Note how the self inflates into bizarre gargantuan shapes until the eyes are dinner plates and the lips a black smudge on the horizon. Aren’t I good-looking? I am good-looking! I am! I am!
This absurd inflated creature—is the answer to keep it small, unobjectionable, sturdily rubberized--or is it better to let it inflate, become absurd, until it topples over, explodes or becomes something impossible to view without giggling?
This is dangerous, of course. Danger is a synonym for “something actually happens.”
This funhouse creature, grown unwieldy and huge, thin-skinned and vulnerable. Almost immediately one arm goes mushy, one bug-eye caves in.
Sitting in the dark waiting for the concert to begin, I note myself collapsing. I collapse often lately—it’s alarming. I find myself getting smaller. My voices caves in. I can no longer muster the energy to push out my sides.
When it goes fast, well, you’ve seen what happens. The balloon goes shooting round the room accompanied by a prolonged farting noise.
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