I remember being shocked that first time learning about transistors. Monolithic bees hectored each other for the quickest effective switch. ‘Electrocution glands’ – these things were key, and they beautifully made way for small, up and coming ones like rampant nipples. It was like walking through a microscopic room; but you were a beekeeper mutilating triangular switches into yourself to avoid similar-shaped stabs. I remember I had no scruples, in my shock, calling bees ‘bugs.’
But once in a nightmare I was a sniffer dog that had a thing for licking xylophones and biting off curtains. Transistors have gates and this was how I navigated my way through them. It was all fake, the xylophones too, which was why my barks pumped off Tyra Banks quotes from that show on which she fell and, getting up and rubbing her head, said her ‘concussion’s defect was a merry kiosk on a psych ward’ – a cold spot on the sun, the unintended friendly utterance to an enemy. Toxic therapy could be transported on the backs of toy trucks driven by Gadaffi in a movie she called – I swear to God she called it this – A BLONDE SCI-FI MOVIE. Only because apparently Gadaffi himself was blonde in it? Therefore not a … rogue?
I woke up so rattled. I was late for my flight and had to run all the way across the runway and got licked up by the airplane’s tongue – a great wet happy slobbering tongue emitted from the gaping ‘mouth’ below the cockpit. It was warm and cozy and slimy whereas the rest of the plane was icy cold and metallic and gray, which was why everybody inside was wearing sweaters but a few were gashed through with epic cleavages. An android’s bristly iron shavings were trying to pass themselves off as authentic chest hairs through the split in one of the sweaters in the rows of seats I espied after flopping via the happy tongue into the plane. Smoke disquiet, android. With your electric cigarette or whatever. They’re allowed on planes. But feeling-powered amoebae aren’t directing your evolution like they’re doing our movies, fucker.