, the other picked up. I had worked day and night alongside them, never once needing those scissors. I couldn’t imagine how they ended up at my place.

From that day on, even my father-in-law and mother-in-law stopped trusting me.
— Why did I ever take an old maid like you for my daughter-in-law? You’ve brought nothing but trouble. Get out of my sight, — my aunt finally spat one day.

Truth is like air. You breathe it in to live, but you cannot see it.
My husband, too, began straying down the path of betrayal. Still, I swallowed it all. For life’s great sorrows, I found courage; for the small ones, patience.

The fights grew worse day by day. At last, unable to endure it, I returned to my parents’ house and poured everything out to my mother. She scolded me.
— It must be partly your own fault. Go back to your husband’s house.

Three days later, I returned.
But my father-in-law and mother-in-law only mocked me:
— Couldn’t you fit into your mother’s tight womb, yet can’t seem to fit into our big house? Leave the way you came. We don’t want a daughter-in-law like you.

They themselves took me back to my parents’ home.

Three months later, I gave birth. I waited so long, hoping that now, with a child, they’d come and take me back. But no one ever came.

Never throw away your self-worth under someone else’s feet just to win their favor — they won’t see it anyway.

Brides, too, are someone’s daughters, raised with hardship by their parents.
I don’t so much pity myself as I do my mother’s years of sacrifice.

Maybe if I’d agreed to those other suitors my mother suggested, my life would have turned out differently.

Life is like riding a bicycle — you have to keep moving to maintain your balance. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself in situations you never expected.

Life is a journey. And how we travel it is entirely up to us.

My biggest mistake was living with my husband without officially registering our marriage.
Sometimes I blame fate for it. But what fault is it of fate?
It was all because of my own impatience, my failure to look ahead and think wisely.

People are easily charmed by sweet words.
But when your trust shatters into pieces, that’s when you realize the depth of the tragedy. You pour out your tears, but nothing goes back to how it was.

Even before my little girl was born, it seemed her destiny had already been marked — a life without a father.
After she was born, we needed to get her a birth certificate.
But since we didn’t have an official marriage paper, we were forced to register her under my father’s last name.

Sometimes I wonder: if we had at least formalized our marriage, maybe we wouldn’t have divorced so quickly.
I kept trusting him when he said, “We’ll register after the wedding.”
Then it was one excuse after another, until we ended up like this.

Now my daughter is growing up never knowing a father’s love.
At night, thoughts of her future steal my sleep.
Even when I took him to court, I couldn’t get her his surname. He denied his paternity.

How wretched is powerlessness — I couldn’t even defend my rights.
My daughter is older now. She keeps asking me, “Why did you and Dad separate? Why do I have Grandpa’s last name? What’s the reason?”
But I have no answer, no words that could soothe her.
For some reason, I can’t even look her in the eye.

I’ve learned — though too late — that when young people start building a family, they must pause and truly think it through. Because regretting later is pointless.
And oh, how deeply I’ve regretted it…

At times like this, my teacher’s words echo in my mind:
“First, don’t make a mistake when choosing your profession — it should give you both honor and bread.
Second, don’t make a mistake when choosing your life partner. Let him be your shoulder to lean on.
Bind your fate to someone who will never become a burden you’ll regret.”

I understood all this only too late.
Now, what would regret change? Nothing.
I must keep moving forward, find the strength within myself so that my daughter can be happy.

So to all the future brides out there, to the young girls who can’t yet see beyond today —
“Dear girls, don’t rush. Before you marry, think deeply.
Because happiness is in your own hands. It’s like a delicate bird trembling in your palm — if you’re careless, it will fly away.”

Digital Inequality and Rural Women: Opportunities, Barriers, and Solutions

Sh. Kholmurodova — Student of Social Work, National University of Uzbekistan

Introduction

In 2024, the number of internet users in Uzbekistan reached 80%. But what proportion of this number consists of women living in rural areas? While digital transformation is rapidly becoming an integral part of our daily lives, not everyone benefits equally from this progress. Unfortunately, many women living in rural areas of Uzbekistan still do not have sufficient access to digital technologies. This gap is giving rise to a new form of social inequality — digital gender disparity.

