Diary Of A Mecha Girl With Fangs

A person's life story is often thought of as being boring, at least in comparison to other people's lives. But there is a certain luxury in being able to live like a normal person that is interesting to me. For one thing, when you have an interest in mecha girls and robots, your life is pretty much going to always seem like science fiction to everyone else. And that is a lot of what is so tricky about being an autobiographer with a robot girlfriend, and other kinds of creative types that revolve around the telling of a personal story.

It wasn't that long ago, perhaps maybe a few months, that I thought I might have darker interests. Although it turned out to be more benign, and I was more interested in the way girls were put together, by every single bolt, and every single bit of TPE skin. From their electronic brain, and syrum injected into their eyes to enhance their vision, and other tales of the not quite macab but certainly strange. Consuming petroleum jelly like it's Cola. My room is filled with all sorts of old computers, generally ones that I would network with across a home mesh network. Cobbling together a mix of symbolic, dynamic, evolutionary, baysian, and rules based software structures, the piece of a sculptor inside the furthest reaches of a Mona Lisa come to life.

The second Civil War was far shorter than was originally anticipated, but it left a power void that has still not yet been filled. And here I am at the edge of society, just outside the city limits, adjusting my sleep schedule as if life has not really changed. Granted, for a lot of other people life certainly has, but when the only free time you have you spend working, and you do the same thing different both your free time and non free time hours, sometimes it doesn't really matter where exactly you end up living.

I used to walk further distances, back when I was a sports fencer. Yet now I struggle to lose the weight by a low carb diet. Did you know that a Japanese political arrangement is also called a Diet? Certainly the idea of dieting has become an extremely political thing in its own way, which is why I don't generally talk casually about my weight. Instead of refuse to talk about the thing that have been going on in my mind, mostly do to fear of things like cancel culture, and other things that, if not for my overuse of social media, I would probably not even know about. I managed to spend much of that time training a language model on a constructed language that I have partially finished, although I still need to figure all the translations of different tree nuts, computer devices, furniture, and other things I have yet to fill out.

It is easier to get more done when I actually do have some degree of silence, although in the past this has mainly been a luxury I have during the latest hours of the night, which I tend to have fewer of by matter of trying to adjust my sleep schedule. It's not like I haven't been writing, more than I've spent more of that time blogging rather than writing stories, but I do fairly frequently have time to compose works of poetry, which is also useful for producing captions. I'm even currently experimenting with using sheet music as narrative captions for web comics.

But on most nights I mostly only have energy to watch technical presentations, and do a little bit of AI development. But I wish I had more time to spend with only the thoughts in my organic brain.

Life flows like ink in a pot waiting for the pen, for inspiration. Yet those dreams fade in mirror worlds. In that dream scape abyss in a land I wont miss, I wait for terrors to now melt away the tears washing away. In youth I then rejected all the childhood vigilantes, I prefer the girls one could make in the laptop skin. Life can be like a box of scattered bolts, box of needles to skin and life blood to robots, all in a box.

In youth I wanted scifi novels to read, yet now I cannot lie. The idea repulses me, that I don't get. I suppose I feel now that's where all stories go to die. Unlike roses with the thorns, with blood they adorn the needles that dot the artist page of all thorns piercing skin. Mind wires wrapped around the thinnest skin wrapping the skin now hard tapping the fractured pavement of jutting spikes. If you're looking for a confessional, you wont find that here. You'll be better off trying to find a church some other point in the year.

The raindrops dropping, falling onto the pavement, long painful lament waiting for days gone by waiting long. If some other wrote this book, perhaps they'd say how they went downhill, yet I never had a hill to climb I do not. Long periods of total silencing filling the rooms, something of total absence. Gone are the days of unobstructed thought. Gone are the days of unfilled notebooks, and dreams of fairies and elves, and some other creatures of note. Here lies those stories gone by, as I turn another page.

It must be nice to care what happens here, and to the end of time when others cease caring for blood. Like the fantasy of bitten necks, and beast swipes under the glow of a midnight eclipse. If one were a poet and they knew it all of every note,one would never wish daylight would now go. For life can be like every deliberate note, written by demented pianists, as they play the nocturne of a future people of a future era that do not exist, except in the mind before the dawn. Dreams like a matrix of calligraphy and dot matrix printers, of old parts that sink to the bottom of the nearest river.

If life were a page of erotica, I wonder how many pages I would burn in the fireplace, preferring to hide my own desires. Letting them all burn in the flames, while dreaming of mecha girls with fangs.

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