Simply Pace

Old And Worn Clogs

I had considered getting a routing application, but the mobile data was almost out. There was no inter web signal, so I had to stay and sit and try not to shout. The wait was until about 4:25. How much longer till the bus?

After finally getting on the correct bus, I got to the coffee shop I was wanting to go to. The coffee shop was filled with chilled, enough to make anyone not able to concentrate. The concentration was on and off constantly, and the line for me to get my coffee was as long as you could imagine. I have twenty eight cents left on my card, and only have about four hours and seven minutes left on the laptop. Although technically the laptop would only really run for three of those, and seems to shut down at about one hour and thirty minutes. I found this out accidentally a few days ago.

I settle down and wait for my White Chocolate drink.

The day was a weird day for me. As it turns out, you can't even withdraw plasma in a donation center if you live in a motel room. You might as well be homeless, because they treat living in a motel the same way.

We've been living in the hotel for the past few months, with no practical way of gaining gainful employment. The closest place I could find any sort of occupation is all the way in the Weed district, where I used to occasionally purchase joints. Although not the most way can smoke is ground tea leaves and curry powder. This caused a slight curry powder stain on my black sweater, which never seems to come out because my room mate refuses to purchase detergent. The most she ever bought was bar soup.

So here we our we no way of getting money.

Technically not homeless, considered homeless.

I had a friend who had blond hair and a pair of glasses. We called her Emma. She worked at the bowling alley on the night shift with low self esteem, although in person she always carried herself as above everyone else.

For a girl with a shoe fetish, she should be all the rage right? She swap out bowling shoes left and right. One could picture Emma in bowling shoes bending over for a school paddling in a 1950's skirt in the school's principle's office, depending on if that was the time you were in school. But I wasn't of course, it was the late two thousand seventies. But Tennessee was strangely non progressive. An era where most people can't even afford a good laptop was extremely common.

The bowling alley had just came out with bowling bowl renting machines, reducing most of the work load to primary renting the shoes. Emma would recall to me how she wondered how much longer it would take for them to come out with vending machines for shoes. So there was a certain period of time when she could see pretty boys and girls renting bowling shoes in and out of the bowling alley on drunken benders. Eventually it got irritating when people started joking about their bowling alley team names.

People would complain about the cheese on the bowling alley pizza not being to their taste. For Emma, her life was ground and mixed with body evaporation fluid into a paste. "It's just the Pizza we always have." she said.

But on school days she presented a different front.

She wanted to show the world something different.

At school she would bring the hottest and latest cell phone, were the hottest and latest in teen shoes that were often attractive in a good bad sort of way. She could slip in and out of them in her bare feet, buckle the clogs, and come to skill wearing the frilliest of blue jeans.

At lunch hours she would take her cell phone, play the latest in fake virtual reality games with it, and then quickly put it back when they see a teacher coming. This school was a few states over.

Now hear I am contemplating bowling alley work myself.

I hope I don't become like Emma dunking bowling bowls.

We were comparing tanning styles between pink and brown. I had never thought of my tanning tendency up to that point, I simply listened in my moment of mental melt, feeling like I rolled a joint. Yet it was a straight stone. The time between the bus arriving and not was twenty five more minutes, just after a conversation about humans breeding with chimps during WWII experimentations.

I've tended to be a visual thinker, when I wasn't being a stinker. Me mind liked to tinker with all sorts of visual impulses, imagining myself doing said experimentation while tanning in a tanning bed. Wanting to create people that can grant me wishes, instead like the ones in real life my papers are burned in the crematoriums of the grim history of the the previous wars. I found that I saw Nazi's intruding into my personal life, and I my mind would became fuzzy from all the sensations coming out me once about the tragic lost of Ann Frank.

There is something about obscure punning, where it leaves the human mind running. Running, being at risk of overheating, the test of comprehension given an f minus for trying.

Well at the end of the trip, my mind kept going.

But my mind couldn't keep up with my wakefulness, and found my mind beginning to act independently of my body.

I simply couldn't move a muscle.

The human mind is a funny thing, being scalped by the lasers of ancient knowledge, or preferring more practical skill sets. I feel that every day of my life is trying to make a bet, trying to find a compromise in the false dichotomy. The dichotomy of equally intelligent modes of thought.

In the mind it tries to visualize the dichotomy, attempting to try to understand them both. The inner wasteland of ancient knowledge colliding with the real word of slap happy word play. "The bus is coming." I said, feeling fuzzy brained.

I wished for my day to be not profane.

To not rationalize in my views, the irreconcilable.

To be an information absorber, one can read a few pages, and infer the rest of the story through points of connection. Like in sculpting, a sufficiently trained person can create a face in days. My life on little information from the real world, when I form a mental rural reality. In this reality I see a world where time has stood still, and eternal youth in mind is regained.

Yet today is a day of lack of absorption of anything. I had just had my third breakdown of any, shining my misery into a new penny. My own joy lost in a mental fog. I fantasize of women in clogs, while wondering if it's not myself jealous of their physical beauty of not their attractiveness. But the nuance is in the details, and trans women can have both. The only reason I don't wear what I want, is due to lack of money. Or I would go to Federal Way looking like a honey. I would go out all proud of how I like, and yet I've never been one to express such. I suppose my own issues stem from my visceral reaction to certain people, to certain women, to certain kinds of beauty that I find more cute or beautiful than my own.

They said I looked like my sister, and yet now I look like dirt. One your someone like me on food stamps, you want to be payed for squirts. That way one can purchase themselves frilly tee shirts. But this is a story about the visceral reactions in their purest forms, like the hidden anxiety of introverts.

The story of the raggedy tee shirt.

Sometimes as artists, one has self-doubt. Part of it censoring the self, and the other parts are to complicated to mention. It leads to ones to be inquisitive about the nature of doubt and self-esteem among urbanites and other with freedom--freedom at the cost of thousands of dollars.

I once had technology, including some game systems. Yet over time I started making my own games, and started weening off of them by the month. It was a time when I still lived in a hometown where people still fought over the value of keeping horses and ponies, they eventually ended with one guy saying "fuck this, I'm keeping some horses anyway. Screw you guys." I lived in a world of many lies, and many unacknowledged truths about my life.

I suppose that's why I never found a wife.

This tee shirt is worn old and thin, sours. My memories of earlier times sometimes distort beyond recognition. And at other times meltdowns complete and partial. The story of my life.

The old and worn tee shirt.

The old and worn clogs.

Almost Bed Friends

We were almost best friends, when me and him met with his ex the last of times. Emma had grown a touch taller, and dressed like she could smash someone's balls. Uncharacteristic, for the potato shoe girl.

They had broken up a night prior, and he had grown closer to me at the time. The turn of my life was edging closer, closer, and closer. He would have liked to me that turn of the century, as I moved forward into a new life of my own. He had seemed to be becoming scarcer and scarcer mentally, as he stroked my hair gently. The man whom I called sir black hair gently. Bentley is what I shall call him, for sake of completion of my old life. My old story.

Bentley had spent all night contemplating the meaning of our own relationship, and the book store visit left me thinking about Emma wondering what it was that made her turn away. It was a small town, a small life, a small story. And years later as I remember I see his face with mouth restraints opening, smiling wide with an open grill with sharpened teeth. "Hello, I'm Bentley."

This is my memory of a blond girl.

Who broke up with Bentley

I had met with Bentley the following day, where I would have preferred to go on my merry way. But he wanted to kick me in my cherries in Emma's way. He said that she said she didn't want to date me. She said that I wasn't her type. She found that my personality type was tripe.

It was a cold and rainy afternoon day, when we sat in the car. I sat beside Bentley having nothing else to say. Whatever it was I said I remember only faintly, as I said it so daintily. So faintly into a coming night. That I hope for the best for her, yet he didn't understand the ultimate meaning of her passive aggressiveness to me. That I would never think of blonds in the same way again.

Here lies Bentley.

Here lies my old life.

The life of the male life.

It was small, dark, and had two sticks coming out of its head. It crawled about, crawling what seemed to be an alien surface of large stones. It had find the last scraps of food. The cockroach had never been afraid of finding a man before, until it came across her black clogs.

The landscape upon the gravel was covered in the soot of fog. All at once the roach became hotter and hotter, gradually building ups its self-esteem to meet the flaming abyss to check for survivors. It had met with the fire before now, and previously it had been afraid of dying. If it were to say he never feared anything, it would be lying. At least in this small area most of its kin were burned to dust, smelling of ... well ... burnt cockroach under a lamp light.

For the coming night the roach encroached.

For the coming night the roach explored ruins of its countrymen.

STOMP! Down went a leather toed wooden soled clog. Me and my friend met with our friend Sash for the last time. Born with a male name, she was considered somewhat of a tomboy in a skirt. I never flirted with her when I was young, but we used to exchange ghost stories of men with chainsaws in the basement. The basement I would often avoid sleeping in even though nobody was there.

And maybe that was the problem.

I only had myself.

I had grown accustomed to loving red heads and Brunettes. I had always thought of them as good story tellers. The thing about first impressions about people, sometimes they effect the very idea of what you have about some people. In this guy I associated tomboyish girls with good storytellers.

It's weird looking back on it, as I know now that isn't necessarily the case. But when you are young and stupid you came to weird conclusions sometimes.

You know what they say about jump ropes? It makes you jump to conclusions.

Unfortunately I didn't want to fall on a cockroach.

When they said you'd eventually forget about your issues in high school, somebody lied. When they said all your concerns about what happened in your life, they instead began to solidify. The garden is filled with dead weeds, and flowers under the awning. Rain drops have given way to Summer's heat.

Back in NashChat, while it was hot, you would still get air conditioning. Here it's considered following codes to get a fan in your room. But the room continued to remain at ninety degrees inside. Keep in mind this is Tacoma, where the temperature is consistently colder, with the warmest weather being in the fifties at early times of the year. My room mate said it is an unusual year. But it's peculiarity, that I don't want to hear. I want to hear nothing but sunshine and skull-petunias. Over the months we've been here, we never had to worry about a job. But we hadn't had the ONLINE world until recently when they currently switched networks.

In earlier times I would learn the process of encryption. I would learn how to break the same encryption. But now I can't onion anything, and TOR hasn't been working even when the INTERNET started too. So everything was left to largely sitting around being bored.

The room is hot, the hottest it's ever been. I went over to touch the bathtub, feeling it all over again. A plastic bathtub despite a marble floor, the heat all over the room leaves you marbling like a big juicy steak. Except this steak is filled with gristle and would ultimately taste like bad pork chops. We got some marsh mellows today. They taste sweet enough.

I feel around my scruffy neck.

Still no HRT yet. Still no life. But insurance, as late as the answer was, still managed to get it on time for the rest of tomorrow. I'm trying to get my room mate to get on the insurance, but she hasn't been motivated for anything lately. She mostly sleep all afternoon beginning at 3:00 A.M.

I want to work at the bowling alley, but every time I go anywhere I seem to have mental breakdowns. Large crowds seem to negatively effect me, and I'd want to board an escape capsule out of the area. But they don't construct escape capsules for Earth bound objects.

