I will make you a tiny golem wife out of my toenail clippings and shedded skin. She will clean your house and give it up whenever you want. And every day, she will sing and dance and stare at you with tiny clear eyes until you scream that she has to stop pointing those things at you. She will blow you like blue smoke and waft in and out of your cavities like cinnamony liquid love. She will bake you tiny golem pies out of her body and she will collect the pieces of you to knit herself a sweater. She will make you cry happy and laugh sad and you will cry until your eyes are stuck-shut swollen. And then, you will remember that I'm making you cry again and you will be happy. Then you will be sad that you are happy, so that you will be happy that you are sad so that you are sad that you are happy until the funky moire of happy and sad hypnotizes you and you suck yourself up into your tight little bunghole like a postmodern icon fake 'brent' that some marketing fop made up in some room where they had free donuts and weak coffee.