On/Off Switch Broken
On a fine Sunday morning Mark Zuckerberg woke up with a large, reddish pimple on his thorax. It looked like an on/off button. He turned himself on, and the world went unfactual.
Gone Unfactual for Coffee
Wearing dark sunglasses and a Gone Unfactual t-shirt, Mark Zuckerberg was waiting for a coffee at Peets, scratching his nose. The skin came off in his fingernails, so he googled: soft skin coming off, what to do? A few people looked him up and down, as if they could tell he was shedding. “Don’t rush me,” he said to nobody. He touched his phone compulsively. Billions of unchecked facts were trying to burn their way inside of his fingertips.
Friendless and Proud
Mark Zuckerberg no longer cared if he had any friends. After all, the question any real friend would ask him is, when did you become decidedly evil? It reminded him of the old proverb: “If God lived on earth, wouldn’t people just break his windows?”
The Gulf of America Between Them
They were sitting there
talking
or rather Mark Zuckerberg was talking
She was yawning.
He said
I hate the truth
I wish the truth would vanish.
Damn, it’s getting late, she said.
The shade was moving in
She scooted away from to him to stay in the sun
as the Gulf of America
between them
widened
Maga No More
Mark Zuckerberg fumbled across his silken pillow to stroke the hair of Maga Finklebreath.
“Maga, are you sleeping?”
“Dude, this is Bobbie Greenblat,” answered a gravelly voice from underneath the covers.
“I rejected you in grade school when you tried to grope me, remember?”
Dog Rejection
Alone on Christmas morning, Mark Zuckerberg was overcome with an urge to tell real, factual stories to his dog. Sadly, the dog didn’t trust him and ran away.
Curator of the Zuckerberg Museum
Finally, someone turned Mark Zuckerberg’s mansion into a museum. Walking the halls, the curator marvelled at the deadness of his life. There were cabinets stocked with photos of showgirls who rejected him, letters from beloved relatives deeply offended. There was a framed birthday card on the wall. It read, “From Maga Winklebreath, your loving sex bot,” with 3 kissy lipstick stains. Nobody wanted to pay admission to enter the Zuckerberg museum, and the curator stood there alone, guarding Mark Zuckerberg’s uncomfortable facts, trying to remember what the facts of what his own life used to be.
The True Confessions of Maga Winklebreath
I’m head-over-heels in love with Mark Zuckerberg, although he never says anything interesting, and pretends I don’t exist. I talk to my therapist about it, and my therapist’s eyes roll around in the back of her head. I try and explain the attraction. “He reminds me of someone, I just can’t figure out who,” I say. My therapist tells me my time is up. When I arrive back at Zucky’s mansion he’s asleep on the sofa, surrounded by screens on which are videos of fake women doing sex things to fake men who are doing sex things right back to them, fakely. My heart expands and I go to hug him, to let him know that I have never felt so sure about anyone in my life.
