The Space To Breathe Freely

I see all of my worst fears about life bourne out on the desperate tears in my wife’s eyes.

Do you see what I just did there?
No? You want I should explain it to you? I’ve got time.

I just did it again. I wonder if you saw it this time.
I swear, it’s the biggest tell going.

Alright, I’m willing to be the bastard in this scenario. It’s a meaty role.

I tore my frame of reference slightly on my way over the fence last year. It was frayed and pulled a lot for a while, but it didn’t seem to be a major emergency yet.
Then pieces of it just kept withering up and falling off, like scales… or feathers.
I still have all of the pieces, and they all still seem to work when I test them separately. So… lucky me, right?
But the thing is, we make our fiction suits (see: Grant Morrison; The Invisibles) very sophisticated these days, and not just Bertie Wooster sophisticated. We’re talking Jeeves, here.
Fom the genius to the moron, we are all carefully taught from cradle to grave to handle certain kinds of tasks and to behave in certain manners to aid in social lubrication and avoid interrupting other peoples’ work.

No objections so far, right?
Of course not! It’s the truth! Keep running my equations passed your bullshit meter like that, though. I’m not making a fucking dime here, but I AM on government-subsidised disability, so there’s my declaration of conflict of interest. Mea Culpa, right?

I’m scared, Dekkard. I know you’re trying to kill me. It breaks my heart. Can’t you see that I love you, too? I’m cold, Dekkard… won’t you hold me?

A frame of reference isn’t just a set of rules and subroutines. It’s the map you daw for yourself on your own skin while circumnavigating a long maze of discoveries you have while studying the local wildlife in order to determine how best not to upset people who are bigger than you, at least until you remember why you came into this room.

I wish you could appreciate how in tune with Close To The Edge I am these days.

C’mon, guys! I’m practically handing them to you on a platter, here!

Okay, once more for the people in the back:
Do, uh… do you want some help?
No! I’m just warning you that there is in fact a deep motherfucking puddle over here that can, under ideal conditions, kill a monkey stone dead without so much as a ‘by your leave’.
I have already done the requisite twenty-five years of field research in complete obscurity in a shitty motel on the outskirts of town, so you can all relax and just accept it as proven fact, instead of consulting with an independent research group, pissing away another quarter century and countless misappropriated tax dollars on bogus annual update reports, just so we can return to playing this thrilling game again, some time after the apocalypse has hopefully passed us by, as that type often does.
If you don’t believe me, just wait there for one more minute and I’ll present you with the smoking gun, too.

You’ll have to make of it what you will.

The fascinating thing I’ve discovered about this line of unreason is that it actually empowers you to realise just how flimsy the layers of bullshit we smear ourselves with in the name of Getting Along actually is. It’s there on the ground. The pile of ashes next to that larger pile of nail clippings.

Please understand, I’m not going to eat you. I want to help you, desperately, actually.
But I’m afraid I can’t do a damned thing for you until you take that ridiculous outfit off and allow yourselves to breathe freely again.

Don’t worry. I know you’re not ready yet. Still got a mortgage and a car loan to pay off, and the eldest is having trouble making rent at college, so the world will have to wait. There’s what, eleven years left, right?
Piece of piss, that.
I’ll call my buddy at the garage. He’s always mucking about with stuff like this… bosons, mesons, you know the type. I’ll bet he can fix this up in a jiff.

Yo, Albert! You remember that climate change joke you told me the other night? Well, I got a guy here who needs you to tell him what you told me.


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