Bathroom Monologue: End

Ouroboros finished her meal.

Bathroom Monologue: My Space Plane

My space plane would have no leaks. The hull would be brand new, up to code, and spotless. Three robots would be attached to the exterior, polishing the hull at all times, humming admiration for its glory into the airless void.

My space plane would have no angry women. On my space plane, all the women would have at least minored in Advanced Engineering and would be able to rig the jets so we'd get there on time. They would have too many functions for them to all be crowded into the cockpit, second-guessing and decrying, "It's a lost cause."

My space plane has no shifty cooks who constantly talk about mutiny in Portuguese. If there was such a man on my space plane, he would not be in the cockpit. Why would such a cook be in the cockpit? He would be where he belongs: in the airshaft. On my space plane, the airshaft would be opening right now. A robot would pause, lift its polishing rag, and wave it as the former cook decompressed.

My space plane would not be under attack. Certainly it would not be outnumbered six-to-one. Its destination would not possibly already be overrun. Its destination would be a beach. A powder-white beach with no angry women screaming what a moron I am in my ear. If, for whatever reason, our visibility were reduced to zero when the viewing screens were shorted by the enemy arrays, the women would certainly not yell even louder in that same ear.

My space plane would positively never have its hull breached by enemy lasers. It would be enemy-laser-proofed. And if it somehow was breached, that single laser would not miss an entire room of annoying people and somehow hit me in the thigh.

When we arrived at our destination, my space plane would hover nine millimeters above the surf, at the request of the robots. The robots would know how stupid a space plane looks with sand on its butt. And as I disembarked, my all-female engineering corps would follow, stripping down to starfleet-approved bikinis, asking me what the old life was like. And I'd make something outlandish up. Something like this. Yes, on my space plane, this is all a dumb hypothetical that isn't happening.

I wish I was on my space plane.

Bathroom Monologue: Abolishing True Love

We the undersigned do hereby agree to abolish any notion of "true love." The undersigned shall abstain from the consumption of, and from permitting their offspring and loved ones from the consumption of, any media of any format, including but not limited to text, film, videogames and mystical potions, which leaves the impression that any special feelings were ever thought possible by the human species. Conversations about "true love" and/or related media shall be similarly verboten, and redirected towards subjects of chemical coincidences. This is for sundry benefits, including but not limited to: 1: making impressionable girls easier to fuck on the first date; 2: TBA.

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Bathroom Monologue: Quiet in the Library

Four teens at the counter. The aged, permed librarian talks louder than any of them, about PIN codes and dates of birth and where you sign. When a fifty-ish woman in a red coat crosses from the other side, the librarian yells, "There's my sweet. Girl, you look good."

A-C. Unattended.

D-M. Unattended.

Audiobooks. Unattended.

Six computers, five in use, two occupants who won't shut up. They whisper at each other about what they're doing on Facebook - by the sound, the photos they are sending each other in real time.A third occupant leaves her computer to run in circles around the other two, to see it all. She is obediently silent in her orbit. She only pauses to take a single earbud, pulsing so loud with tunes that it can be heard two stations over.

N-SAN. Unattended.


S-TAN. Unattended.

Printer screeches.

A man steps out into the vestibule so he can hear his cellphone. Something important about where his honey is tonight. He puts his hand over his mouth in excitement, but you can still hear him through the glass.

Even the computers hum a little obtrusively. At least they're always here. Maybe they've forgotten the rules.

Or maybe he's forgotten to check if they've changed.

Bathroom Monologue at a Public Library Bathroom, OR, Immortally Yours

Apologies for the late post today. Almost broke my everyday posting streak. Terrible ice storm in my country; still without power at home, typing this one to you live from the library. Full story on the storm to come later, including photos of frozen trees, flooded farms and frazzled hair.




"Who wants to live forever? I mean, in some moments, I guess everyone does. That whole fear-of-death thing can getting pretty big if you're going to die. But I'm not, so I want to.

"I mean, who wants to live forever? To see all the progress in society and science? What kind of person wants to see the catscan developed? To see our species go from cave paintings to photos of the earth? To see cancer cured?

"I mean, I guess most people do.

"Listen, I mean, who wants to keep making friends forever? Continuously meeting new people with new dynamics, new values, new interests, new jobs, new passions, new things to offer. Every century touching new lives, experiencing fresh innovations, and having even more sex?

"Shut up. All your friends will die. Unless they live forever, but they don't. I'm asking, who wants to live forever and be the only one? Because then you'd have to keep watching friends die. Yes, now you see. To see everyone you know pass away and leave you behind.

"Now, true, if you live a normal life you still have people die on you. I guess any group of friends dies off, invariably leaving one person the sole survivor. So even if you don't live forever that can happen to you, unless you die first.

"So I guess that's the angst of the immortal. Because doesn't everyone crave to die first, see none of the suffering of others, and leave everybody else sad? Wouldn't that be great? Isn't that what living is all about? Isn't that why you make friends, so you can make them sad before they can do it to you? Ultimately desiring what would make you the worst possible friend to them? Well an immortal can never have that. Yeah. Living forever is hard, because you have to spend the maximum amount of time with everyone you like."

Bathroom Monologue: Caller Id

I used to have Caller ID. It broke and now I'm left with caller id, which only tells me what the person wants. I have to guess who'd want that thing. If it's "Sexual" then it's probably not Mom, but Mom could want anything. "Your location," "To see you," "To talk for half an hour about wallpaper" - all of these could be covert Mom calls. She can even fake what she wants. Twice now she's pretended "To help pay off student loans" just to nag me about doing my laundry at her place. Dad's never like that. He only calls "To bitch about the Yankees" or "To get you to call your mother."

Recording: Not For a Doomsday Weapon

This post is exclusively for the reading of "Not For a Doomsday Weapon." People voted for it, and I stayed up until 2:00 AM recording it.

You can listen to today's story by clicking the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio, or by clicking this text to download the MP3.

If you want reflections on it, I'm just happy it no longer sounds like the narrator is from Brooklyn. Nothing against Brooklyn, they just don't see many sky-whales. All feedback is welcome.