I didn’t know the holiday season would be so fraught. The inside of my head feels like a minefield, a gauntlet of competing pleasure. The hair on my arms, the tone of my voice, my mood seem to be up and down in a second. It’s too much to cope with in one go. So I wait, I avert my eyes, I hope for some sense of relief.
For example, does it make me over-sensitive if I suddenly, without warning, say the word “fuck” aloud? I guess it would, if it happened all the time. I’m also incredibly sensitive about drinking alcohol. I won’t be crossing the line of drunkenness just for fun, even if it’s the right kind of drunkenness. That saying we’re only a disease away from being loved by the entire world might not be such a terrible idea. Also, I put an awful lot of time and effort into forgetting I’m fat and eating healthy. But as soon as I start thinking about food, even thinking about eating it, it seems like I’m on a different planet entirely. So I use a plebette eating scale and buy some modern wipes, which don’t really work.
Unstoppably forced, I make a video that shows you how you can see the secret world through invisible glass. It’s funny, not fun, really. In the future, I expect to do more improv. I want to find people with much more enticing appetites. Also, to get jobs where I can be 50% Iggy Pop and 50% a dude who wears a pair of crazy metal glasses and favours colourfully printed skinny ties. I want no children. Though I’m also hoping to get a second period-one tryout in the Olivabots – a highly badass third-term version of PETA.
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