The questions I asked the Oracle were dumb. I should have thought of better questions, but I was scared and I didn’t understand what was happening so I asked the wrong things. Now that I’ve had some time to think things over, I feel like I should get another chance. I’ve been reading a lot about M Theory lately, and time travel and antimatter and fractal awareness. If by some miracle I get to the underground lake again, I know exactly what I’m going to say.
From: Chelsea <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Date: Thu, Mar 10, 2011 at 2:35 PM
Subject: Re: easy to love
To: Kris <email@example.com>
I have to tell you something: I am interested in robots in a sexual way. I’m not just saying that to be an adorable oddball. You sent me that monkey/prosthetics article and I got so turned on thinking about robot sex that I had to masturbate twice in the library bathroom and I’m not kidding. I was supposed to be studying for a physical anthropology mid-term and that made it extra inappropriate.
Context: remember that geminoid robot video we watched a couple weeks ago? I was thinking about the potential merger of those two technologies, the monkey-prosthetics and the geminoid. Like a quadriplegic man being able to get kinetic with his wife by puppeteering his own personalized robot version of himself! There is something creepy and romantic there, but not creepy in a perv way, creepy in an otherworldly, astonishing and thrilling and still very very sad but beautiful way. I honestly cannot think of anything hotter than Christopher Reeve sitting in his electrochair and watching his robot brainpuppet go to town on his wife.
I just realized that Christopher Reeve and his wife are both dead and I’m a collosal asshole. Forget Christopher Reeve. No, don’t forget him – never forget. Fuck it, let’s use him. Christopher Reeve, our actor, able to control the handsome, robust, fully functional Superman-era robot version of himself with his thoughts, to make and watch it do all the things he used to love to do when he had feeling. He can ravage his wife with his mind, just go bananas on her body, and even though he still can’t feel a thing, he can know he is making her feel something. The frustration and the longing there, it’s beautiful. And it’s fucking hot. And I am such a bad person. Is it sadistic to get turned on by this? I don’t think I’m a sadist. It’s romantic, right? Isn’t it? I can’t help it, I really can’t help but think it is the most sensual, sad, romantic scenario I’ve stumbled upon in weeks- it’s so beautiful!
I think I must be a really messed up asshole though, actually. Because when I really stop to consider what I just wrote, I realize that if I were the paralysed person and you were the object of my brainpuppet’s lust, I would become jealous of my brainpuppet eventually for getting to touch you. I really would. And I’d get so frustrated that I would make my puppet punch itself in the face. So I’m not a sadist or a masochist, I’m just an asshole.
What if you got so mad at your puppet that you made it pour boiling water over its head? Then you would watch its face melt and its circuitboard fry, and it would be like watching your own face melting and the frying circuitboard would be your soul frying and you would be overcome with sadness, pity and regret. No. I’m done with this whole fantasy now.
We’re still skiing this weekend? I need to borrow a snowsuit from someone. I’m excited!
Wish me luck, I’m heading into an exam in less than an hour and I’ve spent more time masturbating and writing to you than studying! A+ for effort!
I just got back from this trip to Calgary. It was a good trip, really good, but it was my first big drive road trip with the kids and without Kris. I was a nightmare of a human being, but what else is new. I was sour and resentful and I didn’t even try to rein in my irritability.
Eli screamed a lot in the car. Screamed. Purple-face screaming with the tears flying off his face like a funny crybaby in the funny papers. There was nothing I could do to help him. I tried to sing and it enraged him more. I gave him snacks and he threw them at the back of my head. When I’d stop at a park for a breather and a play, he’d be instantly happy, but the inevitable planking and screaming would begin again as soon as he knew he had to get back in the car. No amount of bribery worked. There was nothing I could do but keep on driving.
You know babies can sense it when their mothers are anxious, my mother chimed in during one of my mini-breaks in a fast food parking lot, vibrating with anxiety, craving a cigarette that I knew I couldn’t have, swigging scalding black coffee like my life depended on it. That’s why he’s screaming, you know. What a shame. He senses your anxiety and sadness, poor kid. Have you ever noticed how disorganized you are? Why did you pack all your clothes in garbage bags? I would have had everything neatly folded in suitcases and I would have made sure to bring along some Raffi tapes at the very least. You should really consider taking a parenting course.
She just went on and on the way she always does. Usually I can ignore her, but this time I let her have it.
You don’t get to talk to me right now. You had a loving, helpful husband and parents who spoiled you well into your adulthood, so piss off!
“Who are you talking to, mom?”
“Just your grandma giving me unsolicited advice again. Drink your juicebox.”