All the Birds in the Sky

by Charlie Jane Anders

The sound of the television downstairs—too loud to ignore, too quiet to make out what anyone was saying—peeled her skull.

Much like the inability to distinguish between “x-or” and “and/or,” the lack of delineation between “x-we” and “in-we” was a conspiracy of obfuscation, designed to create awkwardness and exacerbate peer pressure—because people tried to include you in their “we” without your consent, or you thought you were included and then the rug got pulled out from under you.

Worry is often a symptom of imperfect information.

What, you didn’t think they were all sane, did you? Not a one of them. They’re all crazier than you and me put together. They just know how to fake it. You could too, but you’ve chosen to torture all of us instead. That’s the definition of evil right there: not faking it like everybody else. Because all of us crazy fuckers can’t stand it when someone else lets their crazy show. It’s like bugs under the skin. We have to destroy you. It’s nothing personal.”

I need to pay rent in this city, which is a lot, even with two roommates.”

“But the real point is, how do you ever know your own emotions are spontaneous and genuine, and not just a programmed set of responses?” “I don’t. I wonder about that all the time.”

They were always cheating at foozeball, dancing at The EndUp with insomniac queers until five in the morning,

the former headquarters of a start-up company called HappyFruit, Inc., which had marketed fruit that was genetically modified to include a tiny amount of antidepressants. “SQUEEZE THE JOY OUT OF LIFE”

“As long as humanity survives, the best part of planet Earth will have endured.

On the radio, the president fizzed about plans and resolutions, but Congress couldn’t even convene because nobody could agree on temporary chambers and it was a Constitutional nightmare.

Patricia still looked the same, like an eager baby.