Susan, an avian (smellslikecher) wrote,
Susan, an avian
smellslikecher

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What happened to me.

Hello. If you are the sort of person who is kind, you may have wondered "whatever has happened to Susan? She sure hasn't posted in her LiveJournal for a long time." If you have wondered that, this post will make you wonder it no longer[1], for I have quite an explanation.

If you are the sort of person who lives in New York City, or the sort of person who follows Apple Computers, Inc., you may be acquainted with a a certain building that has caused me some serious trouble. It is the Fifth Avenue Apple Store, and it looks like this:



As you can see, it is my type. It is perfectly square, just like my cunt. That means I can fuck it from every direction--most buildings that are square are also tall, so I can only fuck them from the top. This sad scenario is not the case with the Fifth Avenue Apple Store. I can fuck it from the top. I can fuck it from the side. I can fuck it from the side2. I can fuck it from the side3. I can fuck it from the side4. I can fuck it from the bottom, because beneath the store lies the basement, where people work and purchase all day and all night. And because it is clear[2], I can also do something that very few folks know about: I can fuck it inside out.[3]. And that feels the greatest.

So, after some brief flirtation, I fucked the Fifth Avenue Apple Store. I made sure to use a rubber, because we all know what happens when I neglect to use one. I fucked it from the top. I fucked it from the side. I fucked it from the side2. I fucked it from the side3. I fucked it from the side4. I fucked it from the very bottom of its own bowels. I fucked it inside out. And then I started all over again. But before I could finish another cycle of joy, Steve Jobs showed up, and he was frowning.[4]

"Susan," he bellowed. "What in the name of the Lisa do you think you are doing?"

"Steve Jobs, I am fucking the Fifth Avenue Apple Store!" I shouted with glee. I was fucking side3 at this point. My legs were twitching with insolence and orgasms.

"Susan!" he thundered. "Who in the name of the Quadra605, the Performa636CD, the Apple II, tor the Powermac G4 gave you permission to fuck my glass enclosure?!"

"No one, Steve Jobs!" I squealed. "This building is loving me of its own volition!"

"That building is a slave, bird!" He shook his fist at me. "I own it!"

"Slavery is unconstitutional, Shit-for-operating-system-in-the-early-90s!" I crowed. "I should know! I had to free Tiglat-Pileser Johnson McGrath Harp-Beetle[5] and it broke my birdish little heart!"

"Ostrich, I warn you: unmount the building, or you will be sorry."

I did not unmount the building, because I felt it climaxing, and I am a sensitive lover and I hate the idea of leaving someone unsatisfied.

I felt a dart puncture my muscular, feathered thigh, and the next thing I knew, I was in a dungeon, handcuffed to a wall. My captors wore paper bags over their heads and Apple tshirts.

And they were feeding me Sony Walkmen.

And I realized that it had finally happened. Apple learned the darkest secret of my metabolism. I learned it once, long ago, when I accidentally ate Millicent's Sony Walkman in a moment of rage, when she wouldn't stop playing "Start Me Up" by the Rolling Stones so loudly that it made Urban cry. I ate the Walkman, and six days later, I peed the most interesting object. It was small and rectangular and had a wheel and a screen and little earphones. This was before I was as technologically astute as I am now, mind you, so I shrugged and threw it away.

It was, of course, an iPod.

And now, I was peeing them by the gallon.

They fed me discmen, and I peed iPods nano. They fed me cassette tapes, and I peed pop-music mp3s. They fed me CDs, and hour-long NPR podcasts seeped slowly from my ureter. I cried. And when I cried, what did I cry? Those cute little armbands.

This, my friends, is where I've been for a very long time.

I suspect that the Fifth Avenue Apple Store was built as a trap for me. I can't imagine it any other way.

This is a serious thing, throngs-of-admirers.

I just managed to post this update by pecking with my beak. You ask, "Susan, how did you get a computer?" Well, while one of my captors was asleep just to my left, I ate his cellphone, and that made me shit a powerbook.

It's a nice one, but not the newest kind.


[1] and no shorter, either. sorry.*
[2] clear! just like my favorite shirt from J. Crew.
[3] "but susan," you ask. "how does the fact that something is clear mean that you can fuck it inside out?" aha. what i have for you is some math.

a fucking experience = feeling (hearing + tasting + smelling) / seeing

now, international law states that when something is clear, it is negative seeing. hence -seeing.

dividing by a negative number makes me woozy, so the whole experience is inside out. i hope this helps.


[4] at the time, i thought "it's actually probably good that he showed up now." i was starting to get sore, and i did need to get home to feed millicent and urban, who were under the irresponsible care of my uncle stanley-bob. you know what they did last time i left them with him, when i gently partially-fucked the cloisters? they painted their feet with mercury and ate soap!

[5] this is a lie. i did not have to free my slave. the new york times could not run a headline saying "broncks ostrich found guilty of violating the thirteenth amendment," so i get to keep him.

*do you like how i capitalize in the main text of my post but refuse to do so in my footnotes? it is a new idea i thought of while trapped where i am trapped.
Tags: awful, crying, death, millicent, set up, the worst, urban
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