Narrator (a trans egg):
It’s one of those mornings where you wake up, not knowing where you are in time. At some point Sam dies, but I don’t think we’re there yet. I suppose at some point, we all die, but we’re not there yet either. Have Sam and Herman melded together? Sam had a fever, and Herman sat with her through the night, and by morning they became one. That’s one story. Others say it happened chopping onions for dinner, when Sam slipped in a tad too close, and stuck. I don’t know. People seem to agree that it was something mundane. But that happens later, I think. Sam is alive and alone. Still dressing and undressing for the camera — trying to get it right. In any case, I woke up feeling like people — all of us — are made of complicated stuff. Too hard to understand or fix. So I’m screwed because I am breaking down and unfixable. And, to make matters worse, time is passing. Lots of it. Because nobody has yet figured out how to stop it in such a crisis. Someone should really get on that. So that’s the kind of morning it is. And it took forever to pull pants on over my legs because I didn’t understand what the fuck my legs even were. It’s time I get a handle on this. It’s time that there are no mornings like this. I want to wake up knowing that it’s simple: that I am made of tinfoil and paperclips. So I took initiative and looked it up. “What are people made of” I typed. And nothing is helpful. Because we are apparently made of everything: we are made of calcium, oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and phosphorus or body, mind, intellect, ego and soul or, according to a Modest Mouse song, nothing but water and shit. Or snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails if you are a little boy or sugar and spice and all things nice if you are a little girl which makes it ten times more complicated because now I am required to think of myself as something more specific than just a people — I mean, a person. (beat) Ha! A little boy, a little girl, a little people. I don’t know… fuck it if it’s that kind of day.
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