Imperfections

Woohooooo, we have an insane president! Maybe he’ll introduce a ballot-backed measure to paint all oranges black, and then we can go down (all of us) into a fruity Halloween-world of citrus-smelling Magic Marker. Or perhaps tar, although that seems a bit labor-intensive for him. But something needs to match his hair and skin, and something else needs to match his soul. Well, if there were such a thing. HAHA! I mean, even giving the benefit of the doubt that there is such a thing as a soul, I’m sure his is, I dunno, the same rainbow array of colors as all the rest of us imperfect beings hanging out here on the edge of this spectrum. I dunno, except that I have zero interest in hanging out with him. Except that it might be interesting, if only anthropologically. But it’s bad form only to be anthropologically interested in those you’re hanging out with, because people expect you to, I dunno, resonate with them or something, as if there were somehow some kind of disconnect between those two possibilities.

Anyway, I’ve established that I have no overt, motivated interest in hanging out with Donald Trump, not that he’d ever invite me. But, fruity perversions (my porn name) aside, I might ask him some questions. I mean, beside the obvious “what’s it like being inside your head”, which is so broad as to be unanswerable, even to someone with a presumed modicum of self-awareness, and not someone who clearly starts his day by drinking a bracing tonic of shoe polish and Caitlyn Jenner’s tears. Or maybe he prefers green smoothies.

Anyway, (everything I write starts with “anyway”, because I’m always shuffling off expectations of a, I dunno, narrative that continues down a whateverthefuck thing, and also apparently I’m possessed by the spirit of the very-much-alive Louis CK ok CK ok moving on) so ANYWAY, he definitely needs to be asked some questions.

Like, for instance, why do you appear to hate literally everyone, while actually APPEARING to hate exactly zero one? Except maybe the inside of your own head. But there I go, going into the places where it’s just more interesting. Ugh I need to stop. But maybe it’s just like wallpaper in there, like the inside of an abandoned Denny’s from 1983, just yellow and sad. Or orange and faux-happy. But with plenty of walls. And ALSO plenty of Mexican workers. (Go figure.) Hm, maybe he even still knows how to operate the cash register, because something is still tallying up numbers, even if they don’t add up to anything that can be calculated in any other space. Paint as much fruit as you want, oranges will never be black until they rot.

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