After reading an article on the philosophy on asses, I concluded that my ass has a history. It might not be the perfect
bum, but has stories to tell. I believe that in this "ass-ist" society, all
women forget how valuable our behind is for the things we go through in
life, instead of its
esthetic attributes. My ass is neither big or small, and much less smooth and hard as a peach. It is a normal ass, like that of many others, but it has memories. If it were measured and rewarded by them, it would be a famous, coveted ass, but because it transcended the esthetic, the superficial. Mine is a deep, existential bum, that spent many hours crushed on a chair, so I could become a professional; that had to walk because there was not enough money to take the bus or a taxi. Mine is a bum that works to get some food on the table.
Faithful companion, my behind was always with me and never left me alone. It was even stung by ants when, as a child, I sat down on the path to my house to play… over an anthill!! Beloved ass, criticized by me and by those who worship hard asses. Tortured, chased, massaged, burned by exercise, my bum knew how to impose its nature to my own demands and those of a society that loses sight of the essential.
With so much history on us, I am now becoming my ass' friend and valuing its efforts. It is a human ass, like that of my mother's, my grandmother's, and the neighbor's. As human as that of thousands of women who do not have time to think if is fallen, large, or very small, because life did not make it easy for them. And they were not able to dedicate themselves to freeze that baby bum that we all once had. We applaud pretty
bums, yes, but let us not forget to honor the bums with history.
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