First, reality check, dear friend—
Climate Change, why so cranky? You are the new guard; you’ve got all in your palm. The Elders, the past climates could only hope for your power. You’re basically undoing all their work in short order. So. Right.
What do we care—
Now, we can’t say as though we miss the hips. We were getting quite hippie, it’s true. Okay, our thighs are thick. We know it, and we accept it. But also having wide hips? No, a bridge too far, so to speak.
"We don’t want to run out of room for all that junk in our trunk, as it were."
Yes, we know, we know our name suggests that we’re all bones, all right angles and whatnot. That was back in the day when we had knobby knees, so to speak. Now? Nothing could be further from the truth at this point. Now? Curves. The kind of curves that beg to be cuddled or splashed around in? Yes. And we don’t like it. We don’t want too much company. Being boney and shadowy, that’s how we ended up being a prime destination, a peak hideaway, for only the chosen few with the darkest secrets. Now? Can we be too sexy? Yes. We don’t want heavy foot traffic.
Maybe we earned our nickname “the Devil’s Triangle” because we’re sneaky and dangerous, but we’re only doing what we were made to do. We know why we are here, our reason for being—protecting classified intel—and we don’t want to run out of room for all that junk in our trunk, as it were.
Solutions that mend fences!
All that junk in our trunk—
We welcome to our bosom all worthy comers. Stealing lives? Stop it. We’re not even borrowing them; they are willingly offered by the Spirit Machine. Each soul calls out to us, and we either accept the offering and then call on Rogue Waves to usher our new guest down in to our fabulous hearth—underwater lilies and neon fish dotting tastefully arranged multicolored non-renewable plastics—or we pass on the request, let the creature—outer husk undesirable and spirit unfavorable—go about its business.
Furthermore, don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak—
It has been and continues to be our calling to watch over the secret tech left by the Great Ancients of the Spirit Machine—people call them aliens because they know no better—and this swift shift in atmospheric temperament . . . Please, we beseech you, dear Climate Change, reconsider your current political directive. We’re on the same team here, all one entity, really, there’s an argument to be made for that point.
You are so powerful, all-powerful, we are humbled in your presence. It’s true. And it’s fine if you want to buck people off Lady Earth’s back, we get it. Even though, you know, they have some seriously awesome ideas that we’re hoarding for the Great Ancients’ return—sure, yes, to curry favor from them—but please do consider how your new attitude may topple some of the Great’s most treasured secrets. Do you want that? Consider future climates. If you do too much change, how are they supposed to leave their mark? What will be left for them to tussle with?
At least—we’re begging now—at least meet with us, convene, assemble for a summit. No promises or requirements are necessary. Well, maybe, if you agree to meet, could you bring a heavy monsoon? The kind with the thick creamy middle and the super salty aftertaste? Thank you, you know, for at least pretending to listen. (You’ve been quite quiet, not one eruption. It is appreciated.)