My mind is a spaceship.

I feel like I'm going into mental overdrive.

The spaceship stops, I can relax again.

The car horn beeped while the old cat lady slept. She slept in her bed, and there she wept. She wept for the old life, when she could regain eternal youth. She wept for the next generation, that lives without the rural life. In her childhood she sees an old world where the horse carts roll along the dirt roads, and where guillotines are put up in the town square along with the pillories. But this isn't that era. The era is the present day of two minutes in the future.

The cat lady will exit her motel room, following along my lead, functioning as a kind of body guard. She will go along the bus routes with me, wielding a giant cane. She would use the mutual fight law to her advantage, having the ability to wield weapons as a non human as it only applies to mankind. She will storm at them breaking jaws, and acting like a lowbrow cat.

But mostly likely this wont happen. I think in reality it's fair to assume that most people are intelligent people. And that most people won't just pick fights at the drop of a hat. This may be to generous a thinking, but one can only hope. I don't understand why there is such a law, it sounds archaic.

But according to a friend this was what they used at pride events. It still sounds like an extremely unintelligent way of solving problems.

Then again I was never a fighter.

The cat lady stays by my beside, watching old movies revolving around ladies in their wooden shoes. She doesn't understand the appeal like I do, and simply rolls her eyes as the pictures move on the screen.

It's about the only time I ever watch motion pictures, with the exception on the vacuum tube tops--or they seem like it being so heavy to carry. The lighter models are outside of my price range.

The motion picture comes to a close, the credits roll. My room mate is out and about finding work. I still find kind of weird masturbating in a motel room, but it's not like anyone is watching. The next objective for the evening is bring new sketches of women to completion. That's completed the drawings mind you, although bringing them to completion is nice as well.

The old nursery rhymes in the story book of the old cat lady, sings tales of an older more ideal time.

As ideal as stuffing trans women in the pillory.

The two boards locked tight.

The Almost Last Dance Of Emma

The thing about Emma, is we shared some interests together. Looking back on it, I wasn't sure if the reason she dumped me by proxy through Bentley, is because she considered me one of the girls.

I had never been officially out up to that point, although Bentley had a strange attraction to me for some reason, and would sometimes make remarks about how he wanted to have my babies. That was Bentley, that was my life. His girlfriend he had dated before Emma that remained friends with him up to that point, had suddenly stopped visiting. He was unsure of how to deal with his own feelings for me, and would have a friend court me instead.

He could never get the thought of me outside his head. But he had gradually began to make me feel uncomfortable, and so we stopped seeing each other for three months. Over that time I had time to think about what it was that bugged me about Emma who dunked bowling balls.

We had shared an interest an interest in a virtual reality game. We would sometimes connect together using headset with connected wires so as to make sure we were able to hear each other. There was a Japanese Role Playing game we used to play, that one could interest in partial real time, and would exchange our opinions about the game's subject matter, including our opinions on the shipping war. We would exchange these opinions in the bus.

I thought at the very least we could be friends.

But over the last few months she began to change for the worst. She became increasingly began to dress entirely in black dresses, and how she had began seeing either me and Bentley less and less.

Bentley called her one evening.

We found out she tried to commit suicide.

Over time she became less and less interested in with either of us. She had commented on how I seem to just cling to Bentley, and how Bentley seemed to take a liking to me. How he seemed to take a liking to anybody.

It was not long after they broke up.

Now hear I am waiting to sleep in my motel room. I am left wondering what to do with my life.

"What the first thing when you think of Emma." Bentley said, smoking a roll your own cigar. He is hanging out in the shadows, while we sit at a local Indian diner dive. He orders a dark brew.

"That girl in black that deceived me." I said, requesting a cigar. "I'm not sure I'll think of blonds in the same way again. Maybe it will fade, but now I'm left--"

"Think nothing of it Pace." he said, then put out his cigar. "I have a present for you, it was expensive. But I thought it was worth it. Have you ever had a magic orb?"

"I've seen them before but not had one."

"They say they can predict the future."

"What will you use it for?"

"To get my first girlfriend back, screw Emma."

"Indeed, screw Emma."

We left the diner an hour after closing, being allowed to bring our food with us. We thanked the chef with his service with tips. We exchanged words together from months to month. Eventually I never saw Bentley again.

I moved out of state never to return. The Mothering Kind

I was ready to move out of NashChat for various reasons, but there was once major reason I left. But I'd prefer to keep that to myself.

The cell phone was beginning to run out of batteries, and I wasn't sure whether I was ready yet to go to bed. I had a long history of insomnia due to PTSD, and I had been off my sleep medication over the past two months. The acid medication had run out as well, so I was dealing with the same old night terrors I had been since before I had moved to the Seatak area.

The night was quiet. You hardly ever get this kind of quiet in the suburban area between Seattle and Tacoma. It was a rough start getting used to a new culture, and I would still say that if I know they are born here I was per say actually due to personal business with them. It isn't the regular people, but some of the people that work in the super markets. Anyone who knows me know when I make a compliment, I sincerely mean it as a complement. But some clerks don't seem to understand that fact, and that I mean something other than saying I like the flower in their hair. They must think I will take them to my lair.

I'm not sure why the only super market here are this way, the bus lines were this way as well. But there is a difference between privacy and just being a dick weed. You would think if I'm speaking to a friend, it would be implicit I was talking to my friend and not the entire bus. No I don't care that you aren't suppose to talk on the bus, it's not like I speak loud enough for that to make a sufficient difference in someone's life. In a world where you can get deals for monthly passes, you still have to deal with people that act like they are queen bitches.

There I said it.

I'm a transplant.

So this transplant will be going to Olympia. The land of flying blimps, powered by surveillance camera taking energy from those they spy on. That's the only explanation for the security cameras.

I'm not sure how big the crowd is going to be. I've never been one for very large crowds of people. The thing about crowds is I have an inability to adjust with crowds. If anyone should be complaining about privacy it is me. I am wearing a pair of brown suede clogs and a baby blue tee shirt, and a baby blue headband. I have my hair kept in a ponytail, and spend most of my days smoking cigars. In all my experience in groups of people that look at you weirdly for smoking, it seems to be religious people. I suppose that's why I'm glad I belong to The Satanic Temple. So you might be wondering, why are you wearing that as a Satanist.

Well fuck you, that's why.

The thing about The Satanic Temple, is they are a tongue in cheek group of Satanists that are actually Atheists. We tried doing the "separate of church and state" attack plan, but some religious groups had started calling us an atheist troll group or even a fake religion, apparently. Although as someone who questions anything I hear, you never knew if they are telling the truth.

I sit in my booth, waiting for the morning to come.

Early dawn light eases in.

We never got to go to Olympia.

It was one of those things how one can't go to sleep without thinking of how they brand themselves on the net.

One might have a fetish for certain objects of affection, whether they be shoes or shirts of name brands. You can't explicitly refer to those brands by name due to the risk of lawsuits, and yet as one with a disability one might indulge in that object of desire with nothing else to do with their life other than rot inside the space of their motel room. I for one have such affections.

I never could explain why I hate such interest in shoes, other I blame it partially on the fact that I had grown up with many girls in my high school wearing them. There was the curse of the fact that despite the clogs being ugly, some of the most beautiful girls you will find wear them all of the time in those years. And yet such footwear over time became the object of hate fucking. Many girls one might know tended to also be preppy, indulging in some of the latest fashions. The shoes would remind me of times I told my room mate about in my school years that made her peg me as a nerd. The cheerleaders consider me the token nerd, even though I was certainly not the least attractive of them. And yet some of the girls would make sex jokes at my expense.

On some level I trusted that Emma wouldn't be this way.

I attached some form of trust between me and her implicitly that we could be friends. Although I was never one to actually ask anyone out, I figured she wouldn't reject me because of the same level of bitchiness other girls did.

Instead, she rejected me because she read me all right.

She read me as another girl.

And yet not I indulge myself in the pleasure of footwear, I indulge in the brown ugly clogs that formed the nostalgia of childhood. While the desire for other shoes came and went, that one remained.

And yet I picture Emma no longer being what I imagined.

I pictured Emma wearing a long flowing black dress. There was a certain kind of divergence between the Emma I knew in high school and the Emma that continue to remain in my mind. I wanted to turn my life around, and unwind the clock of time. I wanted to date other girls, and spend no time doing nothing. Among other trans girls I knew they had dated and gotten cisgendered girls pregnant. And yet for me I remained forever alone in my own misery.

To be alone forever.

Partially from my own choice. I tried to move on from the Emma I imagined, and her memory effected the expectations I had for other blond women. And how I expected them to be conniving and bitchy

I suppose that's why I never dated.

What does this have to do with branding? Well I find that despite my interests I have no more energy to risk the risk some writers take, and set forth on a journey of using their favorite brands.

I instead rot in the sands. The sands of my personal sand bed. Since there was no market for them, I found a new hope.

And I could cry my own tears in grainy pillows.

The pillows of my own sorrows.

I can't sleep because of the snoring. I can't sleep because I don't want to sleep. I don't want to sleep because of my night mares, and yet at times I am told I bring out the mother in even the most non romantic.

I'm not sure what it is about me, it's not like I want to be taken care of. I simply wants to be me, myself, and only myself. And yet once upon a time in a memory far away, where the little elves go to play, there was that little elf nobody was sure how to feel about. Among her room mates, many felt that she was incapable of anything. Some of them, as well intentioned as it was, wanted to help the elf. And so they would shave them in the morning, and hug them in the evening, and give them bed time stories. The nature of motherhood has been a thing for man across generations, and generations after that. And yet the little elf wanted to remain young forever, and found that by remaining young she could be raised again by others.

I always had a thing for elf girls, although the elf girls I knew looked at me weirdly in some vague form of discomfort that was different from other elves boys. And how some of them were not meant to be mothers, being simply to young themselves, having yet to find their way in the world. And yet for me, I find myself in tricky relationships with minorities, both like and unlike myself. It isn't like I don't appreciate social justice, but I find that many focus on the hate.

But for me I often break down in social gathering, I find life often to difficult to comprehend. It isn't like I'm not intelligent, I have trouble coming around the bed, regaining the energy to take on the life again.

I withdraw into myself.

I withdraw into other lives.

I never want to be a mother, and yet it's not like I dislike kids. Although I've been told it seems like I do. Rather in many ways I still feel like a kid myself, in many ways I haven't grown up to meet the world.

The thing about me is, I am a girl.

I simply need more loving.

Of the mothering kind.

Friends Old And New

Sometimes you pin your whole life on a video game. In the nature of dream one imagines themselves in others lives, courting many wives who one will never get to engage in real life. Falling out of star ships with parachutes, and attacking spider pigs and ape goats with katanas.

It is easy to absorb oneself in another life, because life itself is filled with way to many breakdowns. One imagines visions of deranged clowns, and baseball bats hitting little poodle dogs. And evil witches tap dancing while pointing their fingers at you mockingly until the morning. One's life feels empty, and not socialized. The desire for many things is only late realized. The July sun beckons forth the opening eyes, and one sees for them self the world of lies.

