She can see nuances in paint-by-number portraits. 'If you look carefully, if you tilt your head a little, in most cases you see a pulley system berserking around a beetle getting a vigorous massage.'
Thinking the furniture in his cockpit obsolete and therefore customized for a bordello, she finds it hard to walk away from Gundam – because of his odor of grandma and grandpa dust mites.
'Because where is your tongue?' - the question that supported Simone's
rationale for finding my yellow tie uncannily anatomical.
The respiratory difficulties of canned vegetables in our pantry keeps us awake at night. The sounds of wheezing coming from there are reminiscent of a baby traveling at high speed through dense iron mesh. An assortment of hurtling chunks and the lampshade for a moment in time freeze – then meet in fantasies in which Simone and I engage in random acts of public shitting.
But we don't use real shit. We use babies. To advertise the internationally ignored existence of surveillance cameras that maliciously confuse ontogenesis with acts of public indecency.
Simone is on an ice rink staring up a guy's trousers. Her cheek is pressed to his skate. She is looking for a carousel horse with a sharpie protruding from the saddle.
And then she uses a ladder to catch a snowflake in a blender, to help Beyonce and the gallon of Listerine inside find each other in a cacophony of loud gurgles, in a China Town alley besieged by an early onset Ice Age.
We both once managed to gank an antique chair from Gundam's cockpit.
I have succumbed to using a mechanized battle suit – per her request – in order to look less like 'jaded erotic art' or an 'ashtray in the heather' heaving above her during intercourse.
We bought a real horse. It's not helping.
I don't like it when she calls her post-coital cigarette her 'post-lotus-bigfoot-tarpaulin-in-front-of-the-TV' cigarette.