By Sierra Dickey
I love you, Anthony Bourdain, but I would love you more as a woman. You spoke to the beleaguered Colombians in S1E3 about their country’s bloody coca history. You offered them your opinions with authority. As a former coke addict. You said the United States would never legalize.
At that same bar in Miraflores, you named yourself a crackhead. I see the bags under your eyes differently now. I see them as fluid sac pillows where you rest your gilded, guilty past. There, you husk, rest where I can wear you.
I love you, Anthony Bourdain, but it bothers me that you don’t get whistled at. You wear tapered jeans and down without attracting much attention. Small brown children ask to take your photo, instead of asking you for change.
I love you, Anthony Bourdain, but why don’t you say how bloated you feel? Did the goat intestines go down okay? Does a fermented tea leaf salad remind you of sex?`
I long to see you as a she, Anthony. I crave a swollen, greying, haggard female face on my square screen. I want her to be ugly like you, and charming because of it. I want to watch her bend over bowl after bowl after bowl of caldo, coming up to grunt that “this is good.”