Once upon a time, as a spiritual being superior to man in power and
intelligence, it did not bother me that I was in the lowest rank in the
celestial hierarchy. As an attendant spirit, guardian of a few hundred beings, I wore a white-robed winged figure of human form. I bore fine art full of messages to worldlings, and occasionally served as a backer of theatrical ventures. Then I transubstantiated. And we're not just talking wing color here. No, it was a significant alteration, a relatively permanent change in hereditary material involving physical changes in chromosome relations or at least a biochemical change in the codons that made up my genes (yes, even angels have genes).

It happened when another angel leaned over my shoulder, in his hand a sword of gold. From high upon a painted wall, we tumbled to a garden below. They offered a pill. I accepted and watched the white doves go. The music became my master and their lies made me mad. A few thousand Negra Modelos later, my only wings were those of the white Jaguar driven (but not owned by) one of my charges. Before I knew it, I was she-a woman who happens to own, but never wears a purple silk robe. Since it does bother me to be trapped among the lower echelons of under-paid do-gooders ensnarled in the postmodern Americas, I seek to restore my wings, not to mention the ideal weight for my demographics through other advances in biochemistry. Yes, after reflecting upon my human condition, it appears that the best way to mitigate my mutation is to discover and compliantly consume the right blend of polypharmacological substances made by innovation-driven corporations like Lilly. That, latex-free condoms, and occasionally being taken to a see a show are the hope and doom of one morphed messenger.