cottage cheese

Cottage cheese is edible.

Its inconsistency is deliberate.

There is a psychic trauma associated with our initial consumption of cottage cheese (similarly there is a physical trauma associated with the ingestion of cola, caused by carbonation’s momentary burning of the throat which in turn becomes the precondition for its satisfactory quality; the displacement of pain and pleasure) caused by the unfamiliar presence of bodily like elements in a viscous base.

This trauma is further complicated by the secular analogy between the perishable product, and the thighs of unfortunately overgrown women with the disposition to a certain sort of carnal inconsistency in the legs. One which renders the fragmentation of fat apparent.

Fat in pieces.
A plateau of excess corrupted by craters.
The dystopic antinome of Renaissance corpulence.

In your mouth.

However (unlike the immediate attraction to the smell of our own feces), through a prolonged process of perversion, this initial trauma motivates what follows as a later (and latent) desire to endure the same trauma again to the point of enjoyment.

To the point where history erases its affects.

We indulge in cottage cheese. Fill our filthy mouths with a filthy reminder of what it may be to revel in the glutinous mass of our mother’s stomach, breasts and ass.

Cottage cheese allows us to eat what the totem denied modern man.

It is cannibal.

When left to spoil, rotting under the sun, stinking of putrid histories and the body of Antigone’s brother, it figures further into the foreground the reality of our own flesh: its dedication to deterioration, its materialist recession into the bowels of the earth, where matter is indiscriminate and putrefaction is process. Fertilizing, from out of its stench, an entirely new era of morality.