Dear Alien,

In the beginning god created man. Then, recognizing the error, he made woman. (Not from the rib of man as goes the popular notion, but more out of a need to cover his own ass.)
This god-notion said at the time that it wanted a manifestation of self-in-flesh-form but didn't quite grok with drag queens so, as a result, here we sit, quite convinced that we know what's what and that everything's in its proper place and the maid will, one day, spot that huge dustbunny in the corner and sweep it away.
In America, in the new millenium, in this our land of quiet desperation, we separate like lost mercury and curse ourselves soundly for our unnoticed blessings. Setting our foreheads sternly and frowning at the corners of our chapsticked lips we forcibly try to smile through our blind, sound-bitten eyes. It hurts to be us right now. Perhaps it always did. But not, I think, in the beginning. We hula-hoop through the circle of life, reaching for brass rings with greasy, fat-free fingers for some glimpse of love's prize. We are special. But still, we are no different.
And oh...how...we...hate. Teeth to bone and chewing at gristle we giggle and snicker at the lesser fed. Rewarding the biggest cannibal with knife and spoon. To cut and to lap as if actually hungry. But to be hungry is not to be gluttonous, to chew is not to bite, to savor is not to sustain and there just ain't enough meat and never has been. For we are insatiable.
And no matter how much we devour, expanding the middle to the detriment of the extreme, there's always room for an after-dinner mint.