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until it shatters.
I guess what I mean to say is
I’ll never have kids. Chances for promotion
are minimal and my pension
sucks. That’s ok.
After all, there is so much work
to do. Enough for forever.
And I’m so good at it.
All my sitreps shine
like so many platinum dolls.
I’m due for a morphomod soon—
I’ll be able to double over at the waist
like I’ve had something cut out of me
and fold up into a magentanosed Centauri-capable spaceship.
So I’ve got that going for me.
At least fatigue isn’t a factor. I have a steady
decalescent greengolden stream
of sourshimmer stimulants
available at the balling of my toes.
On balance, to pay for the rest
well
you’ve never felt anything
like a pearlypink ball of plasmid clingflame
releasing from your mouth
like a burst of song.
And Y Prefecture
is just so close by.
The girls and I talk.
We say:
start a dream journal.
