I always find time out of my busy day to touch base with Elon. He’s a calming influence, the steady milk in my warm cup of coffee. Today, it was a few short swings past golden hour when we found ourselves standing outside the taco truck. I like a phantasmagorical life engineered within the architectural framework of a common way of living.

I thought about my boyfriends, one of whom I called Matisse Reconstructed, cooking pasta slowly over the stove, while his paintings and poetry deep and dangerous lay upstairs innocuous and undemanding.

Taco leaving searing prints on my fingers, cheese embracing my teeth, I looked at Elon.

“Tesla Barbie,” I provoked.

“Yeah that’s not funny, Jessie.” He said, making a face as hot cheese scorched and dripped down his fingers.

I made a face of extreme remorse. He looked at me.

“No Jessie. You’re a troll. Your contrition is Big Foot.”

I found that enormously funny, and laughed raucously.

“You shouldn’t laugh like that Jessie. People will think I’m hurting you.”

I was feeling energetic, perhaps hypomanic. I had had four cups of coffee and three Ritalin pills; a combination whose potency was uncontroversial.

“How dare you, Elon,” I said, “How dare you take an independent woman of the twenty-first century and turn her into a walking brand of your relentless pursuit for market dominance?”

He looked at me.

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Well, tell me what it means, then.”

He took a long inhale, readying for an explanatory marathon.

“Rococo,” he began, “the movement that devolved from traditional Baroque, the Catholic Church commissioned art- ”

“Oh, and it was a Catholicism themed event!” I exclaimed.

“Jessie please don’t interrupt me, – so this movement is all about extravagance, ornamentation, impressing upon first impression.”

“It’s about excess,” I said, “luxury, the super rich of the fuck gone era.”

“A corset made of glass, ridiculously expensive and even more impractical- ”

“The impersonation of a glass house, the fragility of the security wealth provides.”

He nodded, fire starting in his eyes. I carried on.

“Chokers worn for solidarity during the French Revolution, a revolution against monarchy – that era’s version of the super rich. Forged from a single piece of metal – a sword.”

I stopped a moment to catch my breath. I howled.

“Vantablack! Invisibility. The super rich don’t live in the Palace of Versailles together with the king, they are all around us, we don’t have a caste for them, but they are there. Goddam Mississippi!”

I was hopping now, thrilled by the mindfuckery this would deal to the Illuminati, today’s reincarnation of the nobility.

“There’s more, Elon, there’s more!”

“Eat your taco, Jessie.”

“Her choker’s a basilisk’s fang- ”

“One must interpret fashion, a message, in the context of the whole, the political climate, political inclinations…”

I broke out singing.

“I gave up being good when I declared a state of war!”

I was laughing from my stomach, deeply rich with the feeling of kinship.

“She really is my favourite Barbie,” I said.

“Do you think she’s too young for me,” he asked, a rare moment of vulnerability.

“So long as your osteogenesis imperfecta doesn’t set in, it shouldn’t be an issue,” I said.

“It’s better than what you have,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Chronic boredom, Jessie. That’s your condition.”

I thought of my love for perilous situations and had to agree.

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