Bathroom Monologue: Anatomical Model of a Mind

Every day she took her lunch to the lab and ate with the anatomical model. He had crap bone structure, was plastic and afforded no conversation, but there was a sense of solidarity with him. He didn't stare. He didn't graffiti her office door. He didn't go behind her back to argue that her presence debased the very neuroscience she taught here. The anatomical model didn't know that she had feelings, but neither did her fellow professors. They thought without grey matter in her head that Ms. Skeleton was just some calcium-based robot, an illusion of a person. Many lunch hours she cried over it. Tearlessly, of course, since skeletons didn't have tear ducts. Tearing down academia's prejudices against non-fleshy human beings was so hard.