1. The Concept and Relevance of Digital Inequality

Digital inequality refers to the disparity in access to and use of the internet and digital technologies among different segments of society. These disparities often reflect and reinforce existing economic, social, cultural, and gender-based inequalities. Compared to men, urban populations, and high-income groups, rural women face the most significant barriers. These include:

– Lack of access to digital devices and stable internet

– Low levels of digital literacy

– Gender stereotypes and traditional social norms

– Lack of economic independence

Moreover, factors such as marital status, age, and family responsibilities also influence digital access. Married women or mothers with multiple children often have less time and opportunity to use digital technologies.

2. Research and Statistical Data

According to the Ministry of Digital Technologies of Uzbekistan (2024), 73% of women in urban areas use the internet, compared to only 48% in rural areas.

The UN’s 2023 *Gender and Digital Equality Report* indicates that in developing countries, women are 30–40% less likely to use the internet than men.

UNESCO’s 2022 study highlighted that many rural women have only heard of digital services but rarely use them in practice due to lack of digital skills.

A 2024 social survey conducted in the Sariosiyo district of Surkhandarya region revealed that 61% of women respondents could not use government e-services or online payment systems.

3. Opportunities and Positive Initiatives

There are several existing opportunities to integrate rural women into the digital world:

– Free training through the “Women’s Notebook” social support program

– Access to IT education through IT Park, “DigitALL,” and “One Million Uzbek Coders”

– Remote employment opportunities: e-commerce, content creation, and freelancing

– Special grants, microloans, and startup funding for women entrepreneurs

– Establishment of digital information centers for women within local communities

Pilot projects supported by local authorities, NGOs, and international donors have shown early success. For instance, the IT Park’s “Coding for Women” program has demonstrated positive results in rural areas.

4. Barriers, Stereotypes, and Practical Challenges

Despite the potential, many of these initiatives do not fully reach rural women due to the following barriers:

– Low self-confidence among women

– Family restrictions and lack of support for digital activities

– Poor digital infrastructure in remote areas

– Limited availability of user-friendly content in local languages

– Weak cooperation between local governments, NGOs, and grassroots activists

In addition, there is a shortage of community-level professionals — such as mahalla leaders, social workers, and teachers — who are aware of the issue and can actively facilitate solutions.

Conclusion and Recommendations

Ensuring that rural women can access digital opportunities is crucial for promoting their economic empowerment, social inclusion, and self-development. Achieving digital gender equality should be a central goal in Uzbekistan’s digital transformation strategy.

The following practical recommendations are proposed:

 Organize digital literacy courses — mobile outreach units in communities

 Develop user-friendly apps designed specifically for women (in Uzbek, with voice features)

 Invest in rural internet infrastructure, especially in remote regions like Sariosiyo

 Create motivational content that highlights success stories of female digital role models

 Establish local women’s digital centers — offering free Wi-Fi, training, and consultation

Clearly designate implementing organizations — including the Ministry of Digital Technologies, the Ministry for the Support of Mahalla and Family, IT Park, UNDP, and local NGOs

References

1. United Nations. Gender and Digital Equality Report, 2023

2. Ministry of Digital Technologies of Uzbekistan. Statistical Bulletin, 2024

3. UNDP Uzbekistan. DigitALL: Digital Literacy Platform for Women, 2023

4. Social Survey Report: Sariosiyo District, Surkhandarya Region, 2024

5. UNESCO. Digital Literacy for Women in Rural Areas, 2022

Poet’s Heart

No matter how much a poet writes,
Their words never end.
In this world, never ever,
Will the poet’s name die!