My whole life has been a lie.

My whole life was empty up to this point, and it has continued to feel empty. They say if trans people were genetically engineered out of existence, they would never have to worry about issues they do.

That's only partially true. I would still experience my principle strangling me, I would still experience my family strangling my, and I would still be periodically out of breath. I would still have met Emma, and developed my shoe fetish. For some their life would be drastically different.

For mine it wouldn't have been different at all.

I would still be read as female, she would have still been a bitch.

Even at a young age I absorbed myself in video games, playing primarily Japanese Role Playing Games. I would play as many different class types, and become absorbed in different world with the virtual reality headset. Worlds I could never visit, and I could live someone's life.

But my life is a straight stone.

My life is lacking my ability to come to terms with my feelings.

I am made of stone.

The restaurant gave away a free recipe book to water the taste buds of the customers of the sit down joint. We had just gotten back from a bus trip to an event, that ended up being a wash. Though if you asked me, it was a well deserved wash. After all, every now and then you need a taste of experiencing major plans not going as expecting to truly empathize with others experiencing the same thing.

We left the diner for the bus, with her carrying food in a box of leftovers becoming not hungry due to anger. As much as I enjoy karmic justice, it should be a comforting learning experience, the term that she is very comfortable with using for my own situations.

The last few days I was in and out of mental breakdowns, and today I was in an between state, between no breakdown and total breakdown. I'm uncertain as of yet whether it is because of my previous experience, or if perhaps it is due to stress because of my current financial situation, or if it is because of both. In either case today there wasn't a major inspection today, and it was the lady manager and not the guy. At least I don't have to worry about fights being picked at the drop of a hat. The whole week has been filled with a lot of mixed feelings.

I found a manual on practitioners that took Apple Health.

I hope it's not out of date.

It was one of those days when you constantly feel tired, seemingly for no reason. It wasn't like you ran around a lot, or even pulled a sailboat out of a dock doing actual real life work. You just suddenly feel like you have no more energy, as if all the energy is suddenly sucked out of you. I still haven't totally recovered from the breakdowns, though the feelings are subtler. The main thing is fear of them recurring. There is nothing like the fear of them recurring, especially when you are between states. I hadn't got much sleep either, writing diaries when I should be sleeping. But I have to write at night, in order to make the nightmares and constant thoughts melt away. I see myself resting in bed, and yet with the room mates constant coughing this isn't always possible. Believe me, I've tried to ask if things were already.

But I just don't have the energy.

Not tonight.

My red sweater and my black clogs contrasted with the blue jeans, specially soon for my body shape. The shoes were meant for flat feet being shaped like potatoes, and pants felt a bit to tonight. But with the sweater, I could say goodnight. I had a tendency to sleep in sweaters, especially during the Winter months. It was a carry over from when I used to sleep in my clothes.

I had never been in a photo shoot before, and I needed to make sure I wasn't sleeping during the flash. I don't like having my picture taken, even though the photographers rake in the cash. They would only give me a tiny slash of the royalties during the next magazine. I grew tired of the business. I left the studio in a hurry, with my favorites games having come out.

It had been a while since I had used virtual reality for any extensive period of time. I remember when I would play some of the earlier more obscure JRPG series that were never quite the same as the original.

It had been a while sense I played a game in general.

But hopefully that would be over soon.

I had last played video games in the previous operating system on the laptop, and over time switching over to Linux made it impossible to permanently keep certain systems streamlined for gaming. So I ended up have to program games like Terminal Shooter and Shooter Maker. But there was still nothing like programming pure text adventures, and better yet playing some of the better JRPGs. I find the current game titles a bit disorienting to look at.

I'd rather look at ugly clogs, I'd rather look at anything else besides bad 3D unless it's bad 3D clogs. So whenever I was away from the studio when I was photographed for specific author photographs, I would mostly spend my time programming being largely incapable of anything else. It's like I want it to be that way. But when you are half deaf, have PTSD, anxiety, adhd, autism, shin splints, and other issues it makes it tempting to simply stay home and rot.

But then a new show was on, that I forgot. It was a show that made sister had grown a fondness for in my teen years, but have shied away from it because it resembled Spaghetti Westerns in space.

But in watching the first episode, it wasn't bad.

Just not something I would write.

The thing about the nature of dreaming, one could imagine themselves in other people's lives. One could imagine themselves in impossible landscapes, where Seattle, Washington merges with Los Angeles, California. The nature of reality was based on existing landscapes jumbled together using Ruby arrays. No matter what base source landscape it was based on, it was often be something totally different. That's how I found myself in Seatak, Tennessee.

I visited some friends old and new.

I Can't Hear Anything

Marshmallow for breakfast, marshmallow for lunch, and marshmallow for dinner. I never had a taste for roasted cat. Luckily I am referring to the corn starch loosely based after the original substance. Besides, my room mate is allergic to them despite loving cat pictures.

It had been many days since I had soup, and many more since I had Thai Red Curry. Due to the nature of my living circumstances, I had to make due to what we have instead of what I would like to have. The room mate takes control of the cooking, so made is left with my booking other things in that time. Yet soon my life turned on a dime, and I had to make boring ham sandwiches. I like ham, don't get me wrong. I can't help it if it tastes like donkey dong.

I had a fashion dream again, dreaming all of the pairs of different sweaters and dresses I could possible own to pair with my ugly black clogs. After all I have never been one to believe in contemporary fashion taste. The clogs just happen to be trending now, but have always been a thing in more hipster cities. If that means making horny guys avoid squeezing my titties, all the best. Besides, I want women to squeeze my titties. As we travel across many cities looking for night clubs. I have never been to a night club, though I've heard many women prostitute a little bit on the side. The thing about being trans is, I've heard many know some hookers.

Society places to much value on Christianity.

Especially when it devalues the hooker profession.

I purchased a hot dog from the city concession stand, while listening to folk metal Seatak bands. My friend like to discuss how certain Satanic groups reminded her of objective libertarian philosophy. Well I tried telling her the meaning of subjectivist philosophy, but she just looks at me like she is confused. Then twists her head around like I'm negatively obtuse.

Then she stops as I tap my potato shoes.

And then we walk into the rainy day without a rainbow, where cyborgs, trans-humanists, and other groups gel with the existing hipster culture.

I am a Raven.

I would apply the cheat codes for shits and giggles, especially for impossible fights. There is some level of special just applying the same cheat code on a main character well liked by yourself just for something different. A change of pace, the flow of the game make it appeal to the story reader aesthetic. It was a lonely gaming session, after eating a hot dog from the concession. The mix of the flavor of beef waste, and wasting the hunk of beef on the JRPG screen.

Every time I think of my gaming days, I think of Emma. I think of the relationship we could have had, and had she rejected me. And yet at times I would still see her image in my mind, as it mixes with the image of another girl I knew who reminded me more of a squirrel turned into a human than anything else. In later years the girl would manifest in my life, wearing a long flowing black dress. She was the ghost of my mind, forming her imprint upon reality. She would attack men that threatened me with pepper spray. She was the personality mix of Emma and Jenna, and how despite her passive aggressive contained a kind of innocuous execution. The neck is in the details, as her statements would cut to the bone while smiling the sweetest smiles. The imprint of my mind, as she is always there to form company.

At first I am apprehensive to her advances, being ensure to give such a hybrid girl many chances. But sometimes the answers of your life are taken away from you at lightning speed.

Upon these pages, I spill this seed.

Stay away, smoke some weed.

As I went to the therapist for the first time, in my mind she sat beside me. And yet at times the therapist would see her walk through the door. "Excuse me, but we are having a private meeting. Please wait outside."

"Oh by I am Pace's wife." she said.

"Is this alright we with you." the therapist said.

"Sure whatever, I've married her. She's welcome."

The session had a visual quality much like a literary quality porno--visual erotica. It was rely a bit of personal fetishes, while focusing on characterization over style. Like the porno studio was watching my interactions with my therapist, tailoring movies to my specific needs. I began to wonder if the girl was the therapists assistant, but the therapist claimed to have never met her. "We had only met a few months before. And now she follows me everywhere I go."

It was a strange relationship.

The Tulpa of forgotten love.

Hello, my name is nose. I sing the blues of snot. My nose forgot to blow, ever sense the angry motel came after one with a swimming pool noodle and spanked you till time forgot. I forgot to make the coffee. Random zebras running everywhere. Collapsing stalagmites falling down, piercing hearts. Screech screech said the bat in the cave. Is that an alien named Shave!

Sometimes you mind forms a kind of nonsense, while technically one could form a sentence, sometimes you feel so mentally exhausted you can't do anything else at that particular moment. The mind is a kind of inner cave, in that darkness are shadow men. Who get tired of that philosophical story, after all why can't men in a cave have a conversation with as much depth? Except this cave is a motel room, where the power sometimes goes in and out.

What will happen I don't know, it is a story I can't show. It is a story that only I shall know. The story of how one has come to live in the inner cave of the modern city, desiring to have on one's body the woman's tits. But instead one can only smoke weed, and take occasional shits. The mind simply tries to put itself back together little bit little over time, until there is nothing else left to remember. And there are some things far to unhealthy to remember.

It is not quite September, it is not quite July.

I remember of my life, what isn't a lie.

There is a frog, a bunny rabbit, and a duck. One hops way to often, one likes to get wet in the lake. But one is simply lame. For they refused words for so long, and were filled with nothing but shame. Shame for being a duck. And in this children's story one may call a life, there is a personal story. A story of a duck that became a non lame duck, and while they could not run for office, or anything of importance, they found that they could be friends with the bunny rabbit and the frog.

Why did I choose to read this children's story? It always gives me adult tears, because I have no rabbit or a duck, I have my life. A simple game of luck, a simple game of cards. Scattered about and only finding fifty one of them. The final one is found, but the animated card had to be put out of its misery in a paper shredder. The shredder known as the empty hole of life.

My life, my story.

My existence.

Sometimes in the darkness, there are mental breakdowns. Sometimes there are those who reach out for a hand. The girl who was once a Tulpa. became a recurring room mate in the house, and eventually me and her would move together into a new apartment, and there we would live together for the rest of our life.

That might seemed rush, but I don't always like talking about myself. Talking about myself gives me weird issues, sometimes it makes me need tissues. And so I would leave you with a visual of a flower field filled with withered daisies and petunia in the largest sun of the year. And the corn withers away.

The day the went became still inside my mind.

I can't hear anything anymore.

Reloading The Bus Cards

It's a few months later, and I still haven't bought a cat. A decade before that we stopped having hand held games. Reach far enough back, and you will find poor people like us could have them.

"It's time to wake up, we're going to the plasma center today." said my room mate. No matter how many times I ask her, she never understands not to wake me my up early in the morning.

"But I'm trying to sleep." I said, pushing myself out of bed. I can see the antique television in static mode, not yet having been turned off to save electricity. Of all the things we could be doing to earn money, why are we hanging out here running up our rent? Because she won't use common sense in terms of television use, that's why. "Can't we go some other day?"

