A Typical Day

Zack Bornstein in The New Yorker:

ScreenHunter_2976 Feb. 25 19.56Midnight–8 a.m.: Vividly hallucinate while paralyzed atop a cushion-topped box of metal springs.

8-8:05 a.m.: A small plastic box generates fast-moving vibrations strong enough for my eardrums to register them and communicate to my brain that it is time to switch from a hallucinating state to a state of gathering food and information. I smack the box.

8:05-8:15 a.m.: Spin a dial to release water that has travelled from the top of a mountain through a maze of lead pipes onto my outermost epidermal layer in order to rinse away the salty liquid that my body secreted through thousands of holes while I was hallucinating.

8:15-8:17 a.m.: Agitate a brush created by children halfway around the world to remove minuscule invisible creatures from the bones in my mouth that I use to turn all my food into soup before swallowing it. Spit out excess soap that is chemically designed to taste like food, but isn’t. “Forget” to floss.

8:17-8:20 a.m.: Tunnel my body into shapes made from interwoven threads of dyed plant refuse which have been pieced together by poor people a third of the way around the world to match the shapes of my limbs and my trunk.

8:20-8:23 a.m.: Tunnel my body into a different set of interwoven threads because the first one didn’t satisfactorily create the illusion that my body is desirably healthy for copulation as judged by a theoretical stranger whom I may encounter during the day.

8:23-8:25 a.m.: Look for my wallet.

8:25-9 a.m.: Strap myself into a small rocket-room that is powered by the burnt remains of prehistoric kelp, in which I avoid dying by spinning a plastic circle wrapped in optional cow skin.

More here. [Thanks to Elizabeth Cornell.]