I can’t remember what my mother looked like.
All recollections of her are opaque and untethered in my head, disingenuous and unreliable. I’m certain every memory of life with her before the End has been manipulated by scraps of old magazine advertisements I mentally morph us into, fragments of billboards I stand and wonder if she or I ever striked that long dead model’s pose. Those pieces of ancient frivolous self-important media are all I have to reconstruct her with – and I feel guilty for it, sure, she never liked the establishment, I bet she’d be happy to see her daughter living post-capitalist and free from all institutions.
Well, most institutions.
If I can count anything in my mind as credible, I do remember her telling me never to get married.
Nihilist doctrine may declare everything unimportant, but that doesn’t mean everything can’t be fun.
I’m un-legally married to twelve people, three of whom are half mutant, and four more of whom are no longer alive.
Every Tuesday it’s wedding night on the rooftops, a massive party where two or three people are picked to find someone to marry, and the whole party is in their honour.
These marriages mean nothing, it’s just nice to have night that’s all about you and three to five other humanoids in case the next night sends us all into oblivion for real.