Friable.

We spent an impotent weekend together once, studying the effects of global warming and relying solely upon blue cheese-stuffed martini garnishes for sustenance. We tracked subtle changes in temperature and humidity, monitored the rising heat between us, licked the sweat from each other's worried brow. It was serious work, this, and we took it seriously, staying up through the night to analyze the data before us, staying up through the night wondering when, when, when the experiment would work again.

For many months I've wondered whether the time we spent with beaker in hand was time wasted, whether all of those band-aids were wasted on careless Bunsen burns. "We used to fuck so hard it hurt," she told me, and again I'd crumble. I shattered again and again, only to be put back together by congratulations in coffee shops, unexpected sidecars, the pressure of her hands. I survived, in pieces, but I am survived nevertheless. Wounded and wounded and wounded yet again, every cut healed over but slower and slower each time. I am more scar tissue than heart now, less me than I can barely care to remember.

This is survival of the fittest, this is, and I am beginning to think extinction is sometimes preferable to evolution.



*****

This week on The Collective: Why, we tell you your business, of course.