On the side walk, my room mate is playing with her hand held.

I'm looking around to make sure I don't fall into the road, as my balance has never been very good. I see the traffic is backed up at the moment, but I don't know how much longer it is going to last. It was a typical suburban neighborhood, with the next pot shop just ten miles down the road. "Wanting to purchase some joints later?" I asked, half jokingly. I knew the money would be better spent on other things, but simply didn't have the heart to suggest otherwise.

"We'll see depending on how much money we get." she said, not turning her eyes away from the hand held system.

I wanted to throw that into the road.

At the plasma center I was turned away, they said at the moment my blood was not suitable. I remembered how I had started chain smoking that morning, and my room mate forgot to remind me not do. They needed blood that did not contained nicotine, and I simply didn't consider it. My mind felt like it was going a million place at once, and then I tried to grab my friend's hand held to toss it to a wall.

My friend reassured me I could go tomorrow. "Just remember not to smoke anything." she said.

"Knowing that would helped me sooner."

"I thought you would have known."

So I tossed out my last cigarette box as a drastic measure to remind myself at home, not being able to count on my room mate to remember.

I dreamed about going to a Gay pride event in Texas, even though we live in the Seattle Tacoma area. We had just gotten out of a Jewish grocery store, and found ourselves a British Mexican restaurant.

Yet the next morning I found such a restaurant isn't to out of the realm of possibility. You just needed something to make it uniquely British, like adding more blood pudding.

When I got the cash, I was able to purchase a new carton. The rest of the chain is history. Now sixteen packs later, I am resting on an abandoned road. While I am feeling sick, I need to board the next bus, so I can get back home. I have a new hand held, utilizing USB drives.

I'm now set for the future.

If there is one for me.

I'm not sure what to do with my girlfriend. She likes to do everything I do. It doesn't matter if it's golfing, fencing, writing, or whatever. Whatever I'm doing, she is there to follow and and do what I do.

Sometimes I fear that I might take advantage of her, and therefore I try to tell her at times she should only do what I do if it truly interests her. But she always insists that it is what she is interested in. I've almost given up, I have to much on my plate anyway. I had just chosen not to become a carpenter, despite a family tradition. I had lived in a town of family traditions. I am so tired of tradition, so tired of the old values. I'm so tired of everything in my old life.

I met my girlfriend when she was an exchange student, and found solace in each other. She came from the land of the rising sun, where the nail always got hammered down. And thus she always sought not to be a nail. At times I felt like a squeaky wheel forced to be her nail. She wanted me to just accept the fact that she would follow my lead. But I'm not cut out to be a leader, not anymore. The last time I tried to be a leader, it left the gym classes derailed, followed a kind of strange stage act. I preferred the idea of acting in a kind of hidden stage, with my friends the awing onlookers. And yet even this dream became something of a reducing fantasy.

When I lost my apartment, she let me come to stay.

When I lost my car, she drove me to places.

Among other reasons, I found myself becoming drawn to her own sensibility, despite our differences in cultures. Our home country considered us scavengers of acceptance, yet on some level both of us knew that we would find none.

This is our story.

I woke up, and found myself in a world of a rising sun. Here everyone dressed like me; this was because I found myself in a new life where I could conform to societal expectations. Then I woke up, and felt something missing in my life.

According to my girlfriend, she found herself admiring the new life of the hipster. She would dress up as some new fairy tale character. The different being the norm, other admired her difference. She was unused to this acceptance.

We separated for a few months.

Those months came and went.

I now life with my girlfriend again, and found ourselves dreaming of our old life. Yet because we found ourselves frightened by the idea of cultural lynch mobs, we found the outlet for our fantasies.

We gave in, we conformed to our new reality.

We gave into the porn pill.

Mother said we would reload our bus cards. Here I am waiting for the cards to be loaded. The silence is as deafening as the sound of clashing voices of different pitches and tonal resonances. But with the silence I may sleep tonight, though I must sleep later than my room mate.

It was the month of July just before the forth, in the year of 2086. The porn had been on and off the market due to a long cycle of repeated recalls. To think that this is rumored to be almost like computational dreaming. The OS is not so much an OS, as a way of societal malcontents and sexual maladaptive folk to have an outlet. And yet from friends I know I hear of people weirder than me, adding to the adage that there will always been someone more deviant than you. Yet as I contemplate my visit with friends in my social group in the city, I wondered what would happen if I disappeared. Already I am only noticed if I get particularly drunk, and I find myself staring at ladies shoes while I go on bus trips. I contemplate while I eat a bag of cookies and another of caramelized peanuts. We live in a capitalistic society.

A conversation I heard at the bar, was the debate over whether someone like Hitler were even possible today. The ultimate conclusion seemed to be economic downturn plus racism plays a role, leaving my unsure what would happen in our own country with economic conditions and politics at center stage due to specific tragedies. But I would argue that we don't need fascism.

Note that I had been watching documentaries about how television has become our new fascists. Bare in mind this was before smart cell phones became a thing. In many ways we already live in the future, it's simply that most people are unaware of specific surrealism of our hyper specific present. Whether it's shops peddling lunar crescents with overgrown trees, or the local head shop--not a literal head shop by the way, although that adds to a specific charm to imagine--our world is filled with the temptation to buy things like in specific science fiction novels.

And yet nobody could predict the porn pill.

The porn pill was something I had mixed feelings about what I first introduced, and yet now I consume every one that gets produced. The produce rots in the fridge, especially the ancient lettuce wedges. And here I wonder what our future will be, not being able to vote in the next election.

A mental dissection.

Nodding And Listening

Allow me to recount you the experience of my friend Jonah.

The lights were buzzing in and out, and the bathroom was in complete disrepair; the toilet had a red stain, and the bath tub also had layers of brown rust. Jonah walked into the dimly lit room, looked himself in the mirror. Then said, "I really need to clean this glass." At the moment he felt like not doing it, thus went and sat on the bed in order to reflect on his thoughts. It had many times he had talked to Ezekiel, though it was only today in particular that he payed attention to him very much.

Teddy walked into the direction of the light. "Jonah, you should try to create your own group." Jonah didn't remember whether he open up the stuffed animals chest, in order to put in a makeshift radio. Or if possibly the bear suddenly obtained the magical powers to be able to talk on it's own. "Wouldn't that be great?" Jonah thought it was amusing that the bear sounded just like his favorite horror movie villain, a robot named Jab. He reclined in his bed in order to sleep.

"I want to form my own philosophy, something unique to me; it would center around assimilation, acceptance, and non dependent association; no more silence, only the music in my head." Jonah didn't remember the retort the Teddy made, maybe in fact the bear did not retort at all. Perhaps he was simply seeing things because of distress of the night. He gradually found the call of the dark night, gradually becoming harder to resist. He chose not to fight, he gave into the sleep.

"I can help you Jonah, we can form our own group."

When he woke up, it was twelve. Teddy had punched him in the face, and his jaw hurt. Staring around the room, he had the same old reminder of many paper. They were tossed across the floor. He felt that staying up, while laying in bed was a bore. Thus he got up and sat on his bed, and placed his hands over his face to drown away the tiredness. Teddy was resting again on his bed he specifically made from a weave, then looked at the ceiling tugging at his sleeve. "The music in my head."

"So your up, we need to talk about you bashing my head against the wall." Teddy said. Eggplant was still asleep in his room. Jonah was to caught up in his own thoughts to be able to care about what the stuffed animal was saying, and went into the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

"I did what now?" Jonah said half-listening.

It was later in the morning, but still early. Jonah had his stuff ready in order to go to his class. "Wait for me Jonah, remember. I'm your friend." Jonah simply leaned his back backward, and laughed.

"Your just a Teddy Bear." Jonah said, then left.

Teddy was lonely in the dorm room, Eggplant was still sleeping. So he hopped onto the desk, carefully making sure that he did not knock anything onto the floor. Then he pounced on the Eggplant, and punched it in the face. "Hey wake up, it's Teddy." The eggplant growled because of his interrupted sleep, then in a mocking laugh pushed the Teddy off of him.

"What are you wanting. Your just a Teddy." The words Teddy continued to repeat over and over again in the Teddy Bear's mind. "You know, I wonder if Jonah is going to try to talk with that one guy he keeps talking about again." Teddy was to caught up in his own thought to pay attention. The Eggplant got up, and punched the Teddy Bear in the face. "Hey I'm -" Eggplant couldn't finish.

"Don't touch me." Teddy said.

Later that evening, Jonah finishes homework from class. "So Jonah, Mr. Jonah. How are you expecting to be able to run your life?" said Teddy.

"Yea I'll just have you be Mr. Vice President." Jonah walked over to the door, then placed his ear upon it. "Hey I can hear voices. They sound like, are Ezekiel and his friends making fun of me outside?" Teddy bear walked over and stood behind him.

"Why do you think that Jonah?" Teddy noted that Jonah was not particularly listening to him at the moment. :Alright let's get things straight. I'm going to be the one that takes the lead. You will follow me" But Jonah was to caught up listening, beyond the door. "Are you listening man, I'm Teddy your friend." The voices on the other end of the door stopped.

"Hey Jonah, you ok Man. Something wrong?" Jonah heard Ezekiel's voice.

"What it to you man?" said Teddy.

"Shut up Teddy, they'll hear us." said Jonah.

"I'll see you in class Jonah."

Later on, Teddy, Eggplant, and Jonah all hung out and told ghost stories with each other. Then Jonah decided to get up, and go play pool. "Where you going Jonah, don't leave me!" said Teddy." Jonah simply puffed his hair on his face. Then cracked the door. "Hey Jonah, what's that empty CPU over there?" Jonah turned around, and stared at Teddy."

"It's not what you think it is." Jonah said.

"I can make the headmaster think it is." Teddy said.

"And who would believe a –"

"He'll think it's you talking."

Because of this, he picked up both the Eggplant and the Teddy and brought them with him to be able to go and play pool. There the Goth girls stared at him, because he was talking to a stuffed eggplant and a Teddy Bear. They giggled to each other, then went into the bar. "Tough crowd tonight." said Teddy. Eggplant guy simply rolled his eyes.

"It's not you, it's Jonah." said Eggplant.

"Shut up, will you."

"Hey Jonah, how are you talking to?" Ezekiel at the pool table asked?"

"Ezekiel, Eggplant and Teddy. Eggplant and Teddy, Ezekiel." said Jonah.

"Hey is he that guy you talk about a lot?" said Eggplant.

"Shut up Eggplant."

Who talked about who?" said Ezekiel? At that point Ezekiel thought that something was seriously wrong with Jonah. "Hey, let's just play some pool OK." Jonah played pool for the rest of the night.

"Why did you have to say anything?" said Jonah to Eggplant.

"Could not help it." said Eggplant.

"Stop talking to yourself Jonah." said Ezekiel.

"Oh I'm no." said Jonah.

"Sure." said Ezekiel."

They exited the pool house.

"So Jonah, is everything OK?" said Ezekiel. They were going back to their dorm rooms. Ezekiel shut up his lady friends, that made sarcastic comments about liking his Eggplant.

Jonah resisted cackling. "Yea everything is fine, why?"

"Your talking to a fucking Eggplant." said Ezekiel.

"Don't you have imaginary friends Ezekiel?" Jonah said, then slammed his dorm room shut.

Ezekiel stared at the door, that said do not disturb. "Sometime in the universe, you really will find stranger people than those like us."

I hadn't known him for very long, he might be institutionalized somewhere.

It was a cold month in twenty eighty six.

I have nobody there, I have nobody in my hair. There is a sound quieter than the deepest silence. Nobody's singing is there. The plight of the falling song birds is a tune that fills the air.

The world of my own, that has nobody in it. Watch me breath my last breath of air. The fumes of toxic smog, fills my lungs with stranger air. I only have myself to wait, till the porn pills give me flare. In the hearts of men, there is the ensnare. Of being scammed into losing one's worth. And one rots on this forsaken Earth. But this is the story, about another girl who dated another girl, that lost her life to young.

A young woman who liked to eat bagels, found she could not eat Shrimp. Her girlfriend, loved to eat shrimp but hated bagels. The one who loved to eat bagels found shellfish were not kosher, but her girlfriend found bagels were simply to dry. If it were only this, her girlfriend would not have chosen to die. The hum that fills the air, ensnares one to the sound of inner music.

At first it was the different dietary aspects.

Then it was the different religions.

Then the priest wanted to split them apart.

A few months went by, but there was never a fresh start. One found herself amongst the company of men. Found her life loop all o'er again, dating strange men due to financial security. And yet they new that something was missing, as the drifting apart without a hint of kissing. The snake of the other man refused hiss at her tender lips, because he knew she was not into him. Thus she never tasted his flesh.

But when she tried to find the Shrimp eating girl, she found herself involved with a strange group of suicide girls. She managed to get her out of this relationship. But there was a long period of silence.

There was a period of shouting.

There was a period of pouting.

Then the eternal silence.

The girl that ate bagels arranged a funeral, and placed a shrimp plushy upon her engraved stone. Though the two were atheists, she bent down and prayed. Yet there was no atone for the damned.

She was struck my lightning in the air.

And now the silence fills the air.

A realistic dream.

"Well let me tell you a story, of a time I used to be a rich lady." the woman in the black and red dress said. She was sitting on the floor, waiting for me to give her a full attention, waiting for me to be her audience.

If we back up, keep in mind I am a trans woman who is a sex abuse survivor. There isn't anybody that will tell me my trauma is invalid. I have no idea what this woman is trying to achieve. She told me of how she once wore a tuxedo to a programmers ball. It was a time when women could technically wear anything they wanted, provided it was appropriate for the job.

She told me of how she spent all her money on smokes, how she had to go on food stamps because her ill advised spending habits. No fault of mine sugar. But there was some kind of truth in what the woman said, even if I found the rest of what she had to say invalidating of the specific kinds of trauma I experienced. While she may have to worry about homelessness due to bad spending, I had a family who was at risk of no longer sending. There was bad blood due to the fact that I had moved to another state, because I wanted to live an independent life. Reality cuts with a knife; it cuts into your heart, and drains you dry.

So why would I be subjected to this lie?

This lie called life.

When you spend time somewhere for five months, sometimes you gain the reflection of it being better to spend time listening to others. Yet there are people that take advantage of this privilege. Even if I were inclined to come out, and believe me if I trust you and have met you I have no hesitation, sometimes you meet grimy old men who kick your legs, while telling you he has no problems with gay people. Some minority groups like himself have been visible for years, like beating a dead horse.

But our discrimination is subtler. Sometimes it is still unsafe to come out as a trans person, and you are forced to not correct someone when they just assume you are some homosexual woman. I realize I'm lucky in that I pass well enough for people to just assume this, but what if I had said I was a trans woman. Along with my already present PTSD and half deafness, even if somehow the societal issue of LGBT things went away, there would still be this and being a writer that would still make society cringe. I still have the kinks I have, that also create misunderstandings. You don't develop an interest in BDSM and come out this way as a trans person, as society still hasn't moved past the idea that Trans people are sexual deviants.

And yet this visitor of my motel, had the gall to assume my issues were less than hers, and if I spoke about my issues, I'd get shouted down.

So would you really blame me?

I just nodded and listened.

Marketing Of The Hero

"Be careful, or I might skin your cat." the man said, laughing maniacally. "Just joking." And that's how you skin a cat. While he never really said he'd skin my cat, it might as well have been that. Even when dipping it was warning he'd dip an ice cream cone on my head chilling me to the bone.

I had never seen my father sense I moved out of state. It has always been one of those things, I never liked comedy. With the latest batch of porn pills I took, I found I couldn't control the lucid nightmare I was in. There was gargoyles staring at me by the bed. While logically I had no reasons to assume such creatures were in my motel room, I couldn't get to sleep for nights upon nights. My friend calls me paranoid, I call it merely guarded. But I never took nightmares as funny. Rather than taking them in stride, it would always remind me of times I would get lost in the corn fields. I would meet with strange devils who lead me in the direction of home.

The next morning I found myself feeling drained, my inner life energy being the fluid of tub that constituted my skull. And my ability to think was marred by overbearingly mundane mental visuals of reality. It was that calm before the storm, that feeling of being merely a worm stomped on by a S.W.A.T officer's boot. Only these officers were demons from the farthest reaches of hell.

It was a strange city, filled with gargoyle statues. They were of a large stature. The statues of stature stared down like ominous omens from the beyond. The gargoyles like totalitarian enforcers of draconian supernatural laws. They would feed me to creatures of the night, being tossed in their jaws.

The region of strange laws.

Every time I look at statues, I find myself staring upon strange art that was not really art but being from beyond frozen in time. It is a nightmare reality, although my psychiatrists say the gargoyles are not really there.

But I've seen them, they converge on me at night.

Those creatures, hungry, feasting on my fright.

Yet the psychiatric hospital said they could help me.

And yet I still see their faces at night, the gargoyles are doctors now. They looked upon me as their food cow.

They prod me, and inject me with needles.

I am frozen in time, on an examination chair in a doctor's office. "So what is the problem with you?" the man said.

"I am surrounded by demons." I said to the gargoyle man.

"I think you should ween off the porn pills. Can I see your pill bottle?" he said.

I showed him the pill bottle.

"I thought they recalled these years ago." he said.

I remembered the look on the gargoyles face.

The look of my father.

I cared not her name, the dame with bright blond hair. She wore multiple colored blue jeans similar to torn jeans not torn all the way through, and had an attitude that could win her millions in depth to dept collector if they were still a thing. Her white t shirt shined in the light.

Now here is the weird thing, she didn't seem to mind the fact that I admired her ass, although she seemed to mind my friend admiring her ass.

It has always been a weird thing for me. For whatever reason it seemed like the girls that tended to pay the most attention to me tended to be bitches. I hoped this meant that it was because they felt envious, and not so much that there was something inherently bitchy about myself. She was amongst a crowd of attractive women who seemed to consider me some vague sort of object for jealousy. Which is strange as I never found myself to be something of worth. It reminded me of how nice girls tended to not pay much attention to me one way or the other, and on some level I actually liked them better because of this. Now I realize some may view ignoring as not being nice, but when you go through life not trusted people sometimes being alone is what you need.

Me and a friend went to a local coffee shop, cost us a little over twenty bucks. We exchanged words about the value of a romantic comedy about a Jewish girl dating a Japanese guy, and the conflicts between Judaism and Shinto. That's the thing about coffee shops, they bring out the weirdest conversations in you. As we left I admired a Japanese girl in glasses and Jesus Sandals. I had a thing for girls in Jesus Sandals. Don't kink shame OK, you don't kink shame people for like heels.

We were at the store and bought ourselves some food, and signed up for a digital writing competition. I've never been a competitive person, so I'm not sure what the experience is like. I also met with a neighbor, who experienced racial profiling by the local cops. She said she might helps us with a guide to finding cheap apartments. I suppose we'll see.

Now I'm at home, admiring bitchy blond in Jesus Sandals.

Girls in Jesus Sandals.

There were many names for our neighborhood: Hell's Corner, Calla Lillie lane, among others. But the only one that really managed to stick was Purgatory Road. Purgatory Road was a home for being sent to live the rest of their lives; it was a kind of financial prison among the socially damned. You could live hear five months, and never hear of anyone getting a Gold Rush.

One girl and one girl once lived here. They are gone now, lost to time. Yet the imprints of time still remember them, as they lived the rest of their lives. They started a group of writers, of which I'm a current participant. There was a kind of unspoken blood oath amongst us, as we spent our next few months with the moths. We live the lives of those punished for their sins, living the rest of our lives with renewed childhoods all over again.

But it had warped into something darker.

It warped into something less easy to define. In this world forsaken by those truly the opposite of the divine, we exist in our own personal purgatory. As lovers we write each others stories, we write songs to each other like bleeding hearts. We admire the gargoyle statues in the city. We join together despite having lives otherwise shitty, and suppose each other and the lives damned.

We are the living who are socially dead.

Here in Purgatory Road, they say the life expectancy is twenty three, I would give it about a couple more years for me at the most. Already I am aged beyond many of my personal kin, here we our lives repeat all over again. Some of us have committed suicide, others survive with barely a thread of mental faculties. Others are permanently changed for the rest of their lives.

It is Purgatory Road.

Were young lives come to an end.

It is Purgatory Road, where we dine with the dead among the living in shadows. Where we haunt the dead as conscious ghosts, haunting them as their past in perpetual motion forward.

And yet life is merely a dream.

A lucid nightmare dream.

Sometimes in life, people long for heroes. Sometimes in life, we long for saviors to rescue us from our life's torment. And yet in society, it prescribes you specific heroes rather than allowing one to create one of their own. We live in a culture of hero worship, like times of old.

I had decided for myself I needed no heroes, although I wouldn't say I am one myself. Rather when you see life for how it really is, and realize that everything that know and love is a lie, all of sudden the people society prescribe to be your heroes no longer matter in the long run. I remember when my first experience with them, was through marketing. One of the first things I got was plates with this one specific super hero. Throughout my life I would see various idols placed on canned foods, and other products. They call it modern day mythology, but unlike old mythology a company couldn't sue you for using an icon.

And yet now, instead the old heroes, what you have is a world where big businesses are able to sue you for using their super hero, except through specifically allowed fan fiction. And yet there is a cultural expectation of not creating your own heroes, and merely rehashing the old material and lore. And yet society also says that fan fiction is inherently awful, although many writers get their start with it. For me, I've never had a hero, and I've never needed one.

I am a hero onto myself.

It was the evening when my dog would never return from the vet. I would sleep in my bed all morning and night, hoping that it was all a lie. Although I never made the jokes, sometimes I would here comments about hitting the dog was with a baseball bat. In real life there are not heroes, and there are laws against masked vigilantism. It isn't surprising the same nation that would ban masked heroism would also try create mass campaigns in order to lobby for making firearms illegal. While I've never been an advocate for them, the reason they don't want us to have them is clear to anyone with a critical thinking brain. They use organized mind-control on people, put them in a controlled environment where they go insane, and them train them with those weapons. Then they have this individual comfort to a new religion.

