You know that feeling of getting along, jiving with, being simpatico…
Like, um, the I-get-you, a wink and a nod and a pop to the hip, a punch in the gut.
I view the Gurlesque as a wide, deep, gooey reservoir, filled with sharp shards of glass, metal, and the occasional doll parts… bits of body hair covering the surface like pollen.
A junkyard delight of rejected norms of femininity I get to put on, perform, only to reject it the next day.
It allows me to search for “pleasure at the heart of this excessive poetics, an utter delight in the grotesque.”
Here is where I try to reconcile my ooey gooey feels with the hairy, heavy reality of body hair politics, and there is no catharsis because someone’s always got somethin’ to say about my mustache: