C is for Cellphone. Nom, Nom, Nom.

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March 11, 2016 by Rivky

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C Is For Cellphone. Nom, Nom, Nom.

Before using a blue oil pastel to color in one of the Sesame Street muppets, I had been deeply immersed inside a blue screen.

On a device, often recognized for damaging, sometimes even paralyzing, theeee…muscle movements located between the thumb and the index finger.

Also known, I’m told, as the Digitus Secundus.

The biological elements moving inside that skeletal frame, froze. They were stiffened in ways not yet recognized by the normal course of nature as we knew it.

It felt as though I had indeed become, securely siamesed. To this buzzing companion that made me feel repeatedly:

Feverish, dizzy, jittery, coked up, high, low, flushed, fried, trippy, panicky, sometimes nauseous, occasionally even affecting my hormone levels causing me to get my period way to early.

I wanted to desperately loosen from its vibrating, Bzzzzz, humming grip, slip, skedaddling, slick, stuckiddy, split. From that plastic, black and orange lined device that made me swipe, slide and press things to an excess, ad nauseam. My pupils dilated, in, out, bulged and ached from that disturbingly long read that just, seriously? Eye-ball sucked me dry again. I mean, certainly I knew that, what I was seeing in front of me was really all but some kind of hallucinatory, audio-visual Telly box. Purely a psychedelic experience that existed. But, but then, really not. You know? I force-blinked my eyes tightly shut for like a few micro seconds to outright refuse the oncoming text traffic. I did, reeeally I did. But the loud honking sounds couldn’t be silenced…

A few hours later, my right, claw-clenched hand had begun miraculously moving again. I witnessed this almost poetic scene. It was a burgeoning, Five-Fingered, “Filipendula Ulmaria.” Like today’s unfurling of an early Spring. So, wiggling pinky, thumb, palm stretching, more now, opening hand slooowly, ah-eeh-oow-ow, easy, steady now, ouch-ouch, that’s it, sigh, breaathe, ahhh. Better. MUCH. Better.

Then, there was my face. Unaware of the mouth on it. Moving. Between two peachy cheeks. That were human. And mine. I had realized that I was sinking down…lower, way too closely nibbling on the current Twitter feed. Almost but not quite clinging to the moistened electronic, hot headed, dirty mobile, fog, encased in a sheer, pure, s-HELL.

And because my parched lips were practically touching, breathing in the  moistened screen at this point, I had started to sharply imagine opening up my mouth reeeally wide and taking in just this huge chunk. Out of the corner piece of my cell phone. Well, kind of like, Cookie Monster. Only perhaps consuming, an exorbitant amount of browsing history that could make ANY Sesame Street character, quite ill-equipped for all that unwanted, er, cookie, data.

Maybe I was just hungry. I hadn’t been nourishing myself well.

Or, or maybe it was one of those newer non-GMO’s on the market…

Y’know, probably known to the underground Techi-Pharma, Beatnik Squares, as “Fluorescent Flora.”

   With only the purest

   batteries, copper, silver

   and other naturally

   occurring metal elements.

 (Loudly advertised under, oh I don’t know, T-Mobile. For Tasty).

 “Organic…down to the last molecular…Cell.”

And the highest bid goes to?

As I sat there reflecting blue, only because my chin had still been sticking to the lit-up, plastic screen, I wondered if I was, indeed…paying a high price.

Well then.

C is for cellphone.

Nom, Nom Nom.



Here’s a song. Just cuz. It’s A Fine Little Day

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