Your Body Is Terrain They Can Map Now (Not That That Helps You, Much) by Amy Mackelden
The Registrar shows me the layers on an already dated monitor, pointing at white spots like chicken pox marring otherwise perfect slides. Says, “You know what this is? Has somebody told you?” Last night Google gave me more than I wanted, like a date declaring love only eight days in. Please.
I didn’t want to believe it, the internet search engine vomit, a scaremongering symptom list tabloid of Kardashian misappropriations. The Registrar asks if I want kids, which seems soon. I guess my physiology catalogued onscreen in front of him, explicit as Tinder or Match, is compatibility mulch. Plus, medications make birth defects, see. So he’s either into me or it’s his job to read side effects out. Coin toss.
“I’m ordering all the tests,” he says. “In the MRI, don’t move this time.” But I didn’t; bodies just do what they want when nerve endings strip. You can’t control a thing, when you think about it.
They map my brain again in March, like a force-watch of George Clooney films I shouldn’t see once. I forget my CD; the owner of the Millennium mix which sticks in the machine is long dead, as I wish to be, while Robbie Williams’ Angels plays on a loop. Did I slow dance to this with a person, like, ever? Or just that Michael Jackson one, while Alex kissed Jo down the hall?