1871 c/o Jane Yeh

My beloved oleomargarine, the struggle is real. Long-haired cats are assembling in the Crystal Palace. It feels like the century is just beginning. It feels like being slapped in the face with corrugated cardboard.

If you could see a million birds massed over San Francisco for a day, you would start to believe in magnetic fields. How soft, how melting is my oleaginous cube. If you were being shot out of a cannon for the amusement of spectators, you might believe in the circus. It feels like being slapped in the face with a cat. There are detectives in New Jersey investigating the circumstances.

It feels like a massacre, but you don’t know about the century. They’re queuing out to Forest Hill. If you could put an Apache chief on trial, you might be a wasichu. There are fish who need protection by the American government. If you believe in progress, corrugated cardboard could be invented.

A mob of 500 men is no substitute for butter. I could be hanged for being in LA with my salmon. If you feel like a human cannonball, you might be chop suey. If you feel like setting fire to Chicago, you might be on trial. Attractive cats are being applauded in a glassy environment. There are Black Masons forming a lodge in New Jersey, which is progress.