1. I should chat with such-and-such (s)he is awesome!
2. Open chat box
3. Stare at chat box
4. “Does (s)he really want to be bothered?”
5. “Probably not by me.”
6. Stare at chat box
7. Close chat box
8. Reconsider, return to step 1
(optional step: Worry that they happen to have a chat box open to you at the same time and keep seeing you typing and never sending)
Just in case you don’t know where I stand on this issue: illegal immigrant children are always refugees.
Me in my cheap reading glasses. I lose glasses so often.
"How long should my novel be?" he asked.
I stood up, balled my fist, and swung at his tiny chin for all I was worth. He toppled backwards in his chair, spilled his latte on his white shirt, and started to yell more than a few obscenities at me.
"Are you done?" I asked.
"Fuck you!" he said as he took my hand and let me help him stand back up.
"Did you worry about how many words you used to tell me off just now?" I asked.
"What? No, I-"
"And that’s how you know how long your novel should be."
I am a confluence of data, a convergence of information, a swirling eddy of thought. I am a series of perturbations upon the great rivers of creation. All the energies of eternity have poured forth to give me shape and my shape is energy. The wave is not water, but rather energy pulling water into its shape. I am not flesh, but rather gravity, electricity, the raw powers of the cosmos, pulling the flesh into the shape of me.
I’ve seen my future and I live. I outlive everyone I grew up with. I’m surrounded by the children of children. It is cold and dark. I have a place of honor in their world, but that doesn’t make them a part of mine. My world is dust and memories - and the dust is being swept away and the memories are fading. I’m old and there are billions of people who know my name and I am alone.
The problem with synthetic bodies is that you lose all the little pains that keep you human. They don’t itch, you don’t scratch. They don’t ache and twitch. We build these perfect bodies, but then we start to miss the pain. We miss arthritis and hangovers. We miss that burning in the back of your throat after you throw up. We miss it all. So we take these painless bodies and we start to put the pain back in. We set them up to break apart and malfunction. We rust the gears and short the circuits. All of it so we can feel human again. We sabotage our immortality, so we can feel alive. We bring pain back, because deep down we need it to keep from going insane, to keep ourselves real.
I outlive everything. The whole damned Universe. Gone. But then I’m there. I’m there in nothing. No context. What am I without context. What am I relative to nothing?
10 Ways I’m More Awesome Than Sliced Bread:
01. Sliced bread is terrible at conversations. I rock conversations
02. Sliced bread will go straight to your thighs. I’ll wait a while.
03. Sliced bread is cold and sealed in plastic. I’m warm and only sometimes sealed in plastic.
04. Sliced bread will go stale. I’m always getting fresh.
05. Sliced bread will mold. They broke the mold when they made me.
06. I’m a cut up, but sliced bread is just cut up.
07. You can eat sliced bread, but can sliced bread eat you?
08. Taking a bath with sliced bread is way more slimy than taking a bath with me - and it clogs the drains.
09. Sliced bread is terrible at Mario Cart. I’m… slightly less terrible.
10. Sliced bread can become toast, but I’m still hotter.