Sandbox Installments, #4

Sandbox Installments is a series, so named by the RR, of writing prompts written in 10 minutes at 826 Valencia. They are administered to writers as warm up material before project work shopping.

Dear Invirility,

Why do I have to write to you? You don't exist, and --- whoa. Sometimes you creep up on me, or at least the idea of you does. Someday, you will tease my old body with your antics, and maybe one day you will win (surely you will; nothing is more invirile than a corpse). But truly, the real reason that you even exist is that people think about the possibility that you exist, rather than the affirmation that you do not. You are an illusion. You are like a purple brownie or a clown that goes to war. You simply cannot be without the ceasing of everything else. And the body is a system. So there.

Others fear you, as well. You are the plausibility of the impossible, invirility. You are why people get married out of fear. If you were a person, your name would be Wiggam or Norbert or Simonton or something that sounds like a bird. You would have pimples and thick glasses and screech out little annoying one liners like you were stabbing a flag into someone else's face. Remember that time you made me walk like I had rubber bands for legs? Remember when you made me go to that Socialism convention? Remember how you imagined yourself into the minds of 26,000 people and made them believe that they were oppressed? The trouble you cause floors me. It is pure trouble that sprouts out of nothing at all. You are paranoia.

You have cut mohawks into punks and then plagued them with their own gated power. You make curmudgeons out of chameleons, but isn't it chameleons that map out how things ought to be?

You fuck up justice and you laugh to the bank, make pornstars and photographers millions of dollars, turn assholes into holy men, scare the wits out of our geniuses, petrify teenagers that are hopeful and opportunistic, excited at the prospect of their sexuality.

You, sir, are an asshole and I am sick of you. Goodbye.

Out of sincerest revolt,

R.R.