November 22, 2005

We are breeding strange new monsters in our kitchen. For three days now George the grill has been covered in layers of animal fat, layers that are now fusing with the machine and emerging as something deadly, a new life form that will feed on electricity and brains. Before that, Moldy the Bread watched us quietly from the corner of the room. It didn’t speak much even when we poked it with our cocks, but when they finally evolved its green eyes were filled with malice. And before that, Laura grew new fungi on top of the fungi she kept in the fridge. “Self-reflexive,” I said, I who am daily growing deadly substances in my underpants.

We are creators of life, givers of meaning in a world that’s as somber as a dying animal.