So a friend recently told me this story about how if she even mentions this certain person from her past in a conversation, he will somehow “pick up” on it and contact her out of nowhere.
“You still have that connection,” she said, “even if it’s been like 6 months or a year or longer. Once you make that connection, that’s it. You’re connected. Even if you shared just one drop of spit with each other. It’s like a telepathic situation.”
I pictured that one drop of spit infiltrating the bloodstream, introducing foreign DNA, possibly spreading bacteria.
It’s that one drop of spit flying off the lips of a lover or complete stranger, reaching some part of our person; getting absorbed into the bloodstream via the dermis, now infiltrating our minds with teeny-tiny telepathic receptors that KNOW when we have mentioned him or her some random conversation, and then proceeds to telegraph to its human of origin the tasty gossip.
THEN, the human, tipped off by his or her prodigal telepathic bacteria, will ping you out of nowhere to say: “I found this YouTube video and thought of you. I know you like bottle-fed baby sloths.”
And it doesn’t matter if the human in question had, in the past, operatically murdered your entire extended family in a fit of Tarantinoesque excess and blew off your big toe in the process.
No—you are sitting there, reading this email, wearing a white plastic prosthetic toe under your rainbow socks. Your mind snaps back to that one bit of spit that probably smuggled the gossipy bacteria into your bloodstream and from there to your brain. REGRET.
And then: sloth video.
That vital connection. Indra’s Web, some call it. Others call it telepathic bacteria. But the sloth video has been procured.
Perhaps this was all just a grand ruse by the baby sloth in the video. Maybe the baby sloth is God, or a type of god who arranged this all before you were even born. Arranged it all for reasons obscure, for reasons beyond our mortal comprehension; arranged your meeting with the owner of that one drop of spit; all for you to receive the email, to obtain the link to the video, to entice you to cast your eyes upon the tiny fuzzy creature in the towel being fed with an eyedropper.
You wonder if you should even answer the email. You have every right not to. The telepathic bacteria tricked you, after all. And there is the white plastic toe under your rainbow socks to consider.
But you try to be polite. What can it hurt to be polite?
You write: “Thanks! LOL!”
But you’ve now emboldened the bacteria; hundreds, perhaps even thousands of telepathic bacteria. You’ve tugged too hard on the Web of Indra; and you didn’t even mean to. You were just being polite.
That connection is always there, abetted by the bacteria, lubricated by the one drop of spit from so very long ago. The baby sloth video: a gateway, a strengthener. You cannot resist the sloth. It is just a helpless baby, after all.