No, not guilt, and not be-shouldings: that's not how I roll. I come not from the quaint Victorian town of Neurosisville, but from the howling wilderness of modern Psychosis. The one-winged bird, wisdom without compassion, that's me, limping along with a cocked head and a glare in its beady eye. I may not be able to fly, but I can break your shin with this wing. Don't get chirpy with me.
I long to make something intricate and precise, a Swiss clockwork doll with infinitely articulable hands and fingers: a doll that could snap its fingers in time to West Side Story, perform tapotement on my forearms, or spread its fingers in front of the mirror and whisper “Showtime!” It could ride on my shoulder and sign for me, or snip cigars to hand out to my friends.
Here comes July.