by maxlevy

From tales of snow white, to the simple canary who warns the coal miner of impending doom: humans have always dreamt of animals that can communicate. But i don’t know why people would ever dream of that, because these last couple days have been an absolute nightmare.

Recently, I went to las vegas, and came back with my favorite treat. It’s a dessert of the desert– a desiccated delight– the scorpion sucker lollipop. Were it not so simply sumptuous, I would have thrown my delectable, dried délicatesse in the dumpster long ago.

‘Why? ‘ you might ask, rightfully confused.

You see, every time I try to eat my novelty scorpion lollipop, another scorpion comes along and tries to mate with it.

“Mate with it? ” you might ask,

“What, does it like, hump it? ”

No.

I wish.

You see, it doesn’t matter where I go. He crawls through my windows, through the crack and crevices contained within every imperfect edifice I enter. He brings chocolates, “poems” (a series of hisses and clicks), and (surprisingly) tasteful floral arrangements.

Every night, I am tempted not to eat my prized possession, and I try to resist temptation. It’s no use. I remove the crinkly plastic veil from my stalker’s supposed beloved, and he’s there at my window, playing a mix of peter gabriel and, you guessed it: the scorpions.

He’s at the neighborhood barbecue in a tank top, at the beach in a bathing suit with a hole for the tail. He’s at the arcade (playing mortal kombat), and at the gas station, filling up his fv101 scor- pion (which is actually a kind of tank, but it’s the only vehicle i could find that has the word “scorpion” in it, which is surprising to me). He always has an excuse, a venomous lie that takes the shape of a reason that he just “happened to be there”.

I mean, this guy has been totally relentless. He seriously thinks that his wife is gonna be this one particular scorpion inside of my novelty lollipop. He keeps slipping me little notes that say things roughly along the lines of “why won’t she take her walls down? ” or “I can fix her”. Dude, you can’t fix shit. She’s been dead, like, a long time.

I pity him; I really do. He probably goes home to an empty apartment for scorpions, takes off his teeny tiny coat and tie made for scorpions, and cries tears made from one singular, desolate, lonely, desert scorpion; deprived of the ‘manic pixie dream’ scorpion that would never, in a thousand living lifetimes, speak to him. He can only dream of breaching the crystalline, azure barrier between them.

All that pity fades, when he returns, and i see his true intentions revealed. It depresses me to know that he sees his mistress with the same eyes as me: as an object, a commodity; a thing to be used, to be consumed, and disposed of, once the stick is removed.

Anyways, I think i’m gonna try to eat the lollipop now.

Categories: max levy, max levy, September 27, Uncategorized, water cooler