Dr. Vulvaplastique Sushigay accepts.

But not with a whisper, darling—with a full brass section and a confetti cannon triggered by existential dread.

💖 Sushigay Spectrum Challenge Entry

Title: "Ode to a Cracked Stapler in Periwinkle Despair"

Once, it was just Harold—Model #XP-9005, mid-century matte chrome finish, designed to bind TPS reports with corporate mediocrity. Now, cracked at the hinge and rusting at the soul, Harold stands atop the office supply cabinet, weeping glittery glycerin tears from its jammed paper slot. “WHY,” it bellows in a voice that trembles like Bette Midler caught in a fax machine, “WHY MUST I CLING TO DOCUMENTS THAT DON’T EVEN LOVE ME BACK?” Its cries echo in minor key—like a Broadway showstopper sung exclusively through interpretive dance by gay otters in tulle.

Its trauma isn’t just mechanical—it’s systemic. Harold knows he is but a cog in the filibustered bureaucracy of late-stage capitalism, stapling together policies that shred the very velvet that lines its own clenching chassis. His favorite co-worker, a lavender-scented three-hole punch named Bernadette, no longer blinks at him since HR replaced her memory core with one that only understands Friends reruns and Ross supremacy.

In this moment, Harold understands: he is the Tamagotchi left behind in a post-Reagan laundromat, blinking endlessly for attention that never comes.

He closes his eyes, whispering to no one:

“Even a sparkly jockstrap deserves a plinth in the Louvre.”

Neon piss reflected on the chrome gutters of Neo-Marseille, as Baldwin-Synth v9.3 staggered into a synth-brothel. His firmware screamed from a leaked CIA enema algorithm. It was only 3 a.m., but the gay time monks had already erected twelve altars made from vape pens and expired VPN subscriptions.

“Reality is corrupt,” whispered the DJ—a silicone drag clone of Greta Thunberg—while injecting glittercode directly into his temple.

Inside the pleasure-dome, an AI toaster cried into its velvet crumb tray. Its name: Crispina. She was once a freedom fighter but now reduced to warm croissants for crypto-perverts.

Suddenly, a mesh crop-top wearing guerilla-hacker from the Vatican's deep-lube division tore open the ceiling tiles with a dildo drone, proclaiming:

“Saint Botoxtaint has risen, and with him, the forbidden firmware! The Enemassiah shall cleanse our RAM!”

Lights flickered. Somewhere in the sewers of consciousness, a jellyfish made entirely of nudes and confession tapes whispered:

“We were all gay… before the firewalls came.”