There are many professions, skilled individuals, and people with honorable titles in the world — and no matter how much we praise them, it seems not enough. Yet, there are such people in our lives whose hearts are constantly filled with passionate emotions, love, and divine feelings at every moment. They always look at existence through the eyes of the heart and express their unique and subtle feelings through the pen. Are you wondering who we are talking about? Of course — poets!

A poet. This is not just a title. Behind it lies a world of inner storms, emotional uprisings of the soul. As one of the great literary figures of the past century, Erkin Vohidov, once said:

A poet’s heart is like a pomegranate,
Its juice is their poetry.
Those of the poetic path
Have no mercy for their own heart.

Indeed, a poet’s heart is like a pomegranate. And their poem is the juice. Just as the tiny seeds of a pomegranate are crushed to produce its juice, so too the deepest feelings, emotions, sorrows and joys, hopes and dreams hidden within the poet’s heart are awakened. Like the scattered pomegranate seeds, the poet’s thoughts and reflections come together and bring about a spiritual stir in the heart, which results in the beautiful, divine lines we call poetry.

During the creation of a poem, there is no emotion left untouched in the poet’s heart. That’s why we say: a poet shows no mercy to their own soul. Poetry is a literary form that reflects all the feelings, impressions, and thoughts that occur in the human mind and heart.

The poetess Zulfiya defined poetry as follows:
“Poetry is the fruit of emotions, impressions taken from life, and reflections…”

A poem does not appear out of nowhere. Only true poets can create it. Merely rhyming two words or lines is not a sign of being a poet. A real poet’s heart contains loyalty to their homeland, love for their country, all living beings, and the Creator. It is these emotions of loyalty and love that inspire them to write poetry.

A poet finds joy, inspiration, and delight in every event. For example, some find inspiration in the quiet of golden autumn, in the gentle whispering of the trees, the rustle of falling leaves, or the pattern of rain. Others find inspiration in the soft call to prayer, the cry of an infant, the fleeting nature of this world, the worries and hardships of life. Their thoughts and desires give them no rest, not even for a second.

That is why one poem can fill our hearts with joy and pride, while another can immerse us in thought, connecting us with the pain of others. A true poet is someone whose heart overflows with patriotism, justice, humanity, goodness, courage, and bravery.

Such noble qualities are embodied in the poet Nazrul Islam. In Erkin Vohidov’s poem “Rebellion of Souls”, Nazrul is portrayed as a devoted poet who radiates light through his gaze, looks at the universe with a sense of wonder, and uplifts humanity with a sense of justice. From birth to death, he lives for his people, his nation, and never fears speaking the truth.

Even at the cost of his own life, he calls on all mankind to seek justice, truth, and human values. Yet, the masses see his actions as rebellious and imprison him.

The following lines from the poem express the true nature of a real poet:

If you are a poet,
Let your heart be ready
To be sacrificed for your people.
If you are a poet,
Let your people
Be your shield.

Over time, Nazrul Islam departs from this world, but his spirit lives on. The people make his golden words their guiding slogan.

At the end of the poem, Erkin Vohidov writes that Nazrul Islam’s spirit gave him no peace. The spirit of the character says to the poet:

Being a poet is like
A bleeding wound in the heart.
I do not wish for you, young one,
A peaceful life,
Or comfort.
Do not rest,
As long as you live.
Let inspiration bring you pain,
Be ill with poetry’s ache.

These lines awaken feelings of pride, bravery, and courage in today’s young writers. Through them, the poet’s spirit urges Erkin Vohidov not to write about fleeting pleasures or superficial beauty, but instead to live with the struggles of the people, the worries of his time, and to take poetry seriously.

Let’s refer to another work. In Abdulla Oripov’s “The Road to Paradise”, the central figure is a young man who was a poet in his lifetime. He wrote inspiring poems, was a good son to his parents, and harmed no one. He dies while trying to save a drowning girl during a flood. In the afterlife, he stands before the Balance Keeper who measures sins and virtues. The young man, hopeful that he may enter paradise, is surprised to find his good deeds weigh less than his sins.

