 she needs to change this conception of herself. How she appears to the world is determined by her own assertion of work. Her own assertion of work is going to come from understanding herself in the context of her own life, her own power, her own experience of what she is able to affect for herself. Too much of a woman's life is spent in the traditional careers of the care of others, from siblings, to husbands, to children, to parents in their decline. Traditional careers teaching and nursing, fuck that nurture shit. Teaching is an opportunity to indoctrinate a revolutionary stance subversively. Teaching can be seen as a platform of power that influence a teacher has on the lives. But that's exactly my point. Her life is measured by how many other lives she fosters. Her value stems from how many piglets are sucking at her teeth and how many other creatures survival she can ensure. Her own survival is contingent upon establishing this value as post, as nurturer for others. Her own survival is not valid for its own sake. This has to change. Of course I agree with you. I think her own survival is important and desirable for its own sake. But teaching is more than fostering. Teaching is only about influence. It is possible to teach in a revolutionary mode, to raise up a generation of women who believe in their own words. Or still thinking like a farmer. Yes, Gloria. Yes, exactly. Like a farmer. Open, responsive, oriented toward growth. If we stop focusing on nurture, what if we said, women are good at nurture. Porto can nurture the shit out of another person. She needs to develop other parts of herself. Aren't you adopting a nurturing quality toward her now? No, no, I am not offering to help. I'm laying down in an imperative. Porto, stop sniveling. Stand up and do something with yourself. If they say no, women don't do that, do it anyway. Fuck them, that's what I'm saying, in excertation. Sometimes you have to rip a plant out by the roots. Gardening isn't pretty. OK, OK, Simone. Have whatever metaphor you want, as long as we can agree. Let the fuckers fend for themselves for a while. I don't really see why that's the last word. I'm plenty good at fending for myself. Not you, the rest of that. Stop taking care of them. I don't think the answer to my loneliness is to be an asshole. No, no, you failed to understand. You're being an asshole now. Stop it, stop being an asshole. Respect the strength in every human. Respect the urge to survive. You think they're also fragile. Yes? Yeah, they're not. Not helpless either. My experience teaches me otherwise. You set out to see what you set out to see. No, I learn. I see what's there, I learn. Not, no, not, you don't. Not really, really. What do I, with him now? Whatever you do, don't cook for him. Don't cook for him. Anything but that. You might wake him up and tell him it's time to leave. You might tell him you have a life to lead. And if he finds another place to waste his life, you might let him sleep and take yourself out for a lavish breakfast. An omelet. And a glass of white wine. And a croissant and fried oise. You might go for a walk and see what the world has to offer. Although what you would probably do is make coffee and sit and wait for him to wake up and then do something stupid and offer him a grilled cheese. You always, all of them, they love a grilled cheese. Yes. You will remind him of his mother. And then he will remember that you sucked his dick. And he'll have his own little thread and got it all in one place. And then he will feel powerful and slightly ashamed. And this will make you look weak and shameful in his eyes. And then he will know he can treat you with radical disrespect. And he will accept this until he can offer you. When you tell him it is over, he will feel confused. And he will know that it was inevitable. You will probably participate in all of these things because you are not fully conscious of your own humanity. Because you are an American woman. I mean. You see, yes. I like offering people food when they come to my house. Yes, it shows, because she does not have to conform to commercial standards of beauty. No, of course not. But food is not love. Well, of course. I don't think, well, I mean, I don't think I agree. Food is a neighbor. I mean, come on, you guys like to eat. Yes, snails, I particularly like snails. Yes, in the garlic and the butter. See, yes. Food is for eating, love is for sex. Oh, you don't believe that. Come on, sex is for sex. Guys, I mean, Ms. Steinem and Mr. Beauvoir. I don't know what to do with them. Men, I've tried it alone. I've tried it married. I've tried it in motels and on beaches and in the backs of cars. And I feel like I've been chasing after some man my whole life. And I don't understand what they could have ever done for me. I just know that I like sex. And this guy seems like someone who might listen when I talk and might say things I want to listen to. And he seems nice. So I'm going to make him a cup of coffee for when he wakes up and see if he likes strong coffee and then see if he wants to go for a walk with me. Because I've taken a lot of walks by myself. And I know how to do that. But I don't know about that other thing. So with all due respect, I'll read your books. But I'd like to curl up next to someone else while I do that and just feel a little less alone. OK? She's committed. She really wants to be an asshole. The whole point is that you have to stop asking if it's OK. Life is not slushy. Stop trying to make all the apples and the applesauce. She's not going to get it. Come on, let's just go, deaf ears. Open your ears. Come on. It's a new tapas bar in 13th Street. I've heard it's great. Come on, get your point. I want snails. The French place, then. Isn't it a little early for all that butter? No. Not fully. I'm not a squeamish American. They leave. Porto alone. Hennepin comes on out of there. Want some coffee? All right. Coffee, sure. With milk and milk and sugar, please. You hungry? Kind of bar with toothbrush. There's a spare in the medicine chest. Hennepin goes into the bathroom. Porto doesn't hesitate. Shoes, keys, leaves, some time. Hennepin at his toilette. A little more. Hennepin through the door. Hey, you don't get the paper delivered, do you? Door opens. And it is underwear. Time to think, Hennepin. What are you thinking about, Hennepin? Bacon? We're thinking about bacon. And you've said, Hennepin, maybe I will eat anything wrapped in bacon. If you've not said this, you've heard this. Someone near you has said this. A friend, a relative, a drunk in a bar. Someone has said, and recently, in your presence, I could eat anything wrapped in bacon. Wrapped around a date. Wrapped around a big trout. Wrapped around a chocolate chip cookie. Wrapped around a pickle. Someone you know is dreaming about bacon. When a pig is born on a factory farm, it's kept with its siblings in a pen adjacent to its mother. Its mother is kept in a pen modified to allow her to lay on her side, exposing her nipples, and the nipples are accessible to the piglets in the adjacent pen. This system allows the piglets continuous access and prevents the real danger that the overfed mother pig will roll over onto the piglets, crushing them under her factory farm girth. The mother is essentially immobilized until weaning begins. When weaning begins, the piglets are moved into a grow shed, and the mothers are returned to the mating shed to await impregnation by a tool that is part turkey baster, part syringe, part groping uncle. This tool is much more effective at insemination and much faster than a male pig's penis. A male pig's penis is hooked onto a tank which siphons it, siphons the semen, and reserves it, giving the farmer maximum control over the insemination process. Once the piglets have matured, some are identified as mating pigs, and some are identified as market pigs. The market pigs are transferred to the growth finishing shed, where they will live until they reach market week. In the growth finishing shed, the pigs are fed from network feed bins that dispense an exact amount of food by weight at specific times. The pigs, smart animals, eminently trainable, smarter than dogs, quickly learn that they have a short amount of time in which to eat before the food is removed. Removing the food ensures that the pigs learn to eat all of it whether hungry or not. It will be gone soon. The pigs imperative becomes to eat as much as possible, as fast as possible before it's gone for good. In this way, the growth finishing shed fattens the pigs to market weight in a uniform and remarkably short period of time. In the growth finishing farm, the pigs live on slatted floors raised above a trough as wide and as long as the farm building itself. The pigs' waste products fall through the slatted floors, collected for fertilizer for the feed crops. Nothing is wasted. Upon reaching market weight, they're led into the market shed, down a series of twisting pathways with high walls that prevent the pigs from seeing more than three feet ahead. At the end of the path, the pigs are slarred. Very quickly and hopefully painlessly, anxiety makes the meat less tender. No one wants a tough crook chop. The carcasses are drained. The blood collected through the slats of the kiln floor in troughs below where the awful is again drained and transferred to fertilizer plant. Once the carcasses are drained, the pigs are sliced longitudinally and the skin is peeled back. The edible organs are reserved and the belly flesh is carved free of the stomach and the other soft organs. The belly flesh is then salted and cured, sliced and packaged at the processing plant and delivered to your table as the bacon wrapped. Around the dirty gym sock you claimed you'd eat just as long as it was wrapped in bacon. In! Then wanders into the bar. He has a crook. It is of the bartender. It is the early evening but not too early for... I've got something for you. And it fits down. It's of the bartender and a beer and a strange looking sausage. Is this... ...wagra wrapped in bacon? Yes, this is. I eat. The bartender watches Hennepin take a bite. Hennepin chews. Hennepin's mouth is very full. You want to cry? In a way that is difficult to describe. I came up with this in a dream last night. Hennepin swallows. You had a dream about sausage? What? You have a dream about what you want all the time? Have you tried this? No. Secret. I don't eat meat. Huh? No. That stuff will... It'll kill you. What? Hey. Go on your mind right now. How can you make something that you don't believe in? How? This won't. It won't kill me today. Not today. It'll stop up your gut, your veins and your brain. Plus, booze robs your gut. So you don't drink or eat meat. Nope. Green tea. Hail. I... Hate...hate this place. Another bite. Hennepin looks. He wants it. It scares him. He wants it. Don't think about it, Hennepin. Just feel. It's not in your brain this decision. Your mouth is watering. You want this bacon-wrapped foie gras sausage with IOE. I know you want it. In your mouth. Right now. Your watering mouth.