Would you have sex with yourself? the paper wants to know
by John O’Neill
I have spent innumerable hours laying in bed, standing at Mugzs, sitting on the subway or drawing in class thinking, “My God, if only there were more people exactly like me.”
Well, with the frequent nature of substantial scientific advancements, maybe this could be more than a mere pipe dream. What an idea. Another John O’Neill! An exact replica of this charming bard. As a self-declared sage and prophet, I imagine that doubling (dare I even fathom tripling or quadrupling one day) my presence would surely stand to benefit the world community. More drawings, more sarcastic comments, more disappointed women, and, of course, more borderline psychotic joking scenarios and ramblings. People often claim that the world is reaching the point of overpopulation, but is it over-population or merely the fact that we aren’t populating our globe with clones of our finest citizens?
There are a handful of people who seem to genuinely enjoy my presence, while most think of me as a sort of odd wallpaper or that kid who talks a lot about cities. Life can be quite lonely at times, but if I only had a clone with my same exact passions for living and learning, then I could and would all too happily separate from the herds of ignorami and retreat to my lair for evenings of beer and conversation with myself, and perhaps one or two others friends (their clones would be welcome as well). I could sit on my roof with the clone and complain about the world and all the people in my life and he too could add satisfying and hilarious criticisms. It would be a pity-party of the ages! And to think, all of those dismal weekend nights where my overnight partner is all too often my hand, now I would have my clone. Yes I said it! If I had a clone, I might as well have sex with the clone, and what wild sex it would be! Being an exact replica of myself, surely we could give each other valuable criticisms and insights. Also, I’ve always wondered what my back looks like.
Instead of Saturday morning breakfasts alone at Roma, we could eat together, but get different dishes so we could try each others food. I’ve never tried their Bolivian lunch, out of fear of the cost, but if my clone were to order it then I could certainly sneak a free sample. Subway rides to work would be transformed from my reading hour to a time of intense and passionate conversation with my literal intellectual equal. Instead of writing my thesis or any of the final papers that I have been sentenced to, my clone could attend to them while I scanned OkCupid for prospective dates. Oh the joy if I were to have a clone. Instead of going on dates and finding immediate disappointment upon seeing the portlier than expected date, my clone could serve as the scout. Oh and if we ever got so lucky again as to find girlfriends, then we could always trade when we so felt. And lest we forget, my clone could also serve as unemployment insurance, washing dishes in Brooklyn while I sat at home and looked for self-described suitable office jobs for myself. Sharing a bed means half price on rent!
The clone would indeed be the accessory of a lifetime. It would provide me with so much new stuff to talk about and double my artistic output. Parties could be devoted to the praise of me and the other me, as the two of us charmed attendees with tales of clonehood and clonery.
But to think, twice the trouble. I already find myself in a suitable number of sticky situations. Having another me would likely just lead to twice the problems and stress. My wiseass clone would feel the liberty to mouth off to people in bars and on the bus, but it’s a fifty-fifty shot to see who winds up being the victim of his often drunken foolishness. My clone would probably be a selfish ass, not unlike myself, living in a tiny New York apartment with just one bathroom. And he’d probably hog the shower at the moment when I most needed to defecate.
With my four years at Fordham nearing culmination, I imagine it’s probably a far better thing for the community that there was just one of me. A clone would be nice, but eventually he’d become the friend I hung out with too often and then stopped texting or calling. Eventually my clone would just become another annoying social headache and a bitter memory. The fear of running into him would simply be too much. I can just picture him/me standing at the West 4th Street platform one day. We would make eye contact, my stomach would sink, and I would sprint to the opposite level and think “Jeez, I forgot about that asshole.” Rest in Peace, Clone (Clo’Neill).