When I was 27, I finally moved off the farm and told my paw, “I hate yer farm, Paw!” My paw yowled and said, “Whuoe’s gonna carry my legacy, Leroy? You’s my only name!” Then I moved to the city in with a leathery old woman who wore aprons and fixed collards for farm kids, and I made a living selling my body to science, until a magazine mogul told me I had the look of the world’s most sensual man, and I sold my body to full-page spreads with captions like, “Eat velvet,” or “The casual doctor.”
I told that old woman, “I hate yer boardin’ house, Paw!” and left, though she begged me to stay and eat her leathery collards. I canned around making lattes and filling private catalogs with the many ways in which I was intellectually superior to my customers. I wore black shirts and then lumberjack shirts and then women’s blouses and affected an ole timey circus leader accent and grew a mustache that looked like a dried worm.
I told the head barista, “I hate yer foam, Paw!” and grew five social media apps out of my back to live with me for all my days. The Facebook tumor was my early favorite, and I painted it to look my twin brother. The gang quickly became one throbbing, collective heart of love, and we all decided to ditch the stupid city and move to the digi-sphere. Here there are no people, but the colors are nice, and we can listen to music whenever we want. It’s cool to be loudmouthed here, so we mostly stay quiet until we find a nice little crater in a valley or nook in a rock filled with other quiet blog writers, and we all read our own blogs aloud to each other to see who’s is best.
Now we’ve scraped out a little hollow within an undefined digital lump that looks a little like a baobab tree made of soapstone. We spend most of our time alone, printing our content on kites and flying them out of a hole in the top. We hold the strings between the thumb and fingertip and wait to feel for any tugs reverberating toward us, little vibrations that continue their trip into our digi-veins, but eventually we will let them go and busy ourselves with more kites from a warehouse we carved out of the earth below.
Just now we sent a kite to our Paw, telling him we hoped the farm was OK, and maybe, maybe he found a surrogate son to run it for him, someone who could win it by virtue instead of inheritance. My little Twitter tumor said, “He’s probably already dead,” in its nasty little amphibian voice. The Facebook tumor got all huffy and asked me why I still thought about my Paw, weren’t we all one another needed, but Facebook tumor is overly sensitive because I loved it first and painted it to look like my twin (even though the paint is smeared now and it looks like a mole with glasses). We bickered for a while and forgot what had started the argument. For the death-bound, maybe it’s not such a great way to live, but for the digital it has a sense to it.