Bizarros, pt. 4

I used to think bizarros were pretty great. Who wouldn't? A thing so rare, so exotic, a faint glitch in the matrix, one can only be mirthful at such a sighting. Even the bizarro jerry gave me some glee. They are joyful discoveries - from a distance. When they invade your life, bizarros become a twisted, hellish anomaly.

I see these people several times daily. Bizarro Jerry greets me every morning on my way out the door. In Chinese class, I can expect to see the chubby version of that subbie who looked like Alex Ivanova. If there's a party, fake Ravi Solter will be there. My heart sinks deep into my guts when I catch the gaze of bizarro Cordelia. My RA even bears an uncanny resemblance to my Michele, my Mexican ex-lover. These creatures are so numerous that one can even find bizarro versions of other students right here on the campus: At breakfast, I might spy the notorious facsimile of my neighbor Sandrine.

What used to invite mirth now only fills me with terror. My life is sprinkled with the specters of my past. I look at them, debauched copies of my old friends, and I see mediocrity at its worst. Has God simply run out of ideas? Can he not conjure any more new faces? Or do the heavens conspire something larger with these hideous knockoffs?

Whatever the master plan, it does not alter the terminal nature of bizarros. I can never really know these people. They are shadowy outlines, turgid myths of other people. There is simply no room in any history book for one more Jerry, another Ivar. It is as simple as that.