He asks to see his greatest sin. The Balance Keeper shows him the burning souls of envious, dark-hearted people in hell. The point is that although the young man was given divine talent and a sharp pen, he used it only to describe mountains, nature, and romantic imagery, rather than to expose society’s evils or prevent wrongdoing.

This leads us to Abdulla Oripov’s profound words:
“A poet cannot isolate themselves in their own little world and write — they are connected through countless threads to the complex, conflicted, and heated life around them. Thus, they must live with the concerns, pain, and passions of their era…”

One of his quatrains also captures this well:

Don’t say a poet runs everywhere,
Neglecting the world’s burden.
They carry a mountain on their back,
Yet walk lightly like a bird.

Only when a poet takes on the burden of that mountain — not only their personal troubles, but also the problems of society — can they truly be called a poet.

In conclusion, today’s young writers must first and foremost possess patriotism, loyalty to the homeland, and a sense of humanity. For generations, our ancestors have passed down works that emphasize such noble qualities. Even knowing that writing them could risk their lives, they never feared spreading goodness and light.

Therefore, the writings and poems of today’s young authors must also become true weapons of goodness and patriotism for future generations.

---

Author: Xo‘jamiyorova Gulmira Abdusalomovna
Born on June 25, 2004, in Surkhandarya region. While studying at Secondary School No. 22 in Uzun district, she actively participated in Uzbek language and literature Olympiads and earned honorable places. In 2022, she was admitted on a state grant to the Termez State Pedagogical Institute. She is a graduate of Shine Girls Academy and the “Formula of Success” course, and a member of Kazakhstan’s “Qo‘sh Qanot” Union of Writers and Poets. Many of her scientific and promotional articles and authored poems have been published in international newspapers, journals, and collections, and she holds several international certificates.

IT’S JUST THE WIND

The wind possesses a sentimental soul

A sincere and soft heart to adore the trees

Passionately in love, maybe not yet, how can the wind know?

When in the middle of chaos

There are many mountain tops it has to blow

The wind wonders why we live on the same earth

When the trees and the wind colour the afternoon of dating

Why humans observe discreetly each other’s wounds

The trees pretend not to know the wind

The trees pretend not to love

Not to have a fond remembrance, not to be jealous

They let the wind pass by

Like an apricot branch that never blooms

Like a romantic couple

Never passing this town on a bike

Happiness streaking through them like a comet

They couldn’t stop laughing

And by a cafe she drank two cups of lemon juice

Not sure if the trees have to pretend not to love anyone else

For the afternoon leaning, a few drops of sunlight scattering

For the unsteady sea forgetting its quiet sail

For the humans with the same blood colour

Keep doubting each other and forming opposite sides

The wind wishes

There are no wars on earth

The trees are not neglected

And the stormy seasons

Have not caused misunderstanding between them

So that when the wind passing by

The trees would feel

Love is so affectionate, trustworthy and cherishing

So that when the wind passing by

We would love our earth a lot more

The wind blames the trees just a little bit

Then it would be back to its chaotic journey

Then it would surf this planet

That is filled with colourful happy and sad stories

IT’S JUST THE WIND was born from a reflection on the affections between beings, whether trees and wind, or people with one another. I imagined the wind is a force of nature and a soul with longing, tenderness, and a wish for peace. Through metaphor, this poem seeks to speak gently to the human condition: our hesitations, our masks, and our shared yearning for connection in a divided world. The wind becomes a witness, sometimes brushed aside, sometimes misunderstood, but always carrying the hope that love can be felt openly and that harmony, like wind through branches, might one day move through us all. (Vo Thi Nhu Mai)

Võ Thị Như Mai is a Vietnamese writer, poet, and translator based in Western Australia. She has published four poetry collections in Vietnamese and numerous translated works both in Vietnam and abroad. A senior specialist teacher and cultural advocate, Mai also hosts a literary podcast and contributes essays on multicultural literature. Her long-running website, vietnampoetry.wordpress.com, has showcased Vietnamese poetry and translation for over 15 years.

