Paul woke up as he did every morning, a scaly anteater tonguing his ear and whispering lurid promises of the filthy sex to come. He grumbled and rolled over, hoping the pangolin would get the hint and wander into the kitchen in search of ants or termites or Cheetos or whatever the hell.
For an aimless point of meat, Paul thought, the human brain sure can get used to anything. Things had been great when he’d first won the lottery. He’d been rich and famous, everything had been new, he’d been able to do whatever he wanted. The novelty of it all had made him a celebrity. America, nay the very world, would gather around their televisions, huddle in front of their computers, feverishly slaughter the family pets and consult their entrails just to see what strange creature he would give a limited form of sentience to next, what bizarre organism he would coax into accepting his penis.
It was great. Like being an anthropologist, a scientist, and a porn star all at once. He’d really won the lottery. Not even just the actual lottery, which he’d totally won, but the metaphorical lottery of life as well.
And then it’d all become boring. The models. The expensive dinners. The squealing human-pig hybrids. So boring, so mundane.
I’ve done everything I could think of. Everything. I’ve walked the surface of the moon. I’ve destroyed Las Vegas hotel rooms. I’m an EGOT winner. And I still wake up in the morning and wonder, “Christ. What the fuck am I going to do with myself today?”
The anteater ran its tongue along his neck, leaving a sticky, slimy trail, like being kissed by a slug. Paul pushed it away, ignoring its hiss, the unhappy grumble of a Thai transsexual, the squeaky noise of some dog toy that had been left on the ground.