CW: violence, eating disorder

I’d like to gag one someday and find out.

It can’t be that hard, really. They’re supposed to be nice, right? Docile? Next time I see one (probably doing something ethereal and innocuous, like planting lilies) I’ll pull it by the hair into my house, tell my mom they’re a friend from school. I’d tie them up in my bedroom, measure the wrists, measure the ankles, measure the waist a few times, just to make sure I did it right. I’ll look up the stats to see if it’s an extra small or just a regular small or, even worse, a Brandy Melville one-size-fits-all. I’ll weigh it (first I’ll have to cut the wings off), and I’ll see if the halo has a lightening effect. I’ll let it UberEats anything it wants, just to see what it orders. It won’t be McDonald’s, that’s for sure. So Panera Bread? Starbucks? Or will it refuse altogether? If it does, I’ll order it what I normally get—maybe a bit more—and make it eat the whole thing. Weigh it again the next day. Any change? And of course photos. I’ll definitely take photos. Start it an Instagram account—username: “uriel_descended” and make sure to have lots of good causes linked in the bio—for authenticity. I’ll have to take it outside during golden hour—no wings so I won’t have to worry about it flying away—and I’ll do a photoshoot, tell it to smize like its life depends on it (because it does).

And then, after all my research is done, and I’ve had it order clothes and make meal plans and at-home exercise plans, I’ll replace it. I’ll sew its wings on my back, eat the clouds that it eats (turns out they eat clouds), and I’ll order the same makeup that it does (Glossier and Milk, but I could’ve guessed that), and then I’ll learn a thing or two. I’ll shrink and shrink and take that halo and start to float. I’ll wear Fabletics and leave it all my hoodies and sweatpants. I’ll see if I can get that Stockholm Syndrome thing to happen, and then I’ll send it off to school to sit on the bleachers while everybody else plays football. I’ll be on the roof of my house, smiling, waist exactly 26 inches around, wings weighing .5 pounds, and halo letting me float up and up into the clouds that I’ll sip on and up and up until I’m at heaven’s gates. I’ll swipe its ID card and use its SSN, and then I’ll be Uriel.

But until then, I’ll keep counting calories, and, of course, I’ll keep an eye out.