“Wait, this isn’t a DIY page?”

What is a ‘fixer’? 

The term has immoral connotations, referring one who dodges, bends, rewrites the rules, gives unfair advantage to a certain outcome. Lawyers, generally. Mafia, frequently. People with the tools and ambition to bend reality to the shape they desire.

It’s a fun word, though. Flexible and ironic. To fix means to do many things. To repair or remedy, to put in place, to arrange, to neuter an animal. It’s a threat (“I’ll fix you!”) and a humble request (“can you fix this?”) It’s everything I like about language.

To fix is to set in place with a sense of permanence that time betrays.

To fix is to render an animal sterile. Fix a genetic line in place, remove from stock.

In the very best orgasms, time and space stop, and start again. That is the stuff in you that once was a supernova, that once was a star, remembering how it felt to be nothing at all. Why is pleasure not sacred? 

How can we be expected to fix ourselves when they won’t even let us repair our own phones? 

Fix this, fix that.

Fix it to the wall.

Burn the wall.

These are uncharted times. The schism between narrative and lived experience is more apparent than it has ever been. That seems like something we need to fix.

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