Someone Asked

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Recently at a dinner party I was asked to explain my fear of bears.

There is nothing you can do. And it will come to you in nature — where if you’re lucky enough you’ll happen to be on your own, finding your footing, saying goodbye, making peace with your life. At the worst it will come to you when you are with your loved ones, and then you should mostly pray you will die.
Is that a metaphor?
Is what?
Bears. A metaphor.
Something deeper in your life.
Something you’re substituting.
What are you scared of.
270 pounds of a godless marauder.
You were abused.
I’m missing something.
You were abused when you were younger and now you got bear issues. I get it.
You don’t get invited to many cocktail parties, do you?
Which is why I hosted this one.
My glass.
I see.
Like the beer?
Truly a great night.
I’m going to turn around.
No, listen. I’m going to turn around and I’m going to raise my hands and turn them into pointed claws maybe jut my head forward to reveal a protruding chin and imagine that my kids are with me that my kids who have no one but me to look out for them no one but me to make sure they walk and eat and breathe no but me against cold and heat and guns and creatures higher up on the food chain, and I will imagine that you are taking away the food I have given to my son that you have smacked the sandwich out of my only sons mouth and now you raise a rifle to his heart and howl deep into the bones of the earth as I open my mouth the size of ten eggplants while bearing my fangs raised like pointed chandelier diamonds.


Please. Stop.
Do you see your mother?

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