Let's Invite PermissionMike Young
Here, put that down. Let me show you a kind of holy something. You're allowed to maul this whole gymnasium of instigators. I mean you're allowed to be cute, like that, or you're allowed to feel anything you want: knives and sponges, carnival wristbands and chicken grease. Here, put me down. I feel uncomfortable, but avowedly so. That's the Theory of Radical Alterity. It's the only catch; see also the riders of the bus who genuflect when they pass over a bridge in the hail. Feelings are expensive greeting cards. You buy them several times a year and wonder how does the hologram work? The tiny songs? They're a lark but not a marvel, really. Funny people exist—you've felt them!—yet they seem to have no hand in the punch lines. You always feel stupid when people praise your feelings, which is why we have VMAT2, the self-transcendence gene (or God) but also a clause that lets us feel like c'mon: a giant wolf. Isn't he the scheme? Kindly and doomed, like an old sitcom boss's face post- laugh cue. Faces are big to feel with, close especially, like a good sheet fort in action. We're allowed to wear the Other's favorite shirt. My lips have cinnamon bun stains and old blood, and you feel to me somewhere between coffee and lamination. Here, put the flashlight down. Wait, I also want to feel the light avow itself. Maybe we can deal in bulb spaces. Here, let me spill this dust all over your hair.
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