Tuesday, June 12, 2012
You know what this looks like? It looks like we're descending into the lower atmosphere of a planet where they want to harvest our livers and keep us alive as a harvestable source of dopamine. I don't want to go there, guys. I just want to stay up in here the air, where no one can pump me full of virtual sensations by putting me in a deep dark techno coma where my REM cycle is permanently extended in order to drain the chemical compounds of my emotions made visceral into white ribbed plastic tubes growing out of my spine THANKS I feel much safer up here.
Oh it's not an alien planet, you say? Well then our plane has obviously drifted through a temporal disturbance, and we've entered the future, when every volcano on Earth has erupted at the same time, probably due the failure of the Bachelor producers to throw every single one of those women into a mountain, and now the planet is covered in a thick dark poisonous cloud of frass. Wait, David told me frass is insect waste, but it's a really good approximation of pumice right, if the Earth was a giant slow moving spinning space insect. The point is, we can't land in this shit, and we are going to crash, and I've been prepared for a water landing my entire life but I heard volcanic eruptions make squid and jellyfish particularly bloodthirsty. So maybe be prepared for that. I wish I had worn leggings.
Oh, this is present day Earth, you say? You promise? Yeah whatever, I can see the time on your iPhone, aren't you supposed to have that shit turned off?
Fine, so this is my planet, my time, but this is definitely not my city. There are too many daggers of light, too many jagged wounds of major intersections and what I'm offering here is maybe the angels have taken over New York City, maybe they marched through the streets and entry level magazine jobs, killing and fucking and mutilating everything in their flaring golden path, and now the fuses, the electric veins, the antiquated generators of the leftover decade are being overloaded with all the fun shiny angel toys, the pads and the tiny little boxes and the flat glowing screens, and the Grid can't take it people, the Grid is going to explode and ooze it's radiating gleaming life blood all over the place, seeping into the ocean, coating the sewers and staircases and every single living thing in this storm covered place is going to die shiny magnetic and alone.
You and your angel iPhone, just leave me in the plane and let me take off again.
Posted by Bridget Callahan at 8:55 PM