finklestein

The primordial chef slopped stews into different bowls of species, humans being a misfortunate spill into bowllessness. We're Rorschah's split pea soup stain. And here we are millions of years later trying to give form and name to the mistake. Everyone says it looks like a butterfly when clearly it's a vagina.

The world changes by generation as a snake sheds. Over the years, the snake has remained just as snaky as its been from its first days of snaking, but the skin now sloughs off with such rapidity that the surface is scarcely tangible, more a constant exhalation of culture and invention. The first cell thrown overboard steadily drifts away by the push of discarded skin....
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The heat has a way of nagging me into subordination, so I'm throwing rocks at the sun to snuff it out. So far I've hit my ceiling twice.

Sight was quickly lost to the quaint charm of symbols: bison stick-figures, crosses, stop signs. Sound was perverted by the spoken word and school bells. Touch fought valiantly, only to be bested by Braille's chicanery.

Smell and taste have remained undefiled over the years by selflessly sustaining a charade of unsophistication. The lengthy play has overshadowed the players. Smell and taste have been atrophied to...
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"The curse of time has infected you, my sweet boy! It twists all children by some age. Succumb not to placebos: alarm clocks, coffee. There are only a few coveted knacks to impede its inevitability: denial, passion, some shades in between. And though it may be terminal, you may yet live a long life and die a piddling death of natural causes."

Advice from my...
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Let's take the bus!

The bus is a gallery of precise and public scents, designed to titillate and confound even the most seasoned odorologist; such galleries have the unfortunate side effect of translocating its patrons.

Dr. Turfundunger's recovered notes:

[scrawled]

"...
wilting basil then confectioner's sugar (the kind you find powdered on nickel bubblegum) then baked fish then the musk of a fit young man...
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You can go a long time without touching a natural substance in a city. Between sneakers and tar and toilet seats and condoms, mankind has forged a sterile playground free from Nature's vulgar paw. It feels relieving in that predictable kind of way, like when you do a choose-your-own-adventure in reverse.

I am going to jump in mud.

I just got ambushed by germs. I was holding my own until one of them threw dirt in my eyes and pulled out a switchblade. Desperately he lunged and lodged his blade in my lucky deflectin' Bible, a trinket I have carried religiously since the age of ten in case of such scuffles. Now I recover and plot.

I can't get out of bed in the morning because of the cold. I get up late with the sun and smell like sweat and bacteria and latex. I waft proudly. Stench is a sophisticated language.

19th century style... go! Monocles! Portable drink mixing kit! Steam engines! Manifest destiny! Telegrams! Civil discourse!

I can't stop reading about conjoined twins. Does that whole Aristophanes-Hedwig Origin of...
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Before the first time I kissed a girl, she suggested I first practice on a soda can. I did. I later found that the soda can is not a suitable substitute for orifices, oral and otherwise. The soda can and I still talk on occasion.

I've been drinking too much coffee and booze. My heart feels like it's hugging a fucking brick.

The discomfort of...
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Hello, biology! How do our human friends fare?

A little symbiosis for the legally wed. Purportedly, parasitism is reserved for the deviants: strictly homosexuals and rapists. Of course there's commensalism for the shier beasts, masturbating in shame and in dark.

I try to avoid the technical categorizations of orgasms, personally.

Oh no! I put my freckles on backwards!