I watched the video of a gray tiger mascot dancing and thought to myself, He is a good dancer, but made no disclosure in return. The whole “me wanting to fuck a mascot” thing struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be communicated or discussed. If I tweeted anything back to @mondomascots, my tale would be such as must necessarily make a profound impression on the minds of my followers, and those minds, yet from their sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade of realizing I needed to be canceled immediately. I kept my desire to have spaghetti and wine with the mascot and then get rammed by the mascot to myself, then, and pondered the spaghetti wine mascot fuck in my heart.
“Girl what the fuck,” said Jezebel senior staff writer Frida Garza when I told her I wanted to fuck the mascot. “That’s a man in a tiger suit. The suit isn’t dancing. It’s the man. Just fuck the man.”
She swiveled away from me to face her computer, raised a five-fingered hand to my face as if it were 1996, and, furiously tapping the keys of her keyboard, finished placing an unnecessarily high $500 bid on this fucked up, unboxed Barbie dog toy from the late ‘70s, ignoring the starting bid of $5. She whispered something under her breath. Only the last words of the thing she said were audible.
“At the same time,” Frida continued, “I support you. It’s gross, but do you. Feminism, baby.”
Then she grabbed my phone, typed a reply to the Torarin tweet that said “will you marry me,” and handed it back to be tweeted. I took that dear ghostwritten tweet, held the phone a moment to my lips, then hit the post button. Being so much lower of stature than Torarin, I regretted the decision at once. I entered a shame spiral and expected never a hand to reach down and uplift me from said dumb bitch hole of mine own making.
Reader, I married him.