You drop yourself off at the Airport and that mentality sticks like sucking down every last drop of DXM, followed by [enhancements], sitting at your exit, and watching everyone walk to and from travel, while judgment of all things is at ZERO, so space. Let me explain, like:

Like, like like like-like, like. Like: like like like like like. Like. Like Like Like, Like Like Like Like Like.

Mid-flight, the realization that you’re sitting next to Shonda Rhimes sets in, and she is filling you with esteem. Maybe you’re also really wasted, but William Shatner is painted on the wing, and you remember seeing a Priceline.com commercial on ABC’s #TGIT earlier this week, so you convince the prime-time mogullorette to let you write an episode for the upcoming season of Grey’s Anatomy. She’s not okay with it, but you suggest it’s an open-letter meta episode narrated by the least-demographed unique-view of all 12 seasons. Shonda tells you, “Buy, paprika. Chianti usted?” Like a panic attack, everything is fine, but inside.

That Autumn, you write a Grey’s Anatomy episode about someone’s sister [who’s a doctor], but she moved to New York (having taken custody of her child), and the introduction takes place at Yoko Sobi on 69 Canal St. in the city: a patron choking interrupts the lesbian doctors having dinner. The sister-doctor is just slicing whatever out of this patient’s lungs and chest in the restaurant — classic Grey’s — come to find out it was a blockage in the throat due to digesting a delicacy that ended up crawling its way back up. *Laughter* and everything is back to normal, until two weeks later, when that Yoko Sobi patron ends up in that sister-doctor’s emergency room with a horrible infection that quickly deteriorates the entire left side of the Yoko Sobi patron’s body. Using the grant money the sister-doctor’s girlfriend earned, the couple creates a mechanical suit to serve as the deteriorated area’s appendages and functioning organs, unintentionally giving the Yoko Sobi patron super human leaping powers for the rest of her life, which you use in a spin-off series that lasts for eight seasons.

The year is now 2084, and you opened a T.J. Mack’s shop in Chinatown after retiring your career in writing. Basically, you’re a cult icon within the mech-culture, and can do whatever you want because money will always keep Forest Gumpping into your genre-God trust fund. That 15 minutes is now your lifetime. At your T.J. Mack’s clothing store, you have minions gathering all the bootlegged clothing, products, foods, plants, etc. from every last shutdown sweatshop before the Trump-card immigration drop of 2017. And the products sell themselves within the drifter nostalgia of Manhattan’s 20th c. Chinatown aesthetic. All your bio-tech/-mech fans are frequent-return customers, almost considering you a fashion icon; one day, a fan who’s a little girl holds up a DVD and tells you, “See this movie Frozen. The producers paid to record a vocal scaling of each actor (which took each accredited name five minutes to talk in a microphone), alphabetized the voice-box ranges into emotional algorithms, and aggregated a couple dozen characters that play out a myth as real as digital.” As real as digital sears into your nodes throughout your living years, even after undergoing bio-technology operations yourself.

Later, around 7:42 PM in the year 2193, you’re opening a fortune cookie after finishing your Chinese-American takeout, and the sliver of paper reads in hologram text: “You will soon discover how truly fortunate you really are.” So, you weight the option: the word “soon” here would have to do with how much you believe this is actually YOUR “fortune.” You tape it to your mech suite — like a tattoo; you’re only mech-art — and it stays there for 35 more years. You look at it less and less, believing in it less and less, thus the time limit of “soon” means you’ve a lack of belief. Whether faith or hope, eventually death takes you [fortunately], because of how long a person gotta breath through an iron lung of bio-tech before giving up. Yet, it’s the fortune you’re buried with — a reminder of how effortless the transition between this and the next world may be. As if pressing play on a tape deck. Or like a DVD montage of your life, portrayed to nobody at your funeral because you’ve outlived everyone and gender and culture and cult and mech, in the end, is…

Lorde Playlist is that fine line between background music and distraction. As if Justin Bieber were just taught how to use DJ production equipment, and that little fucker picked it up too quick. Or if the infamous “god from the machine” was Ms. Cleo dialing you from hell, but *dial tone* or *siren* and “Yo, you called ME.” And another one. But what binds us all the MOST is everything at once. If we could all have it all, then grip nuts and proudly admit to being a GIRLY GIRL. Ladies, throw up the *jerk-off* motion until y’all become rightful heirs of the gesture. Reclamation! Claim everything. Airport is an infinity of pop-culture chimes in your head. Wring out them sounds until it’s dry!