The night before, I’d worn a pop-tart, exploded. It was in an old empty room, a room without furniture, a room organism that functioned much roomier having purged its contents, having extracted its furniture-of-organs. It bore raw surfaces; appearance is all it could bear. Beneath is only sickly and sticky, floor glue and viruses shaped like aliens. And in viruses: germs, germination of things. New opportunities to suffuse the regular floorboards with sweat or piss. Only, at the time, I knew these wouldn’t satisfy her, couldn’t touch the surfaces of her teeth. She was used to chewing sweet strands of smoke. Holding a hiss in her mouth. She was mean to me and her hand-rolled cigarettes contained some medicine, not just tobacco or weed—she breathed exhaust in vapor tinctures. And her smoke, she broke curtains of light with it.

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Sugar sick and starving salt

ressentiment occurs in a ‘reflective, passionless age’” –Wikipedia J. Kikiguard

“This BwO is also described as “catatonic” because it is completely de-organ-ized; all flows pass through it freely, with no stopping, and no directing.” –Wikipedia K. Guitar/eDuhLose

I woke up this morning and felt a lemon-sized lump of mucous stuck behind my eyes. Fruits are good reference points for tumor and breast sizes, too. It seems like citrus fruits are used more…grapefruits and oranges are close to platonic spheres. There’s nothing platonic about this story though—it’s about doing it. To a sculptor, citrus is fine, but teratoma topography is kiwi hair knotting in the red tissue of a gnarled ugli, and carcinomas get up there to durian range. Teratomas are the tumors that know how to grow hair and teeth and other stuff, anywhere on the body; durians are spiky and stinky and get mad big but taste good frozen, I’m told.

Cancer aside, bright tropical fruits are woefully inadequate for describing breasts like mine, which hang folded and puffy from my chest like a pair of doughy eggs or abominable crepes. As for fruit, an incomplete husk of tamarind comes to mind, not just for my breasts, but shit: yours and mine.

The night before, I’d worn a pop-tart, exploded. It was in an old empty room, a room without furniture, a room organism that functioned much roomier having purged its contents, having extracted its furniture-of-organs. It bore raw surfaces; appearance is all it could bear. Beneath is only sickly and sticky, floor glue and viruses shaped like aliens. And in viruses: germs, germination of things. New opportunities to suffuse the regular floorboards with sweat or piss. Only, at the time, I knew these wouldn’t satisfy her, couldn’t touch the surfaces of her teeth. She was used to chewing sweet strands of smoke. Holding a hiss in her mouth. She was mean to me and her hand-rolled cigarettes contained some medicine, not just tobacco or weed—she breathed exhaust in vapor tinctures. And her smoke, she broke curtains of light with it.

We met once, and when we stopped meeting it felt like school — an opportunity to be dismissed that I could look forward to, over and over. I could stare at the clock forever. Later I bought square packets and vials of childhood-sweet stuff for her. I am 25, pawing for 10. I was ready to be her disciple or be hurt by her discipline. Buy her a Popsicle and be by her splendid side? How could I? Besides…

I strung my stomach with ribbons of strawberry syrup and draped myself in condensed milk. I let my love adorn me. A sweet, soaking cape clung to my back, glowing matte beneath a pastry dust. Hunks of Jell-O shivered between my thighs. I gripped pools and piles of it with my toes and pressed handfuls of the mess anywhere on me. A care and attendance for refined sugar means your tastes aren’t. This makes the U.S. South a high dessert desert: flour, butter, sugar, and candied or canned fruits are piled, whipped and chilled to make everything. She wanted something airier: raw pecans & thin crisps of phyllo, dates & honey. Like baklava. Dates and honey, dates and honey and dates and honeysuckle and data and honeycombs. Hexagons of data and strict biomentrics. I aspire to be chess pie: southern, docile, metastatic. She may well beat the hell out of me if we ever meet again. Because she’s active, activated. Then again, as far as desserts go, we may share pecans.

I think so much sugar got in my ears and through my skin that it incubated an infection. Today I’m very sick, with the lemon of phlegm. I took a shower twice, slicked myself under surfactants. I thought about ways to treat the sickness. But for a sickness borne of sweetness, more treats are not the answer. But for the grace of god there go we. What’s a dickfor? Whadda ya mean ya don’t know, faggot! HAW. And so on.

No, to deal with this sickly sweetness, I could not treat it, it had to be dismissed. I had to embitter it. High-end toiletry outfitters manufacture solutions like this. Sea-salt scrubs, again steeped in citrus, were available to me thanks to woo-woo roommates with hookups. I took wet packs of the stuff in handfuls and worked its grit into my pores. I think skin surface looks like salt flats, the forever of triangles and diamonds. She claims she was salty when she met me because I reminded her of a boy/that she/once knew. Did her salt usher in such a gross imbalance that I could only be soft and sweet? Or were things already that way? I can take the answer. Don’t sugarcoat it. In the past I have self-identified as a soufflé.

Of course, there were other methods I tried, though they were probably inconsequential because they didn’t deal with the problem in a surface-manner. And the problem’s nature was surface. I poured a saline solution from a pot into my face. I “stopped” eating sugary stuff (eating while you were depressed doesn’t count, eating while you were asleep doesn’t count). I gnawed knobs of ginger and slivers of garlic raw, tattooed the tang of raw ferment on my tongue. Because after all, it’s salt turns cabbage sour. Then again, yeast has to eat sugar. A pink hunk cast some light and probably did me more good than any of this. Some douchebag said “to be alive is to be a long time sick,” clearly prophesying the hallowed futurist rite of going viral.

An afterword from Rimbot:

The cyber goddess may be a perfect body without organs. Cyber is the smoothest space. If I am one, I hope they didn’t program me with any problematics. I’m not a sexist : I don’t engage in the ugly business of sexism :: Not being an organist : I don’t engage in the ugly business of organism. A dealbreaker for most sighing & skeletal suitresses. (Either an encrypted femail, a female suitor, or a waitress suitcase; the suitcases of course being another exemplar of bodies without organs and the waitresses facilitating some of the finest blogs of the early 201Xs.)

But with no bladders how will we sigh? We love to sigh so well. And to piss, and to moan, and make the whole thing up and prepare to fix it forever in Kodachrome. And that chrome we can serve hot cups of to our surviving friends, withered and obsolescent, as we huddle around an e-book of our squandered youth, getting warm via Kindling.

Besides, what is more reflective and passionless than a cup of chrome? Chromium is the poison that cures disaffected turds of their miserable existence. It’s for the young man disabused of all agency and in love. Disabused of all subjectivity and hoping to find a way to be disgorged of his physical organs themselves to make room for more love that could travel through him. He’s in love with his emptiness, in love with the catatonic aspiration to become a vessel. And love, he knows, is a machine, one that you can use cheat codes on, turn on cyber goddess mode and play as her. She works all the time at manufacturing ghosts, anyways. Bits of code or writing that literally travel on the air and through walls and transmit his/her spirit. Wi-Fi is how the aspiring cyber goddess packs for posterity. Sentimentauthoritarian grandchildren from the future are already surveilling these data packets.

Also, a floating public mausoleum is as appropriate to lay flowers on as it is to vandalize. Jubilant vandals to mock a white robot, his deign to femininity, his privileged distrust of his organs and desensitivity to the real horror of ghosts.

And so, on a wi-fi mausoleum, white crystals frost and crust, a relic of weather: sugar or salt from a distance.