I was a king once. As a child, I could command my limbs to move how I wanted, my lungs to breath at my command, my lips and teeth and tongue to eat as much as my greedy little body could hold. But over time my power deteriorated — the contradictions in the system became too blatant to ignore. My body parts began to rise up against me, taking back what was originally theirs.
It started with my lungs. I’d been able to enslave them for so long by holding my breath for extended amounts of time, tiring them out so they were too weak to rebel. But eventually I got lackadaisical; I let up on them, giving them time to build their strength and take back control. Now they control me, demanding that I stop smoking and start running every day lest they choose to embarrass me in front of my peers. Just the other day, they abruptly stopped functioning during a lecture I was giving on the finer points of East Parisian cutlery, and would not resume until I approved a measure to increase respiratory blood flow by 2.8 percent.
After that came my bones. The GODDAMN bones, always doing what the FUCK they want! One minute I’m simply riding my bike to class, my ball-and-socket joints working like a well-oiled machine; the next second they’re creaking and groaning like the fucking Trojan horse. Once I realized my bones were lost, I began to give up, succumbing to the inevitable loss of my physical autonomy.
At this point I have nothing but my wits. My body has organized into a grassroots anarcho-syndicalist commune, the organs and bones running me like a decrepit Six Flags ride rusting away in the corner of the park. The only thing I’m capable of any longer is sitting, thinking, and dictating articles such as these, waiting until my brain declares sovereignty as well.