That's what causes the tragedies. They are tragedies alright, and if there was in fact masked vigilantism by trained people, it would have stopped these things. Sometimes you have to look beyond the surface.

See the lies the media tells you.

And remember, it's all a game.

Meanwhile in other parts of the country, broken people put guns to their mouths. They consume bathroom cleaner, or hang themselves. They allow school bullying to run at an all time high, and yet never bother to check on people that give their kids anti-depressants before the age of thirteen.

I was one such kid.

I am a attempted suicide survivor.

There are many reason one might choose suicide. The reasons vary from person to person, and sometimes those reasons change based on new life circumstances beyond people's control. We live in a nation filled with extreme poverty. And yet nobody cares about the poor people. They don't care about anything.

And you don't care about anything.

Not anymore.

No Longer Myself

One year sense 2016 has gone by. Across the street a welder will get kicked out by his girlfriend. That's one welder groveling on the floor of road. I had never known anyone that cheated with anyone directly.

I wonder how one could live on merely two hundred dollars. The thing about living on year own in these parts, you have a crazy high rent. A thing the card won't even pay for that. So you have this homeless guy able to buy groceries but no place to cook them. I suppose one could survive on fast food, I never checked to verify that. So this guy is kicked out by his girlfriend, who is complaining about the INTERNET.

We've been without a good reliable connection for a few months. I almost was under the impression that most other people than myself and my room mate were already used to the connection as bad it is. You have to be outside to get it, so you can go looking for girls in pillories or guillotines outside the door. Just as well, there are way to many cops around here. Might as well be bought off the manager. They would drive around the small neighborhood road, profiling people. That was the good aspect about this place.

The church food bus almost never comes here. Room mate hasn't given up on it already, but I began to assume it was a lost cause.

Room mate still hasn't given up on them.

I'm not sure why we took so long to avoid getting food stamps.

We avoided it for three whole months when we needed it most. It's because spending all your money is fucking stupid. Actually rather than stupid, it's just a matter of being poor. On one hand you consume nicotine to help relief your stress about reality, on the other hand you continue to lose money ignoring the need for food stamps. A vicious cycle indeed.

The only thing making our situation worth living is at least we have a place to cook--marginally. The fire alarm is wild and crazy. I've never had a smoke alarm so sensitive that it activates while you're boiling water. The only cheap drug is the "porn pill". But the thing about porn pills is how they gradually reduce your grip on reality. But each pill would allow sexual fantasies based on the individual person who took them.

So for me I would go to sleep, as they have relaxation powder in them, and dream of images of guillotined girls and women in pillories. Sometimes schoolgirls getting their bottoms paddled. Just whatever gives me my kick at any particular moment. Yea I like girls in nice kicks, carve them out of a piece of whole wood. I don't understand why there are high heeled versions. Makes for crouch stomping an unpleasant experience. If you're into that sort of that.

I'm not sure what my room mate dig when they take their porn pill. Combined with a an acid problem and sleep issues and a dose of PTSD, it makes dreams especially short and realistic in nature. Like someone unwilling to look to far in the past. Sometimes they are so realistic that they make one wonder whether they actually happened at some point in the past. You have a a pad of notebook paper you looked forward to writing on, and suddenly this stack of notebook paper is thrown away by narcissism.

Maybe I should get off porn pills.

My mind feels fuzzy.

The thing about porn is the best porn depends on the individual. Some take it by the mouth, others go for the lunge. Isn't weird how sometimes you find weird names from drugs, especially this one called the "porn pill".

It was the first time I used the pill, although others of my friends had varying experiences based on their natural orientation and gender dynamic. For me, I was still finding myself and it took a while to finally settle on various the sexualized grotesque channels. I could watch girls having their heads popped off all day without a thought in the world for societies mores. The porn pill allowed us to hallucinate while we slept, and experience realistic dreams of various objects of desire we desired, including some tendencies toward bondage in the extreme, of which I was only ever a light participant in any of those.

The first few times it was a weird experience. I had only just started using Nicotine and THC vape, and most dreams tended to be fantastic in nature combined with the already present stomach acid issues and sleep issues I already had that gave me night terrors. But these dreams were different, for one I felt that I existed in a different time line apart from our own. Time could go backward or forward, and loop forever and ever until I was left repeating the same household chores again. But instead of chores, I was visited by various angels with multiple colored hair. I picked the ones that were of my choosing, and finally decided to behead the girl with the lightly greenish brunette shade of colors. I gave her various methods of foreplay, including circling around her nipples and gently caressing her neck.

When I was done I tied her to a guillotine plank, and then slowly lowered her into the neck clasp, then closed the top. I could feel her becoming more tense as time went on as I refused to let her die. I would lowered the blade, severing her neck from her spine. I found her face rather divine. Then when she was counting on being freed, I lowered the blade. The blade dropped, cut through her neck, and then she urinated on the plank. Her body convulsed as blood filled the basket.

It was all over for the greenish haired brunette.

But the thing about hallucination pills, they take some part of you away. Whatever grasp you had on normal human relationships would melt away. You would wander endlessly in the night looking for pubs to grab a beer or two, and watch pretty ladies with wonderful shoes. A slow ragtime metal band played on the radio, music not much better than the tunes at the social event in more southern districts revolving around the circling of the lasso and the bull.

Nothing would take away the desire for the pills.

As the pills of porn became my life. I courted temporary dates, and arranged marriages for friends. I will soon yet have other marriages, and yet at some point I wish to settle down for a new life. So I bought myself some cigarillos, bought about ten packs and a half. Smoked them all at once hoping not become sick in the process. And then combined it with the THC ecig and the porn pill hoping nothing much would change from the last experience.

But then I found the ladies surround.

Now I'm on the chopping block, I suppose that's why it's called the suicide porn pill. Something different for a change.

I wake up with a sore throat.

It is the year 2086. You know how it is when you have a misunderstanding, it's usually harmless. But sometimes it has lethal consequences. Some misunderstandings cause ultimate and final decisions. But I've never been one for Shakespeare.

I've never been one for academic literary study. Between different authors, the story more often than not is only written to entertain a buddy. How one may define buddy depends on which author you speak to. Each writer has their own story they need to tell to that special someone, whether that's a niece or nephew, aunt or uncle, wife, or kids. But for me I've never been one to share stories with anyone. When I define anyone for myself, anyone for me to want to share stories with, I define them as anyone who I create in a story. Stories are comfortable, and yet sometimes the best stories speak of discomfort.

Discomfort need not be overt, it can simply be in your mind. But the way I grew up, everything was apparently in my mind.

So let's go back in time, and do a rewind.

I was a runner in high school, but not on the track team; never being a team player, it made it difficult to really move forward in friendships. My life was a movie with a good bad quality, although it might be entertaining to others, it was simply my life. They would compare me to one movie guy, but also another current TV guy. So a lot of my high school years were spent fluctuating between different nick names depending on who you spoke to. To tell you the truth, the only thing I would have done differently is try to off to myself sooner. And yet at the time there was something that always kept holding me back, and it wasn't until recently I even built up the strength to kill myself. Pressure anyone long enough, and they'll eventually blow their brains out. It's a sure thing. But at the time I would simply rest all of the time in bed. You can't really tell someone to read more if they are in bed sleeping all of the time. The years spent running from class to class eventually took their toll. I would run out of frustration, the rational thought being that I would rather be injured than deal with whatever asshole was right beside me at any particular moment.

It wasn't as if I didn't have a social life, I had one to a fault. The few friends I had were a special breed of toxin. Merely friends because society didn't want them, our leader joined us together to try to keep order among the malcontents. But what to be malcontented about you may ask, well my life was basically taken care of. I would take my problems away, and shove them into a drawer deep into the hole as to never be found again. The thing was, you got to be willing to push problems aside, so they say. After all why address them so they can keep piling up and boiling just under the surface. When I was less broken, I once pushed my mom into the wall. Well was that all? You bet, it took all my will out of me. Among other factors.

The thing about writing stories, some may call it a coping mechanism. I call it a matter of life or death. There are some feelings I have about people due to the nature of my skepticism and cynicism that make me incompatible with any particular group. The thing about attempted suicide, surviving the first one changes you in specific ways; the difference is subtle, difficult to articulate how. But by the second attempt, it stops affecting you as much. The only feeling you are left with is why you were not successful.

One might try to plan their suicide, believe me I've planned them many times. You can't really be sure if your plans will go through; there would always be someone who would suddenly walk in the room and peek over your shoulder. I always hated it when people peeked over my shoulder. I wanted to crush their heads with a boulder. Remove the entire weight from their shoulders. And yet there would nobody behind me.

Yet there is somebody behind me right now, I can feel it.

They take me by the hand, and direct me to the under side of life.

And yet I am merely in the bathroom stall. I feel sleepy and extremely tired. One of my fingers becomes cut. I liked the feeling of cutting myself, and drowning in alcohol to wash the tears away. To wash everything away, watch it melt before me eyes hoping I go blind from the darkness. I write in poetry only relevant to me alone.

I who exist alone, with nobody else.

Here I live among the damned.

Here I live among the dead, who live in confined sheds. Who am I, I ask myself. Who am I is who I am. I am my own personal burden, I exist only for others. I exist in the night. For the tonight is the night I dine among the dead, becoming a special outcast among them. My own dream to no longer exist is coming true. Little by little I start to becoming nothing, I stop feeling. I stop experiencing, the remaining experiences a kind of questionable sexual pleasure amongst other kin. Because life is only a myth, it is defined by who you are with at any particular moment. For moments are my own, and nobody else's. And I was never able to define my own existence.

My last experience is a moment of pleasure, the final caress of non-existent corpses. A bride only to myself.

I only have myself, with no vision.

I am blind.

But something is different, I can feel it in my bones of the dead.

I wake up, and find myself in a room. It is the roomiest room I've ever been in, the same room as I was in before.

It is ... the bathroom.

I can feel my phone beside me.

I a still alive, I have vision.

But I'm no longer myself.

No longer myself.

Longer myself.

Myself.

Self.

Epitaph To Lost Innocence

There used to be more political discussions about whether gender is innate to the individual or societal, one of my friends feels of course it's innate. While I don't disagree, apparently you can only agree completely.

Yet now in the Winter of 4100 most people will look at you strange for even asking an apparently outdated question. The government seems to have decided "curing gender identity disorder" is better than "living a life of total misery." Let's keep in mind this is the government making the decision on behalf of the individual.

This is why when I had a kid of my own, despite being hundred of years to old, I kept my child a secret from the government, and didn't keep her in any state registry. Sometimes when you live off the grid, you make some sacrifices in order to keep whatever independence you have. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against the government making minor decisions, but it's not their job to decide what kind of baby an individual has their own body. It's not like she has no social life, but I have to keep watch on who she has as her friends.

If it were the government making a decision about gun ownership, this would be one thing. But it's like every choice an individual makes has to go through the filter of a voting booth. Sorry, but what kind of kid a parent chose to raise did not use to be a matter society got to vote for. When you have politicians that are more interested in the idea of making a quick buck, can we really trust them with the decision to determine what sorts of children a mother may have? Keep in mind this is a government that chooses to go to wars overseas instead of getting rid of the armed forces. This is a government that chooses to genetically engineer babies with designer traits, and them strap their bottoms to shoot them overseas to fight in wars the aristocrats want. I can't trust a government that defines what motherhood should be.

The idea of an individual seems to be an extremely foreign thing in this world. For one, have you tried looking up porn ONLINE lately?

You have to use an onion browser in order to access it without regional restrictions like: no access privileges for those in the US. Let's keep in mind this is the same kind of nonsense were porn businesses ban people for having North Carolina or Alabama addresses, except now the nonsense is even more extreme--North West Carolina, South West Carolina, North East Carolina, and South East Carolina. Same with Alabama: a multi-state state who politically seems to care about "conservative family values" rather than common sense.

Apparently they don't care about the fact that the nation is tearing itself apart by border disputes, so long as they can obsess over social justice issues in previous areas of life where it has nothing to do with that social justice issue. People's families can be torn apart by gunshots and lack Medicaid, and they still argue about whether it's worth giving them access to pornography. "Hey, you could use a nice video of a hand job while you're in the ER." I wouldn't mind a nurse giving me a hand job, at any time of day. But technically that's considered prostitution.

Which by the way the state still draws more intention to the merits of being a prostitute, then why idiots in office seemed to have solved the designer baby problem, but not whether states have the right to succeed.

The priorities in this nation are all backwards.

I want to go back to my own proper time line. Except I can't, I'm an immortal. And immortals can only watch society progress.

I dream of what began my immortality.

I remember my phone beside me.

It's weird how you get used to being the only transplant, and then you meet another and throw your whole perspective for a loop. It was my last aged cigarillo from the Summer of 2016. After I smoked my last cigarillo, and consumed my last vapor, I began to think about how one would make a cannabis cigar.

You might find it quite bizarre, but I always wanted to smoke one. I suppose you could make it using THC glue, using Tobacco leaves for the base cigar. Sure, it's not like smoking a joint, but you get the drug straight into your system, rather than filtered. And I've heard that THC has better effects on the body than tobacco, though I've heard small amount of nicotine are good for you too.

Not that it mattered, I always consumed either for the flavor. I put out my last cigarillo, my last nicotine high for a while. Then the rest of my life comes rushing forward at lightning speed.

The porn pill also has their own flavor profiles, used in some cases to give societal malcontents an outlet for escape. Whatever that personal condition may be. Whoever you may be. It was the new prison, used to reduce the prison population without resorting to overt totalitarian tactics like lining prison women up in rows, and shooting them into mass graves. That would be some countries in the far East, just so you know.

But I've heard things about the porn pill. I've heard from friends that it can drive people insane. Make them withdraw into themselves. Make them wish to forget the heartbreak of their lives. For my friends still live on food stamps, and some of them go on "dates" with their manager's wives. And yet some of the ones I've known that started using it, their lives weren't destroyed yet. So from time to time I thought I'd make a bet. How many more days till I pop one?

While I have fantasies of my own, I have no sins for me to atone. I am against the very idea of atoning. Atoning is for the weak willed. Atoning is so often used for people who have no sense of self-worth. People that eventually give in, and accept bullshit in their daily lives; lives that can blow up like planet in science fiction movies, the safe ones that is. For them the motion picture industry has become their lives; they become drunkards and split from their wives.

For those who still have their lives to tear apart.

Yet for me, everything goes back to the start.

"How much will it be." I say to the cashier, pulling out medical card.

"You'll find out in the receipt." she said, turning to the side to look out the window. Me and her see homeless people sharing pills together. "I wonder why it is even people like that get these. I don't mind the reason, but it's amazing how cheap these have become. I couldn't have bought these myself few months back.".

"You're not from around here are you?" I asked.

"Fairly new to WA. Have a nice day!"

I exit the pill shop. Then explore the rest of my life, and give into a new experience. For the rest of my life.

My personal fantasies.

Yet now I could only think of my futuristic life in abstract children's fantasy narratives, with adult themes trickling through at the speed of the dream world.

I imagined, I dreamed, I wept. I thought of nothing but the little farmer girl, who needed a family. Someone to love her, and that was when I began to remember why it was I wanted to be a children's writer.

I had given up trying because my own issues trickling through, such as the story I am about to tell.

You know it is when raising pigs in the cold weather, often in the chills one may catch a cold. One merely waits as they shiver in their wooden clogs, waiting for the weather to warm up just a little to feed them.

Her family had moved from our previous state, where we once kept a farm. We moved to the big city where there were advertisement screens everywhere. The industrial life has given away to a new lifestyle among her peers. In some of the science fiction novels she read growing up, it is usually the man or woman from the future who looks as if they were a magical being or demon. But instead most of the people looked at them as if they had come from another world. It took a long time to get there in the cart, while others on the city roads were riding motorcycles.

In school she was the object of exotic fetishism among other girls, having a kind of quality of being from another time period. The boys would straighten out their legs under their seats, when she shook her wooden clogs exposing her bare heels and ankles. One even hid their face from her, jeering as she walked by. Thus the first few days of her new senior high school life was marked by uneasy friendships.

I suppose you could call her a Mary Sue, but frankly she would just assume cut you up and put you in her stew.

After dinner she washed the dishes, then went into her room up the stairs. Up, up, up the stairs she walked, resisting the temptation to climb the railing. She opened the door, and popped open her backpack. Inside her leather lunch bag was a little blue pill. She wondered if some of her acquaintances had slipped it in her bag. She wondered if this was what they were referring to when they discussed medicine that allowed them to experience their wildest of fantasies. The farmer girl knew she had desires of her own, but never dared to express them to my religiously conservative family.

She was the Atheist of them, and thus found there would be no sin in trying the pill for herself. And that's when she discovered she liked women.

The stories the I try to hide from the world, in their abstract glow and fantasy glare. Abstract portraits of the self.

I was in a separate world of my own. It was closer to the ideal city beyond the bleed through districts. There were many flying car airplane hybrids flying various floating cities, where people could experience all forms of reality not able to be experienced by the sensually repressed. I found that I would beginning to inflate like a balloon whenever I saw women wearing the latest in German ugly sandal and clog fashion. I found that I could ask other girls out on dates as my own will alone. I found that I could engage in whatever fantasy I desired.

I woke up, unsure how to take the new sensations.

I needed to find a way to get some more of the porn pills. I thought of the lack of childhood in the world of cynical media.

I thought of the nightmare.

Of lost innocence.

Dreams Of Marionettes

It was 4100. Might as well have been 2016.

You haven't lived life when you haven't come to the realization a bunch of it is a lot of wasted energy. The many years that go by when you live your life, and how ultimately at the end you mean nothing. It is 4100 and things haven't changed much for the last two thousand years.

The thing about living in this world, even if one may find meaning for them self, they may always find someone that will try to take away meaning from their life. Even well meaning family members, despite having your best interest at heart, can sometimes wreck your self-esteem. Yet some people like myself never had much of a self-esteem to begin with.

From day to day after college classes, I would indulge in the porn pill. From day to day, I would be left in a daze. From day to day, I will go back to the same nothing that is my life to this day.

I didn't mean to hurt my imaginary friend, but I suppose it could not be helped. She was a little elf girl who I had started dating when I had first taking the medication as an outlet for my fantasies. It's not like I had some of the darkest of sexual fantasies. I suppose I should have listened to one of my ONLINE friends. Not every girl you met is going to be the love of your life. For one lately the girls have began to develop their own personalities outside of the real world individuals sexual desires. I suppose it was inevitable that if I paddled her she would gone on to find someone else. At this point I don't even care if she believes me that I regret what I did. The best I can do is find someone with as close to the same interests as I do.

But over the last few months after I dropped out of classes, I felt things in my life began to change. People complained about how they might go to school and get this really high degree in something, but then even if you manage to get it it doesn't necessarily mean you will be able to be hired anywhere. Often times many of my friends ended up becoming overqualified. Some had to turn to prostitution in order to make ends meet, selling their dreams in mass consensual porn pill shared night terror.

But for me because I managed to quit college, I was able to find a meager job as a bathroom sweep. Although it's not like it used to be, it became something of an unlucky profession. Many people would refuse to shake my hands. I wondered whether I should do chimneys.

Now hear I am feeling sorry for myself. I rest on the couch staring up at the ceiling, you can find me watch the wallpaper peeling, as I drift off to sleep after taking me porn pill.

In my personal lucid dream, I find myself exploring different versions of the same motel room. I find that each time I went to bed in that dream the following dream would arrange the room a little bit differently. Sometimes I would find myself exploring cities that were impossible like Seattle, California or Los Angeles, Washington. Each time I would go back to sleep across different skyscraper hotels, I can never fulfill the previous days obligations, as the cities would be a little bit different. I explored cities built from impossible shapes.

And there amongst the hallucinations, I found her again. I found her waiting for me by Seattle's Golden Gate, holding at a hand for me to hold. And I felt at once that things would be alright.

But I never got to grab her hand. She jumped off the bridge into the endless ocean. I tried to jump, but found I rolled off of the bed.

Another bruise for another dream.

The dreams of personal desires. I found myself having a sinking feeling, and suddenly my whole life became clear. That I might never find my own meaning.

I met my girlfriend on break from work, just outside the office building. She offered to purchase me a bag of Virginia tobacco, sense I stopped smoking abruptly about a month ago. "Is something wrong with what I said?" she asked.

"No no no, not at all. What you said just reminded me of an experience I had at the bus stop. This one guy offered to purchase us groceries using fenced food stamps." I said, clearing out my throat. "Sorry, no I've love some thank you." I carefully tried to change the subject, but she was persistent.

"What about him? We have a bit before the smoke shop." she said, keeping an eye on her watch. Then gently tugged on my arm.

"It's nothing, let's go. Want some ice cream after word?" .

"But I thought you said you were poor. How can you afford it."

"I'm not that poor."

"So let's talk about it at lunch!"

It had been a few months sense I had not been around people for very much. I was to preoccupied with talking my nightly dose of the porn pill. I wasn't sure how she would take me consuming it, as she might prefer I focus on her. But focusing on personalized dreams of guillotined and pilloried girls is bound to affect your sex drive for other girls, even if you call yourself lesbian. This was on my mind as we had lunch.

"You see, I was standing up trying to be cool about having to stand in the rain. My best friend at the time found it quite profane." I took a long suck on a class A roll your own cigarette. "Because you see, I should be able to ask for a seat instead of just hoping to get one. But it wasn't like that at all. I would have just been as happy standing up. But this guy sat diagonally. My poor friend sat on the ground."

"So what about the fenced food stamps?"

"Well my friend was under the impression he bought stolen stamps from somebody. But the guy would kick me all the time."

"Well you won't have to worry about that from me." She took a bite from Thai Red Curry. "The roll your own isn't fenced."

"I know cause I watched you purchase it from the shop."

