Feb. 13, 2012. 8:04am. I am given life by Nancy H. on an assembly line in Musky River, IL. My placenta clings to me, dark brown and sticky. As it slowly hardens into an exoskeletal shell, I am bound in a warm sweetness. It’s almost too much to bear as I lie on the vinyl conveyer belt, struggling to maintain consciousness. Is this living? O Universe, my spirit bursts forth!
Feb. 13, 2012. 8:36am. A life partner! I have been mated with one of mine own kind, as the Creator herself has deemed it be so. We are placed on a marital bed of thin white cardboard, our bodies becoming one, fusing at the sides, which will later produce a satisfying snap when broken apart. As I weep with happiness, I melt myself a little.
Feb. 13, 2012. 8:47am. Our union has been consummated. My mate and I have been sealed together forever within a transparent veil of plastic, keeping the world out and our love in. As if life can’t get any better, we are sent off on our honeymoon in the back of a truck.
Feb. 20, 2012. 4:38pm. I fear Cupcake and I have hit a rut in our middle age. (She hates it when I call her Cupcake. “I’m not a cupcake!!”, she screams to me.) We never talk, and the tempered seam running down the middle that used to bind us now seems as if it were no more than a coincidental melding of corn syrup, hydrogenated palm kernel oil, and alkalized cocoa. All is dark. We have been stuck in this box, in this damp warehouse that smells of gasoline and rubber, for a week. I sometimes wish Nancy H. had eaten me.
Feb. 22, 2:17pm. Let me teach you a lesson. It’s always darkest before the display. Just when I thought all was lost in that cinder block cave of despair, I (no, we!) sit proudly on a merchandising kiosk strategically located near the check-out of the Rite Aid in Coheegaskaw, MI. “Pick me! Pick me!” Oh, sisters and brothers! Zebra Cakes and Star Crunches! We shall all get picked. We shall all be purchased, whether impulsively or pre-meditated, whether by debit or cash, or even credit. Times is tough, lady. Swipe the card! The music plays on, and the music plays on. But no sound is as sweet as the snap of our shells, souls uniting as bodies are sundered. Cupcake, I love you. “For the last time, I’m not a cupcake!”. No, my love. You are not a cupcake. You are a Swiss Roll. I am a Swiss Roll. We are all Swiss Rolls.
There are worse things than both death and the Gowanus.