EMERGENT CONDITIONS
Kid Cuddles’ coat has darkened considerably since we got the bad news re: emergent conditions at the macro scale. It’s an elegant, sophisticated look that cost her much of her earlier innocence except in her eyes, clear and blue—unlike Little Sister, who suffers from heterochromia.
Deadweight likes Little Sister the most because he suffers from heterochromia, too, but what’s really special about Kid Cuddles are her shapely teeth, and Little Sister can’t compete. Deadweight has okay teeth but they’re nothing like a cat’s mouth.
My own teeth are my weakest feature. If I could’ve gotten hold of a CRISPR during conception that’s the one thing I’d fix. Last Christmas I asked Deadweight to smash my mouth up so that I could get a whole new set of teeth, a customizable kit with proprietary colorsand even, if I was feeling particularly festive, a Memphis pattern, but he refused to kick my teeth in. He didn’t want to be held liable, whatever that means.
I have nothing against Deadweight. He came on to me once and I turned him down, and now I regret it. Now Deadweight is out of my league, which would’ve been hard to believe back when he still lived with his grandmother. His grandmother, who had her own name and had her own biography, said that I had something called a dark aura, whatever that means. She’s a flippant old nobody, Deadweight said; don’t take her seriously. Whatever; dark doesn’t mean, like, bad anymore. It’s at worst a kind of illegibility is all, a trending apophenia.
Not to say that I see things that aren’t there, exactly—I’m not that kind of crazy. But we all see faces in the trees and animals in the clouds sometimes, don’t we? We all see dead cats at the edge of our vision; we all lay awake at night and wonder at all the waste, and count the ways that we deserve it what’s coming—anything to take the mind off what really matters, the big lurking problem which precludes proactive measures, the weather that might not improve.
Like tonight. We pulled down the futon and cast a livestream of a beautiful women named LOVE/YOURSELF to the living room TV. She has her pants off and her uncut penis hanging out right in front of the camera, which I’ve never seen before, and is indeed appealing. She kneels on her cat pillow and takes a sip from a mysterious inky drink, smiling for real like she’s actually having a pretty good night.
“We’re all going to die,” she’s saying, her Colombian accent coming through. “We’re all just humans, we do certain things, we die at certain times in our lives.” She’s definitely beautiful but her mouth is a little wide, like maybe two or three extra teeth deep, and her mascara is intimidating. “We’re just like… temporary zombies, between deaths.”
And then LOVE/YOURSELF gets up for a refill and puts on some psychedelic cumbia, and Deadweight and I fall asleep.
Deadweight likes Little Sister the most because he suffers from heterochromia, too, but what’s really special about Kid Cuddles are her shapely teeth, and Little Sister can’t compete. Deadweight has okay teeth but they’re nothing like a cat’s mouth.
My own teeth are my weakest feature. If I could’ve gotten hold of a CRISPR during conception that’s the one thing I’d fix. Last Christmas I asked Deadweight to smash my mouth up so that I could get a whole new set of teeth, a customizable kit with proprietary colorsand even, if I was feeling particularly festive, a Memphis pattern, but he refused to kick my teeth in. He didn’t want to be held liable, whatever that means.
I have nothing against Deadweight. He came on to me once and I turned him down, and now I regret it. Now Deadweight is out of my league, which would’ve been hard to believe back when he still lived with his grandmother. His grandmother, who had her own name and had her own biography, said that I had something called a dark aura, whatever that means. She’s a flippant old nobody, Deadweight said; don’t take her seriously. Whatever; dark doesn’t mean, like, bad anymore. It’s at worst a kind of illegibility is all, a trending apophenia.
Not to say that I see things that aren’t there, exactly—I’m not that kind of crazy. But we all see faces in the trees and animals in the clouds sometimes, don’t we? We all see dead cats at the edge of our vision; we all lay awake at night and wonder at all the waste, and count the ways that we deserve it what’s coming—anything to take the mind off what really matters, the big lurking problem which precludes proactive measures, the weather that might not improve.
Like tonight. We pulled down the futon and cast a livestream of a beautiful women named LOVE/YOURSELF to the living room TV. She has her pants off and her uncut penis hanging out right in front of the camera, which I’ve never seen before, and is indeed appealing. She kneels on her cat pillow and takes a sip from a mysterious inky drink, smiling for real like she’s actually having a pretty good night.
“We’re all going to die,” she’s saying, her Colombian accent coming through. “We’re all just humans, we do certain things, we die at certain times in our lives.” She’s definitely beautiful but her mouth is a little wide, like maybe two or three extra teeth deep, and her mascara is intimidating. “We’re just like… temporary zombies, between deaths.”
And then LOVE/YOURSELF gets up for a refill and puts on some psychedelic cumbia, and Deadweight and I fall asleep.