So that was how we met. I introduced her to the Satanic Temple, told her about the mission statement of the unchurch. Before you ask, that's not why I've been around for a long time. That's just how my genes are made up. I was able to convert her to our cause, and sometimes she goes to events with us.

We often go to the library together looking for books.

We both like to read Magic Realism.

Your life is never quite the same once you see a bear on the third floor. Even as a six year old, the difference between you and the bear isn't reassured by the fact that it's stuffed. It might be hungry later.

It was 2862 and I revisited my dad's office after his funeral over a hundred year ago, in order to visit some old friends that may have known him. But some have long sense retired. And one in particular I knew he had already died from a heart attack. I popped in a porn pill, which gave my social interactions among old friends a unique flavor. I was busy in dream land chilling out with girls in warping lounge, while the guys who was present in the office were commenting on my erection. In this section of my life, there are no answers except for the ones you can form for yourself.

I exited the office to go visit the third floor, and wondered if there was still the giant bear of which tormented my childhood. Instead the bear there was much shorter than I had remembered, and it had a coat of graying fur. "It's been a while old friend." I said the now much smaller bear. The thing about bears is the more exposure you have to them, the more used to them you get

The bear seemed to come alive, and then hopped on all fours. Then it offered me a ride on his back, of which I took the offer.

There isn't much appeal for bear facts, but there is plenty of appeal for various dance shows I visited with the bear. The bear wore a school girl outfit for the occasion, and to much surprise some guys felt like flirting with the bear. Once the dance show was over, I made sure not to ask any of the girls for a date.

At home I took my porn pill as usual, and dreamed of girls being guillotined and paddled in college. I dreamed of the different cheesy biscuits I got to eat. Me and the bear got some girls for each other, while we split a cheesy biscuit for each other. Then exchanged turns doing an elven girl in the pillory from behind. I have no regrets for my life so far.

There is no reason to unwind.

I called the office, and asked if a stuffed bear went missing. They said no, and commented that the stuffed bear is still there as usual.

I suppose that's the bear facts.

"I'm going to get drunk again." I said, to nobody in particular.

"But you don't do good things to yourself when you're drunk." my friend said. We've been together for only five months, and so far she's been the only one to care what I did to myself while I was drunk.

Sure I attempt suicide every so often, although if anyone asks I'm just trying to get really high. But anyone who has ever tried ammonia knows, the experience is totally unlike being high. Your vision blurs about, you start to feel dizzy, and all of a sudden you have to pee. The mix of pee and vomit fills the room, and suddenly you hang out in the bathroom in the dark waiting for the Grim Reaper to take you by the hand.

But not every night is so lucky.

It's been a few months sense I started taking the porn pill. So far most of the results have been me being able to repress my desires enough to only dream about girls being spanked with a paddle in college. Yet on some nights my dreams take other forms, dreams beyond my wildest fantasies. As if some other nightmare were watching me as I sleep that night.

I constantly feel like I'm being watched.

I wake up in a breathless panic, and wait for somebody to come knock on the door, and come take me away to enjoy smoking, I just like having enough matches to sharpen into toothpicks, and hem prod people with in order to annoy them. Sometimes I poke a little bit to hard, and they go to the emergency room. But those times are gone, I want to be able to to sleep.

If I had a better mother I would weep.

But why weep if nobody weeps for me.

My best friend is not home now, and yet now I realize no matter what I do I'll never be able to succeed at anything.

It was like this back in the Summer of 2016.

The year of the end of my life, I hoped at the time. Instead I wait for her to come home, and once again wait for dinner and the next porn pill.

I'm hoping for the final cure.

I remembered my second suicide attempt only briefly.

It has been many months since I had met him. The Winter of 4200 was an especially cold one. The daffodils and daisies wilted from the lack of sunlight for the next month and a half.

To this day I have dreams that he has come for me. That he comes with a scythe and intends to take me back home again.

I have lived beyond the time of many members, well beyond the normal mortal life. Sometimes I dream of faces from centuries ago that I wish were still here. I wonder how they would feel about the medical technology of today. They had just remastered sub light deep space travel, and sometimes we travel beyond the stars. One of the new leaders goes by the name of Lars. We travel the stars to keep a watch out on religious extremism, although there are no light shows. Real life is much more boring, I spend most of my time writing diary entries.

Sometimes it gets lonely in the dark.

But I can be the light in the darkness.

I dream of space Marionettes. I dance among their kin in funeral tap dances.

In my dream they hang from the wires, admiring the floor from the crystal spires. They have been up there sense forever. The marionettes, though human looking, no longer needed wires to stay above.

I admired the way they were carved so intricately, how they looked almost no different from other women and men. How they dangled about, in their own little town above the Cathedral of the stars. From time to time I would visit the Cathedral on the spaceship. We had a replica of classic churches, because the originals had long sense gone to dust and crumbled from time on the abandoned Earth. Yet these Marionettes were almost exact replicas of the ones before the migration. Their little wooden clogs had ornate carved patterns reminding one of galaxies. I have wanted to hang out with them, to inquire to them as to what it is like to be a marionette.

But soon I would find out.

It was the following evening after I got off of work, cleaning the floors as a Janitor for the space estate. I visited the cathedral, that seemed to come alive at night, or whatever night meant in space. And there I saw the marionettes having dance parties, and making friends. No longer were they held by wires, if they ever were at all. Instead I was greeted by two marionette women, who wanted me to dance with them. They were tap about in their little ornately carved wooden clogs, and we were share the evening's dishes between us as friends.

So I asked them how it is they could animate.

One of them inquired as to what animation meant. Then it occurred to me, these were not marionettes at all, but rather young women and men held captive by time, frozen until they may come alive when the time is right, so that they must interact with the rest of humanity. The women I met, invited me over to the couch. I popped myself a porn pill, and imagined myself elsewhere. And in my delusion I found myself bleeding between the reality of the animated marionettes, and the other points in time engaging in fantasies of my own personal desires until I lost myself.

I joined the marionettes, lost to time.

The time of the marionettes.

I celebrated my own obscurity.

I lost my right eye in a spaceflight accident, was able to get a prosthetic. Even still this new eye isn't as good as it could be. Some of my friends have lost more crucial limbs, and are currently spending a longer amount of time in healing capsule waiting for new limbs to be grown to replace their old parts. The thing about us is, nobody wants to save us. Everybody seems to hate us. We all the nobodies in what remains of the civilization once called Earth. Even you hate us, despite claiming your willing to save everyone. Because for you, someone has to be in danger of death. We've been locked up in the prison for a very long time, longer than you have visited our colony. All we ask is that you leave us be, let us exist in our own micro-verse.

The thing about the people we experiment on, they've grown up without ever seeing sunlight. Some of them, I must see, have never seen sunlight. Listen to how they call your name, and proclaim their right to live with others treating it as if their individual rights were quit profane.

We are the lost men and women.

The children of darkness. Under the roof of the prison ship, we find out solace among the damned. Here we choose which limbs we want to replace for better models. Mortality is not longer the goal. Everyone that we know and love is right here with us. We may never be able to die again. Who knows how long it has been sense we replaced our limbs. We are essentially marionettes locked in time. Our wooden clogs have special galactic insignias based on the region we rule. We are viewed as gods to other planets, and yet to us many of us long for mortality.

We long to be mortal men.

But sometimes things don't work out that way. We put our based foot forward, take over worlds, watch them decay and move onto other planets, bringing everyone we can carry with us to become immortals themselves. That is our ultimate destiny, our final legacy of time.

We are the lost men. The ones god can't kill.

The children of the night.

It has been a few weeks since I indulged in the porn pill. At night begin to dream about my dreams while I would take the porn pill, but my doctor advised that I stay off of it for a bit for my mental health.

My doctor felt that I was beginning to become dependent on it, that I was starting to neglect human relationships. But when you've been alive for one thousand eight hundred years, you start to neglect them for the simple fact that everyone that you grew up with along with everyone else that you have known is dead. While the others may reincarnate into modern youth in future's time, I stay around and wait for a chance to die even though that may never happen. The flying cars in the city on the starship zip at lightning speed, faster than normal human eyes can catch. It's weird to think that I still have to work, even though most people long before my age would have qualified for retirement. But that's how my life seems to go. Obscure concepts like the Satanic Temple and Church Of Satan have faded into a kind of historical note, although I have known friends who have associated themselves with such.

At night when I am at home I go against my doctor's wishes, and continue to imbibe on the porn pill. All my worries, all my withdrawals, they all begin to fade away. At times I am visited by the Grim Reaper, but he merely taunts me and tells me it is not yet my time to go. I suppose that is just as well. While I am an atheist and know there is no hell, I wonder on some level what it would be like to go to hell. I need warm, and the underworld would certainly have plenty of it.

I rest and dream of elven girls in pillories.

In the morning I visit the park, I visit all there is in the city to visit to. I take bus rides simply because I can. I would occasionally go to Thai restaurants and buy enough for the whole week. Anything that would get me out of the house, where I merely sleep and remain quiet as a mouse. I go back home to eat.

Here I enjoy a normal quiet dinner. The Antique DVD

I remember when I purchased an antique DVD.

The mere image of someone you know, can bring back memories of a past you wished you could forget. Time bombs has already ran out of numbers, it's only a matter of time now.

When I think of women, I think of people prettier than me. I think of people that have an easier time getting dates. I think of people that always get the best seats in a fine dining restaurant, ordering the best steak. And whenever their date brought his little best friend along, she would always avert her eyes away from the elephant in the room. Blond had always been something of indifference to me, but for whatever reason that memory stuck out in my mind. If there ever any moment where I wanted to try being a man, that ruined it. I would have preferred being revealed as trans under any other circumstance. Not that circumstance.

I remembered Emma Dunking Bowling Balls. How she had rejected me, because somehow even sure knew I was not a male.

My issues with Nordic women had started on that night. I wasn't averse to having issues with women of other hair colors, and my family had at one point wanted me to get a punching bag to settle whatever scores I had in my mind. But no amount of punching on the bag would take away the anger that was inside me. No amount of punching could take away the hate that I felt for myself, and how that blond made me feel. It was the Summer of 2014 when I purchased an antique copy of a so bad its good movie. The girl that had upset me while I was still in high school still burned inside my mind like some deranged visceral reaction.

The memory made me want to end things, all over again. I bought myself a revolver. I bought myself a coffee energy drink. I bought myself a can of lighter fluid, and went home in a wink. I got out the copy of the DVD, with that woman's face on it, the actress who long sense been dead by this point. She wasn't the blond that hurt me, but her image was close enough to the girl that I so viscerally hated.

I tossed the DVD case in the air, and shot it with a revolver. Then I dozed it in lighter fluid. Yet before decided to light it on fire, I decided to keep it. I needed a case to keep the DVD, and it wasn't exactly like it was her fault I hated blonds. Honestly she didn't even have the same name as the girl I hated.

But I decided to let the DVD remain, for one more night. I put up the DVD, then finished the drinks. Then to the world I said goodnight.

It was my antique DVD.

I was simply Pace.