Talk Vomit

By Susan L. Lin

The Human Animal is addicted to YouTube. 

She’s glimpsed the same ad at least ten times today but she’s still not sure why they’re trying to sell. The short video kicks off with a monkey on roller skates licking what looks like a rocky road ice cream cone while careening down a hilly suburban neighborhood street. It’s an infinitely more fascinating setup than any of the fancy cooking videos she watches on a daily basis, recipes she will never follow using expensive ingredients she will never buy or consume voluntarily. And yet she’s been conditioned to automatically click the SKIP AD button as soon as it appears on her screen. Despite her curiosity about what happens to this dairy-loving primate, despite her desire to hear what it has to tell her, she can’t stop herself from clicking that stupid button. She doesn’t realize until it’s too late, and she is again watching yet another home cook make their version of cocktail shrimp or clams casino. By then it’s too late. She can’t go back to watch the full ad instead. 

In desperation, she types the keywords “monkey ice cream roller skates what happens why” into the search bar above, but none of the results are relevant to her particular question. She sees other monkeys eating ice cream straight out of the carton. She sees an ice cream birthday cake shaped like a roller skate. She sees a monkey pushing another human animal downhill on roller skates. But she cannot find her monkey. She is worried she might never uncover its uncertain fate and learn its unique story. Next time she will be prepared, she thinks. She will see that monkey and her brain will tell her not to hit that tempting button just yet. But time and time again she fails to override her acquired behavior. And so she sits on her hands as the WATCH LATER playlist scrolls. She decides resolutely to watch every single ad until she finally finds out what happens to the monkey, and why.