The little martian is bored stiff. “I just -I just don’t feel like I'm living up to my intellectual capabilities you know what I mean? I'm a thinker! A reader! A writer! A lover of words and art and music-“
I cut him in the middle of his pretentious rant “that doesn’t make you as extraordinary as you think it does”
his eyes widen, he throws his head back in dismay and whispers dramatically
“it's happened!” he exclaims throwing his arms up,” you’ve crossed over! Youre a –a-a “
I stare him straight in the eye, my shoulders hunchd with worry, “a what?”
“A COPORTATE ZOMBIE!”
"Really?" I roll my eyes
“desperate times my little sapien! Desperate times! You're letting them dull your sparkle! DON'T LET THEM DULL YOUR GODDAMN SPARKLE" he seems to have adopted a southern twang this week.
“I guess you're right- wait a minute what did you just call me?
“I said don’t dull your sparkle!”
“no, no not that hallmark shit..you called me your little sapien.. whats up with that?”
The little martian looks around sheepishly, he scratches the nape of his neck and refuses to look me in the eye
“oh heheh you know it's just a cute little name” he chuckles nervously,
“why are you being so weird and cagey then” my eyes narrow and I force his gaze to meet mine "what are you hiding little martian?” I ask, firmly
“ahhh okay fine, enough with the interrogation.its just a little name I gave you in my story”
“youre what?”
“youre not the only one with a mopey poetry blog thingy. But mine is a little less lovelorn and a little more politically inclined. I'm trying to mobilize the masses in glutzibon to revolt against the dictatorial regime of the zookabug dynasty through the power of my poetry”
He finishes his little speech with a snooty snivel as he fingers the monocle that seems to have magically appeared on his left eye.
I give up trying to make sense of anything these days.
“The more I get to know you, the less curious I get.“ I tell him
He cleans his monocle with the hem of his shirt and looks out of the window onto the steaming pavement sizzling in the 44-degree sun.
"steaming pavement" he observes.
"steaming pavement" I reply.
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