come, help me photocopy my zine
in the library.
down beside the microfilm,
replicate with me.
come, let me use your copy card?
only for this last bit.
with automatic page detect
we make a perfect fit.
come, although the toner’s low,
come, let’s take a chance
on inexact perfection and our
I didn’t answer. I didn’t feel like it.
His bow was condescending: too low to be taken very seriously, and far lower than the situation demanded. I dreamt—a moment’s inattention—that his Rubbish Hat might tumble from his Rubbish Head. I wished—another moment—that it would. I wondered—a fleeting wonder—which of them was more detestable.
He straightened, hat and head united in conspiracy.
He repeated the question, slowly.
His consonants spat disgust.
Pointedly, I wiped disgust from my cheek.
I sneered at his sneer (or maybe it was just his face), and answered him as vaguely as I could.
I don’t know where the Little Banana Guy’s got to.
he mentioned something about filming cheese.
He was persistent, I was abstract.
who am I kidding? bananas don’t speak.
they go on breakfast in cereal commercials.
I had no reason to be difficult … but he had no reason to be wearing such a Rubbish Hat.
all of us, always, we’re voyeurs.
and Jesus just stood there and everyone admired his new undercut.
so I just realised that glitter doesn’t exist on The Internet.
fuck, you guys. what have we done?