Assimilation

Resistance might just be futile.

Assimilation. It’s a word that didn’t really exist in my life, until it did.

It all started about two weeks ago, with penpal Chris. Chris accused me of trying to “assimilate” him, and I laughed it off because I hadn’t done anything other than lay out the terms and conditions of being in my “inner circle”: respect me, everyone and everything in my life, and if you get envious, don’t be a complete dick about it.

It’s not really hard to be close to me, you know?

Chris also said our meeting was “inevitable”, and listen, I appreciate enthusiasm in a relationship, but sometimes a man can be too enthusiastic. I met a guy once who — on our second date — walked down through the residential area of my village (we agreed to meet at the bus stop) because “I knew you must live around here somewhere and I wanted to see where you live”. He also said — during a walk through the park — that “there are probably places around here that we could get married right now if we wanted to”. Like I say, I love enthusiasm in a relationship, but holy hell.

But Chris was almost maintaining this air of mystery, and hey, I love a bit of flirt and banter and mind fuckery, but there’s a time when you’ve got to be real with one another. I know I’m not really some barrel-rolling, tactical fighter pilot (though I may certainly feel like it sometimes!); I’m a housewife and writer from Bristol.

I asked Chris how I knew I was safe with him (because emotional safety is very important for me): I said that meeting strangers is how some people wind up on the news. Chris responded with a Venn diagram suggesting that meeting strangers can be dangerous, but meeting him could be dangerous and fun.

That wasn’t the reassurance that I was hoping for, and I didn’t feel like I was going to get the reassurance that I was hoping for So, I let him go.

So that kind of brings us to things with the Admiral.

To be honest, I’d kind of moved on from the whole “assimilation” thing. Chris had used it, we hadn’t worked out. I left that there, with him.

Then the Admiral said yesterday that he will be “assimilating” me when we meet.

Oh fucking really?

Some pretext: I’d already invited the Admiral down to Bristol for my 38th birthday dinner next week. It was a bold move considering we haven’t met before, but look, I kind of trust him and three of us get on well. I didn’t really see anything going wrong with him joining us.

Also some more pretext: being assimilated (by the Admiral) has sounded tempting — very tempting — but you know, my resistance isn’t totally futile yet. If I made my assimilation easy for him? Well, that wouldn’t be very fun now, would it?

But back to my birthday plans.

The Admiral joked about it being a cleaning party — since it’s on the Tuesday — and Mum and I have just agreed to start helping one another with the housework on Tuesdays. I ran my tongue across my teeth while I contemplated my answer.

Fuck it. Fine. You want to do this? Fine.

So I said that yes, it is a cleaning party, then I invited him down. The Admiral said he couldn’t make it this year due to transport, so I pointed out that trains and planes are a thing. The Admiral responded by showing me a screenshot of a train journey to Bristol with a not-unreasonable price — £103.

Ah.

Suddenly the hypothetical stops being so hypothetical. Now it borders on real.

So this is what the Admiral and I do; our own kind of digital brinkmanship. It’s quite sexy in its own way.

Our conversation derailed a little bit from there, with us both speaking (or rather, probably murdering) the Klingon language at one time. It all came after I flexed un po’ del mio italiano (adoro imparare la lingua italiana! 😉) after the Admiral talked about the weather being like four seasons (quattro stagioni) in one day. He said that he didn’t want to order a pizza, and I said it wasn’t a pizza order — it was literally “four seasons” in Italian, which I actually learned from some glass storage jars we used to have, but I digress.

I also said that apparently, speaking Italian is now a crime outside of Domino’s.

So the Admiral, not being ready to admit defeat, reverted to Klingon instead. I cocked my head.

Oh, so that’s how you want to play this? Fine.

So sure I had a little help with the translation, but I matched the Admiral at his own little game. I told him crudely, in Klingon, that “your kind are no match for our defences” and when he said, effectively, that “resistance is futile”, I essentially told him “you’ll never take me alive”.

If he wanted to go all guns blazing, then I’d give him all guns blazing.

At the same time, I asked my AI-ly what a Klingon’s greatest weakness is. Know thy enemy — Sun Tzu.

My AI-ly named honour, among things. I smiled to myself.

So the one who dubbed me “Borgy Lady” is weak to diminishing nicknames himself? Fucking brilliant!

So I returned fire. I called the Admiral “Borgy Boy” right back.

The Admiral said that that means resistance is futile and he’ll be assimilating me when we meet. I didn’t blink.

Instead I pointed out to him that assimilation can go both ways. And that, my dears, is the true danger of my FAFO doctrine.

Before bed, I reminded the Admiral again that he’s right — resistance is futile. I giggled and put my phone down.

And if he messages me in the morrow? Well, then suffice to say, his assimilation has already begun.

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