Antiprosopopoeia (an-ti-pro-so-po-pe’-i-a): The representation of persons [or other animate beings] as inanimate objects. This inversion of prosopopoeia or personification can simply be the use of a metaphor to depict or describe a person [or other animate being].

He’s a pimple. He’s a pile of shit. He’s an emotionally disturbed pile of shit with a pimple.

We were married 27 years and had 14 children because he couldn’t keep off me and he never used birth control. I didn’t either because I was pro-life. He’s been gone for five years. Seven of our children are in foster care, six are missing, and one is in prison for negligent homicide after he drunkenly veered off a rural road and collided with a farmer tilling his field. The farmer fell off his tractor and was sliced up like mortadella in a butcher’s window.

Now, I’m starting to think that pro-life is a misnomer. Of course, my children were born, but their lives have been sheer shit—abusive foster parents who’re doing it for the money, missing kids who may be dead or enslaved, a son justly rotting in prison. After all I’ve been through, and what I’ve suffered at the end of my husband’s penis, I am definitely not Pro-Life because I’m not Pro-Shit Life.

Wow, if I hadn’t had all those kids, I might’ve done something with my life—don’t get me wrong, having 14 children is doing something—but it was doing something wrong. Don’t tell me about self control and abstinence when a 225 pound jerk is on top of me, and I believe it’s my “marital duty” to spread my legs and let him pound away.

I could’ve been a flight attendant, a stockbroker, a bus driver, an actress, but instead, I’m a lump of shit all alone, living in Roach Land Fun Park, and cleaning toilets in New York subway stations. Somebody has to do it—it pays the bills and puts some food on the table. I haven’t had a hamburger in 3 months. I’m still wearing my flower-print polyester bell bottoms from the 70s. You can smell me coming 25 feet away. The up-side of slowly starving to death is keeping my figure.

Living with abusers, walking the streets, and spending ‘life’ in prison is not living. It’s having a heartbeat.

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Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” ( Bracketed text added by Georgia’s.

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