Life Without Oprah, Day One

The Next Family

By: Ann Brown

Well, it’s over. Oprah’s gone. Just an empty studio, a million tear-soaked tissues and the last audience ever to see her show walking together, slowly, arm in arm to the bus stop, crying to each other, “now what the hell good was that? Where’s my new car? Where’s my trip to Australia? Fuck that stingy bitch.”

I didn’t watch the whole show, but I did see enough to remind myself why I don’t watch it: Oprah makes me feel bad about myself. And yes, my life motto is, “the important thing is that you feel bad”, but this is too much.

If I never hear the words “live your BEST life” again, I will die happy. Well, actually, I don’t know if that’s true. Does anyone really die happy? People like to say if they die during sex, they will die happy with a smile on their face. Me, if I died during sex I would die with more of a, I don’t know, grimace, I guess. Who smiles during sex? And who are they smiling at?

Now I am going to have to test this out. Oh Robin…

I am sitting here thinking about all the various facial expressions my partners have had during sex over the past, oh, million years. And, honestly, I cannot remember one smile. Oh, I’ve seen shock and horror on their faces, to be sure, particularly when the Spanx comes off, and I’ve seen disappointment more times than I care to recall and once I think a guy actually gasped in revulsion when I tried to strike a particularly athletic pose that did not include lying perfectly flat so as not to unleash my flab. He tried to cover up his gasp by pretending he was just super turned on but we both knew what was what.

I have seen men smile when the sex with me was over, however. I don’t ask why. Some shit you just gotta leave unanswered.

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