I ruled as far as the eye could see, providing you didn’t stand on any hills. From my people’s ringfort above the confluence of waters, I succored my beloved subjects and scourged my— “Oh mom, look at this! Gross!” Listen here, kid. Like you’ll look any better after two millennia, presuming you survive that long.

[continue reading…]

It was nine in the morning, and Leon was well into the story mode of the latest Call of Duty. He had beaten all the Call of Dutys, or Calls of Duty, depending how you approached the pluralization. He didn’t know what this one was fully called—Call of Duty 19: Carnage of Vengeance or whatever. They were all pretty good. Leon was high, anyway.

Grant’s tire crushed a hypodermic needle as his BMW rolled to a stop at a red light. He was explaining wireless internet to Taylor, the woman riding shotgun (a 7.5, he will later rate her to his buddies). Grant observed his pre-gentrified surroundings with an arrogant ease that relied entirely on being inside of an automobile. They were headed to a pop-up concept in an abandoned warehouse in Denver Arts District that was doing a $250/head tasting menu.

It’s been the shy side of two weeks since I found myself adrift in this mid-century modern fruit basket shaped like the architectural renderings of Noah’s Ark. The oranges mock me with their zest, the lemons with their unwavering yellow. But as my fibrous plumbing leaks the fluid from my body—my stringy bits are edible by the way, right up until the end—I have but one simple request: just let me get baked. We can do it together. I know you want to.

Let’s face it, my shtick was tired even from the beginning. The beret and shades, the lazy jive slang? No one wants to be around me, with my pathological neediness to be loved. Always trying so hard to ingratiate myself with the embarrassing charade of my “good taste:” the painting, music, poetry. Faked an interest in modern art I couldn’t stand, hired an interior decorator I couldn’t afford.