Unicorns. Not being a unicorn. Zombies. Spanish-language zobmies. Corn. Wheat. I already answered this question last week. What makes me most vulnerable is answering the same damn question again because maybe I’ll screw up and say something different. Say something that will contract what I said before, like yellow. Yellow makes me vulnerable because sometimes it’s a mask for blue. I’m not sure what that means, but you figure it out. Writing makes me vulnerable. Autocorrect makes me vulnerable. Sharks make me vulnerable. What makes me vulnerable in Spanish: chupacabras. They exist in my imagination and that’s the only place that matters because what we think impacts us just as much as what we experience. Like dreams. Like nightmares. Like self-doubt. Like fear.
AD: Why do these things make you vulnerable?
Because it’s Wednesday. Leave me alone. I need a carrot.
AD: If you could change one thing about yourself, what would you change and why?
I would change my shoes. I would change my tongue. I would change my ears. I would change you. I would change my shoelaces. I would change my teeth. I would change my tears. I would change your tears. I would change the shoes you wear when I tear up. I would change the shoelaces wrapped around your neck. I would not wrap shoelaces around your neck. I’m nice. I would change being nice. I would be mean. I would change the desire to be mean. I wouldn’t change anything because I don’t know who I am. I would change “am”. I would change the reason to change. I would change yellow into blue like Jesus changed water into wine. I would change my banana for a cookie.
AD: What makes you special and why?
My ability to fly.
AD: What are some of the major social, political, cultural and/or artistic issues that are very important to you? Pick one or two of those issues and make me care–why are they so important to you?
WTF! Like I said yesterday, I don’t care about anything unrelated to food. I didn’t really say that yesterday. I care about being normal. The desire to be consolidated into butter, which is like being normal. Being normal isn’t like butter. It’s like a banana peel. When you try to define it, you can’t because it’s just a stupid banana peel. Erase what I just said. The only issue that I care about is ma. Ma is the crazy person that lives in the bedroom next to me. She counts sheep in her sleep. She has an imaginary pet rabbit. She has ideas based off of cereal box characters. She wears short shorts. She doesn’t wear underwear most days. She is over. She eats bacon. She eats Twinkies. She lies. She tells the truth. She doesn’t use soap. She uses my soap. She is fucked. She is a ghost. She is a bananahead. I’m done.
AD: Where are you from/where did you grow up?
Like I said yesterday, I’m from ma. I grew up outside of her. Is this a trick question?
AD: In what ways do you think/feel/believe this place influenced your understanding of yourself and your values?
How can ma not influence you. If I know the ways in which she did, I wouldn’t be talking to you today. Leave me alone.
AD: Are you a unicorn?
Are you an idiot?