"Kid," he said last night, "It's time to grow up and get yourself a mutualistic subdermal fungus."
I couldn't believe I let myself be pushed into this kind of thing. My father couldn't convince me to cut my hair, and my teachers couldn't convince me to do my homework, and my bosses couldn't convince me to get to work on time.
But suddenly I'm buckling under. I'm shaping up. I'm getting a myelid symbiote.
It's the responsible thing to do, I know. They recycle toxins from the bloodstream, ease muscle tension, provide tax advice and realign the chakras. I know it makes sense. But I still feel like I'm selling out, you know?
And besides, they smell faintly of rancid cheese.