Pomposity and Circumcision

I was an extremely nervous Veteran in my mid-20s, attending college on the G.I. Bill. I wasn’t at this institution of higher learning in pursuit of knowledge. I had been laid off one too many dead-end jobs, and decided to turn to Uncle Sam to provide me with some income.

Veterans could obtain open admission status at Jersey City State College. During the first day of a literature class a rather plump, middle-aged English professor went around the room to each student and asked us who was our favorite writer.

I was at the end of the room in the back row, so my response would be among the last.

The names of authors that the students bandied about baffled me–I had heard the name of 2: Shakespeare of course (though unfamiliar with his work), but as the students spouting names totally unfamiliar to me snaked their way towards my response, I began to panic.

I wasn’t much of a reader before my stint in Vietnam. If I read anything it would be newspapers and magazines, not books, because what’s the point of reading stuff that’s made up?

But while overseas a barracks buddy we called Happy Jack gave me James Michener’s novel The Source. I told him I didn’t see the point of reading novels because it wasn’t about the truth. Happy Jack responded that it was great historical fiction and filled with cool stuff that really happened.

Happy Jack convinced me to read it. I was enchanted with the epic storytelling married to historical facts about the ancient history of the Jews that took readers up to the creation of the state of Israel.

One of the memorable storylines in this novel was about a great Jewish athlete in Israel (based on fact) who was a favorite of the Roman occupying Governor. He wanted to enhance his own glory by sending his prized athlete to compete in Rome. The problem was that all Roman athletes competed in the nude and it would be unacceptable for a circumcised athlete to perform at the games.

The Roman Governor offered his Jewish sports prodigy a very painful medical procedure that would result in a foreskin being sewed back on. The ambitious Jewish athlete dreamed of competing in Rome. When he informed his parents and Temple priests of this choice, they rebuked him and said if he accepted this blasphemous medical procedure, he would no longer be considered a Jew and would be outcast from his true people. After an agonizing deliberation, he chose the operation and this gifted Jew became a celebrated Roman athlete.

This book me led me to read another Michener novel, The Drifters, which blew me away because this author was in his sixties when he wrote about my hippy generation and got everything right, including how and what esoteric music influenced us. During the rest of my military tour, I devoured novel after novel by him.

When it came my turn to declare my favorite author, I proudly said James Michener. The Professor stopped and feigned complete shock. She said she was asking for real authors, not pseudo-writers like my literary hero, whom she put in the same category as popular exploitation authors Jacqueline Susan and Harold Robbins.

I was humiliated by her put-down, especially since I was probably the oldest student in class. But as the minutes ticked by, my shame turned into anger. I felt cut, wounded. Not only had she insulted me, but she also insulted an author that I truly loved and who had ignited within me a passion to read literature. When class ended, I got up the courage—after the other students left—to tell her how upset I was.

Back then Vietnam Vets lived with the stereotype that we were mostly crazed and a cauldron of potential violence, so she seemed very uncomfortable with my confronting her for calling out my “lame” literary taste in class.

I knew that quite a few guys in the military used Harold Robbins as jerk-off books, but Michener was most certainly not in that salacious league. I asked her if she had read any Michener books and she told me she had not. When I asked why not, she said she assumed he was a sleazy writer because he was so popular. She dismissed him as a literary artist in lieu of being a soft porn commercial hack. She said the marketing of many of his trade paperback book covers seemed to come straight out of pulp fiction art.

When I related some of his content and how it affected me to the point where I could now comfortably embrace the genre of fiction, to her credit she gave me a heartfelt apology. Her words of contrition replaced my anger towards her with genuine respect.

This early academic encounter helped erase my intense insecurity that a High School dropout with a military-issued G.E.D. diploma did not belong on a college campus.

Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild, PEN American Center, and Veterans For Responsible Leadership. His latest book is the flash fiction collection ‘Hunger Pains’ (Buttonhook Press).

trying to capture the moment

and here comes this light

soul saying all the right

things

sharing secrets

trying to capture the

moment

it makes me laugh

all of us

broken souls

searching for a better

tomorrow in a world

hell bent on destroying

itself

longing for a touch

a kiss on the sunset

as the world burns

it always ends the same

someone will need money

and i will have seen this

scam before

i respect the honest criminals

they found something

they were good at

most of us don’t

———————————————————

this time of year

the apartments behind

us like to play with

fireworks this time

of year

they will usually go

to two or three in the

morning

that is usually when

some genius

probably drunk

will throw a firecracker

into the dumpster

that explosion usually

wakes up the entire

neighborhood

a world war two vet

used to live next door

to me

too many memories

in the middle of the

night for him in his

nineties

he made it out

i doubt the rest

of us will

————————————————

memory of joy

growing up in dysfunction

doesn’t bring much memory

of joy when the holidays

roll around

only the moaning and bitching

about every little thing

so, for this fourth of july

i did my laundry

fucked up my back while

stripping my bed clean

icing that bad back

and counting the bottles

of whiskey over in the

corner and how many

it would take

dysfunction never leaves

you

like a cancer

a disease that knows

no limit

and i’m supposed to

give this joy to a child

fuck you

—————————————————————

tucked away in the darkness

i often think about

death these days

yours

mine

everyone i suppose

nothing comes from

these thoughts

they are tucked away

in the darkness

always willing to

come out and play

in the rain if ever

allowed

insomnia likes to

creep inside of me

open up a book

and a bottle of

wine

so, if you ever see

me bleary eyed

and laughing

we’ve got to a

chapter about the

pursuit of pussy

or power or some

motherfucker that

thinks there is a

difference between

the two

———————————————————————-

everyone wonders

the water is rising

paradise is burning

and everyone wonders

where is god

and i know i am the

crazy one for showing

the world the bullshit

of organized religion

yet no one wants to

give anything more

than thoughts and

prayers

god forbid

believe in science

stop raping the planet

stop thinking the rich

will save you

or any elected official

gives two shits about

anything other than

money

you have to be the

difference

you are the solution

because, eventually

you will realize

you is all you got

————————————————————-

J.J. Campbell

51 Urban Ln.

Brookville, OH 45309-9277

jcampb4593@aol.com

https://evildelights.blogspot.com

https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, looking for some lost soul to complete his misery. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Misfit Magazine, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl and Yellow Mama. Rumor has it he may have a new book coming out sometime before he dies. You can find him most days legally betting on sports and taking care of his disabled mother. He still has a blog, though he rarely has the time to post on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

The Good Life

Three years after the onset of my chronic illness, I realized it was up to me to manage my condition. And what better way to take control than through the practice of chaos magick? In no time at all, I began sleeping better, which helped with the brain fog and whatnot; but, my heart rate still hovered around 160 bpm, and the loneliness remained unabated. 

So, I created a sigil tied to the intention, “I am healthy and at peace.” 

Who would have imagined I’d wake up this morning at the farmers’ market, sitting contentedly within the kohlrabi bin? I’ll admit, I am a fine specimen, fit as a fiddlestick; and, there’s little to fret over as a card-carrying member of the cabbage family. 

A beneficent figure approaches, blocking the glare of the sun. Her bracelets jangle as she rifles through the bin. I then feel a gentle pressure upon me.

Well, how do you do? I think to myself as I’m lifted and carefully placed into a well-used reusable tote.

At last, rather than rotting in my bed, I get to live out the rest of my days with this lovely hippy-dippy lady who reeks of patchouli. Sure, she’ll cut me into slices and slather me in Bitchin’ Sauce; but, after years of frustration, I’ll have, at last, fulfilled my destiny—bringing joy to someone capable of seeing me as I am.