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Teresa reads deleuze and guattari

photo by Coco Karol

In a tragic misreading of the text, Teresa concluded that poison was the only way to immanence.

She drank it solemnly from a goblet one night after speed-reading "How to Make Yourself a Body without Organs" and then watching Café Müller. Ironically, the cyanide used in the potion had already attended a special weekend seminar for fluids wishing to become BwOs. Blood and cyanide are the only successful conversions we’ve seen: saliva was an absolute failure (civil wars of oxygenated words), and grapefruit juice was embarrassingly blocked from any intensity by the abundance of intrinsic pink pleasure. Teresa awoke the following day, surprised to see the same sun. Or was it? The sky looked bluer. Or did it? Her questioning of everything led her to a nearby dog shelter, where the owner had died the previous night of a mescaline mishap. She released the locks on all the runs and dogs trotted into the parking lot and surrounding fields. She started to gnaw at her own wrists. Not because she was hungry, but because she was full. The harder she chewed, the more relief she felt from her thoughts. They paid $121 a night at the cabaret to watch her do this. Her skin had a remarkable capacity to regenerate, thanks to an ancient Dogon balm made of egg yolk. The blood in her body had also undergone a weekend seminar, in the quiet space of her aorta, and it encouraged a sort of collective hum in all the systems of of her body, such that, as her teeth dug and tore into the delicate epidermis of her arms, sometimes hitting the soft pink of bone, she was able to retain her job at the financial firm. It wasn’t that she was fooling people, or that she wanted to be there. She acted in the workplace like the converted blood did in her body: her vibration caused the effect of a convergence of planes in such a way that the workers started seeing galaxies in the cubicle walls. She wore bandages on her arms, of course, but this was trivial, natural, a ritual to distract her from her own nostalgia for the named organism and the complex web of signs and subjects (oh she delighted in them, even when they were cruel). Despite her longings, she prostrated herself before the philosopher like a sexy sinner before an aging priest and said with the molecules of her eyeballs, “I will drink the Kool-Aid.” Not long after her coworkers regularly recognized primordial goo in their microwave lunches, she stopped biting her wrists and let the skin heal. She attended the cabaret only as a witness, watching the dogs run from field to parking lot, parking lot to field, always curious about the earth beneath the asphalt and the earth beneath the grass. She ate the idea of one egg for breakfast every morning, a method prescribed by her handsome, young BwO practitioner, a very holistic kind of guy, not one of the old-school drug and masochism men. She didn’t have to keep doing this, now that all the skin had healed, but a lingering fear of the strata, like the nearness of the living room window, kept her ever vigilant.

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