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Squid #377
(published April 10, 2008)
Ask the Giant Squid: The Love That Dares Not Compute Its Name
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?

Bionicwoman here. My question is of a romantic nature, I am not sure if you can help me out here. I have a crush on a man who is quite a bit younger than myself. He seems to be a little bit intimidated, any suggestions for putting him at ease that do not involve large amounts of drugs and alcohol (I already tried that)?


Dear Lovelorn Cyborg,

Once I did find myself in quite the opposite position that you are now in. Not a year ago I found myself in love with a human woman. Her name was Hazel, and she was bait fish sparkling in the moonlighted waters of my soul. Due to treachery in this lab, Hazel was injured and lay dying on the shores of the great Lake of Santa Clarita.

The moon hung low in the sky that night, and the snow squeaked when the humans walked upon it. Moisture condensed and froze viciously on the dome of my velocitational landsuit, and I felt what it is to feel powerless. I had but two choices that night: let my beloved die, or use the eldritch sciences from beyond the veil to propel her into a new state of life.

What did I do?

What would you do, when faced with a similar choice?

I disassembled my own velocitational landsuit for materiel. Mobility, sensors, and life support were all taken offline and I did sit there in the snow and wait for either the awful vacuous lack of pressure in this upspace to pop me like a Peepers in a microwave, or for the cold to gnaw its way into my blood and slow my life until it was no more. Before I passed—Note: I did not pass, the well-timed arrival of my employee did save me; worry not!—I used the parts cannibalized from my own suit, as well parts from a Ford Aerostar MiniVanoline and a lawnmower to modify my love, Hazel.

In short, I made her a cyborg that day, and she fled screaming to the bottom of the sea.

So you see, we are the same side of two coins, you and I: I, a handsome and intelligent creature, was in love with a cyborgwoman who was younger than me. And you, a cyborgwoman, are in love with a younger man. The crystal lattice of coincidence draws us ever nearer, and we approach like falling stones a future ruled only by coincidence and happenstance.

But I digress.

Let us focus our laser-like intelligence on this problem, and perhaps as two superior beings merging together to fight a quandary, we can Voltron-like find victory.

The chief obstacle is one of intimidation. You are biology perfected. Your human limitations have been eradicated by nanotechnology, or hydraulics, or simple machinery. Perhaps chemopumps stabilize your emotional state? Perhaps an advanced AI in your brain assists in targeting or fact acquisition?

On the other hand, let us examine your mate of choice. Your average human male, stinking and furred, is not unlike a bowl of the oatmeal with raisins. But the raisins are insecurities, and the meal of oats is hormonal tides. He is buffeted like a swallow in a storm, tempest-tossed on his emotions. Nature has seen fit to make all humans equally flawed (I laugh when I look upon human eyes, so small, so inefficient) and this has helped humans to overcome their massive insecurities and to find mates.

Imagine, Bionicwoman, what this male must see when he looks at you. You are grace personified. Competence writ upon the land. Your carriage, like an angel. Your reasoning, like a god's. I imagine the man must be terrified. You are a gleaming chrome mirror that reflects back only imperfections upon the mud-encrusted chimp. Archimedes-like you burn all that approach.

This is how I felt when I gazed down at Hazel, her flesh torn open by my clumsy doctoring. Her organs replaced by hosing, by pumps. Blood does not freeze as easily as snow, the Russians will tell you that. It burns hotly and pools on the earth carving channels through the snowbanks like so much lava. The eruption of Mount Hazel put Krakatoa to shame. I had lain her on a snow bank to begin the operations to save her life, and when finished I clambered up and peered down upon her. Her blood had pooled and carved chasms outlining her body neatly, making her not unlike a snow angel. But I did not see an angel at that time, I only saw my own failings as a protector, as a lover, and as a doctor.

The distractions move swiftly today, do they not?

Your first approach was to use alcohol to loosen the mood. This is to be applauded. Many matings have been made possible by this most popular of social lubricants. A possible second approach—if you choose to continue to pursue this unworthy mate—is to look upon the example of Diana Prince, the Wondrous Woman. When she set her eyes upon the lovely Steve Trevor did she reveal her full and measured glory? No, she did not. She swaddled her glory in uniform and revealed it slowly to him. It was a striptease of personal achievement, of revelation. A burlesque where not the body is revealed, but the soul. And because her radiance was uncovered one proton at a time, the hunky Steve Trevor was not blinded or seared, but rather grew accustomed to the light and began to bask in it.

Consider the slower method, to avoid scaring off your prey. And when you have bionic children with this man, consider naming one of them after he who has made your procreation possible.

The Giant Squid

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