tavie.com

My friend Tea Rose and I were IMing and she told me that she prefers not to eat things that could have, when alive, killed her for doing them harm.

I said that under the right circumstances, I could be killed by a chicken.

I then proceeded to describe these circumstances, not to Tea Rose in Missouri over the computer, but to Gina, sitting across the room on the futon. Rather than communicating to the proper party with my fingers and a keyboard, I lifted my head, looked at Gina, sitting, knitting, engrossed in the television, and vocalized,

"You know, if you duct-taped me to the floor with my neck exposed and set an angry chicken upon me, it could very easily peck at my neck until I bled to death."

Gina looked up from her knitting, blinked. "What the fuck is your problem?"

Speaking is typing, typing is speaking. Computers and people are blurring and merging. Monitor screens and three-dimensional faces and voices are losing their distinctive signifying qualities.

I think I'm going all funny and rotten up top in my head. And I think I'm rather enjoying it.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:09 PM | shower me with attention