It’s a funny thing to be domesticated. You forget how to do basic shit like hibernate and kill snakes and frogs for lunch, and because of that, you’re weak. And for what? A warm cage and a muthafuckin’ snuggle sack? You’ll have to excuse my anger. Twelve Tribes of Hattie was another book about a woman weighed down by her domestic duties. Reading it made me want to gnaw out of my cage, quill any assholes that got in my way, and return to nature. Or New Jersey. Whichever comes first.
The worst part is that there’s really not much we can do about it. Hattie tries to escape her tribe of kids more than once, but the closest she gets is the bathroom of a Baltimore train station. You know why? Once she’s in the wild, she doesn’t fucking know what to do. She’s lost the instinct. It would be the same thing if I returned to the forest. In no time, I’d probably get snatched up by the hedgehog-equivalent to Satan: the European Eagle Owl. So how do us domesticated girls console ourselves? We survive. We do what we have to do. Hattie wasn’t adored by her ingrate kids or bum of a husband, but for the most part, she couldn’t give a shit. I admired that. You think I run hundreds of laps a night on my exercise wheel for fun, muthafucka? No. I’m doing it for myself. That’s what hedgehogs do: we run. We eat worms. We shit on you during cuddle time. And if you have a problem with it, you’re the one with the keys to our cages, asshole.