THE SPIDER

A scary story, just in time for Halloweekend.

“I am a public intellectual,” I think to myself while lying across my unmade bed, clutching the vaguely phallic stuffed animal named Wosh that I ordered off of Instagram when I thought the world was going to end in March of 2020. I think to myself that this scene might look more romantic if I was still vaping, but then I remember the time that my disposable watermelon Puff Bar set off the metal detector at the US Open and change my mind. The scene is nice as it is, and I am happy I don’t smoke nicotine in any capacity anymore. My phone dings and I am bothered by it. I pick it up anyways. Elon Musk wants in on the Twitter deal again. I am reminded of one of my personal mantras: “There is nothing worse than someone who tweets screenshots of the conversations they have on dating apps.” This is pretty much my strongest and most consistent opinion on the subject of modern life, despite the fact that I am no longer on Twitter and the topic of inquiry is completely irrelevant to me. Still, it is this conviction which grants me my status as a public intellectual, and for that I am grateful.

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