The word made real.

I've begun photographing the Gummi bears. Individually. Right before I eat them. I tell them it's for my Meal Tumblr. It's not. I don't have a Meal Tumblr. I have a washing-in-the-yard-with-the-hose Tumblr.

I have to tell them something. The Gummi bears. I don't want them thinking their sacrifice is in vain. They mustn't get the idea they were created to die. I used to tell them I was photographing them for prom. But then they asked why they weren't photographed in couples and I had to come up with another lie to justify my perversions. I told them I had fallen down the stairs as a boy and that's why I had to wear this brace. Then they'd say they didn't ask about my brace and why I don't wash it and I'd panic and have to eat them all up right there. Before the meal. Before saying grace. Man's freedom is an illusion.

I'm powerless.

I can type it but I can't say it. I don't want my kids to hear it. Why ruin their lives? Better to wait. I want to give them every opportunity to bottom out. I'm waiting for their panicked phone call from some Indiana limestone pit. Telling me they just couldn't help it. The green water was so beautiful. Asking me through the tears why even gravity is against them.

I'll be waiting a long time. They haven't been born yet. Don't even have a girlfriend. But I do have names picked out for them and various life scenarios and diagrams for them to endure.

My future children, I'm talking about. Not the Gummi bears.

I just photograph them. Even the clear ones. Which are gross because they look like they're naked. They taste like they're naked. The clear Gummi bears.

They taste like naked bears.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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