Above, you can see me stomping into the club, eyes shielded, hair firmly tucked inside the stiff striped cloth of a hat shaped like bow-tie noodles. The crowd parts, agog at my elegance, my sensuality, my ability to walk without eyesight while balancing a large sculpture on my head. “Thank you, Mulberry,” I whisper, as I am approached nonstop with firm handshakes and invitations to grind.
Here I am again, also at the club:
From afar, as you can see, I am transformed into a literal cupcake that has been smushed flat—a longtime dream of mine. “YEEESSSSS!” I roar. As a bonus, I will never get lost because my friends can see me from very far away, like a shooting star or a Sim. This is good because I, again, cannot see a thing.
I am confident. I am sexual. I am 109 years old.