It’s easy to hate, just lean back; masturbate, think of nothing; just enjoy the show of moving tongues. Easier still, is to judge those, who are unable to trust another enough to love.

Its easier, if all the girls in the world were merely sex dolls; subservient, docile, other words that mean the same thing. Just lean forward, gown down on the Bastille scaffold; wait for that angular blade to take your breath away. But life isn’t suicide victim, who paradoxically is also a murderer. We no longer live in a world of wooden clogs, horses pulling plows, and women losing their heads on guillotines. Instead is a world of neon lights, street fights, and night club Saturday nights. It’s also easy to give into the flow of intoxicating substances, drowning in memories gone by. But I was not one to go parties, no matter the context. Whether that be for a carnival, a festival, or a fare; all technically different. All essentially words for the same thing. Instead what remains is complete unadulterated fetish, not filtered by beautiful girls from earlier time periods, moving into the present, nor the beautiful flawless cybernetic girl, covered in silicon and fiberglass.

Or the flow of French kisses upon on an Irish girls by Dutch Latinos.

Her words for the French, as for a long time, despite having lived right in the border between, she never could quiet admit to loving French girls. And when she could, it was a different sort of love; a different sort of life. A life not caught up in browsing animation porn. Her personal favorite was different variation of Gore Porn, for the girl the world seems to scorn. The flow of blood from severed necks, flowing like musical notes from a deranged dub step rendition of Bach’s Funeral Marches. Or Katana blades swinging aimlessly, without an actual body controlling the blade, likely not knowing a digital rendition of a girl in a pair of wooden shoes and a cotton cap, was even in front it, simply using its sharpness to cut away whatever was in the way.

Pulsation, masturbation. Vibration, nirvana rave. Gothic pornography, haunted cassette tapes. The flow of paintings from another era, representing various methods of decapitation, which was her personal favorite method of execution, like the headless horseman from Sleepy Hollow. Butchered flawless cybernetic princess peaches, sliced open and bled.

There goes her head. There goes another missed rave.

There goes a missing date.

It’s easy to imagine humans having difficulty blurring the order in which events happen. A different thing when historical cultures throughout thousands of years of human development, have confused the order in which Creation and the exodus from some fictional Garden Of Eden happened.

In actuality, there was a Bison, that belonged with its own family, among other begot verbiage within the animal kingdom. Humans, in actuality, were as sentient as the animals, with the only advantage being what they could do with their hands. They would create sprawling underground sports stadiums, at times blurring with genetic laboratories. Often the objects of bread and circus would be kidnapped animals from the “old god’s kingdom.”

However this isn’t the story of a world gone by.

This is the story of computer hacker, whom lives in the next generation of humanity’s destruction.

My grandmother had lived in an era, in which you could find portable information storage mediums, in the same period in which one may find Japanese samurai. When she would bring different graphics novels for herself to read, back when she was a teenager, often that Asian island would be unsure of what the books were. And yet, simultaneously, would find many readers within the same nation could never never imagine life without the little books. I had a portable storage medium that had went down in size to the level of something one could plug in their smart phone, and she would sometimes get in trouble for taking encrypted versions of pirated music to her classmates. Compare this to the old cartridges that seem to barely fit inside a suitcase.

But there wasn’t anything that my principle or teachers could do. My superiors could not break it, and often it was just before my family would go the Beach that Summer. They decided it was a waste of time to send me to Summer school, as my family never made me attend anyway, so they mainly crammed me full of information during the main semesters, so that I could get as good as grades as I could.

At times I would read historical novels, and not historical text books. The difference was in the matter of approach: with textbooks one would merely receive information fed to them, while in a historical novel, one would experience the information first hand, through different people one would meet, in periods I could never visit. Gin never understood why my teachers chose to only assign textbooks.

But I wasn’t a teacher.

I preferred computers.

Abuse is one of those things its hard to come to grips with, if you weren’t aware of the extent of it at the time. People calling your diaries rant books doesn’t generally help. Suppressing your feelings generally does more harm than good. So consider this the diary of me and my inner madness.

I never knew any other way; it was easy, it was life. I hoped to keep my brother’s knife, as the blood fell down the floor from the sword to the tiles below the amber lights. Masturbating to mystical fairy gore; severed heads, paddled bottoms, the works. Swords cutting bone and tissue, hearing fairy screams from a megaphone; a sound like crying in one’s sleep.

I held up the fairy’s head. “Where is my frozen bean and rice burrito.” Cage lattes were all the rage, another painfully long age playing the matching game. I was matched with a trophy noggin.

I long time before another latte; I wilted, I shed no tears. Yet I was still crying inside. The fairy girl was quite the hotshot, haughty like all the others. But just a simulation inside of the artificial simulated world, where purple slime was more common than monsoons; the plague the only escape from total misery of the flesh. It was one of those days I did not feel like doing much; I logged out, and cooked me a frozen burrito, or as the Spanish put it, fucking tiny donkeys. Then logged back in. The game was a turn based tactical RPG, with medieval fantasy elements; everything from early firearms to out of place guillotines, the flow of blood coming through my veins like electricity for Edison.

The artificial world had reached a stage of development, where it began to rival people’s experiences in the real world. When your father chooses immediate comforts over personal riches, it gets to this point. Most people prefer to pretend to be knights in shining armor, even if the combat mechanics were nothing like using an actual blade. Twirling maniacally, scoring a hit as much out of luck than through sheer skill, comparatively better than watching Russia baiting and porn stars on network television; it’s easy to lose yourself when you can be anyone that you want to be. Easy to follow some arbitrary hero’s framework engineered by corporate puppeteers. The American empire in decline.

The alien invasion felt like it was yesterday, but now the aliens have used humanity’s addiction to their own advantage. The overlords preferring blind obedience than to questioning authority.

I fell into a coma of radioactive screenplays.

Rewinding backwards in time.

The scientist placed me on his examination table, prodding my with his magnifying glass like a mad doctor whose license had been revoked. I tried looking around. Other prisoners were also locked in their cages like animals, and sleeping like dogs. The scientist wondered why I had not yet been conked out as well; Slowly he filled up his needle with some unknown fluid, my arms strapped tightly on the table, as if it were a gurney for those sentenced to death by guillotine; convulsing, shivering; I felt a cold sensation riding down the tube of my spine, mixed with the chill air.

“I’ve been watching you for some time, I remember your brother, as I felt him slowly dying in my palms.” His laugh was closer to the sound of a sawtooth on a tin plate, rather than anything a normal human would make. My vision blacked out slowly, like a blind person staring at bright lights for to long. Visions became dreams, and dreams became nightmares, the tubes of ones heart inadequately pumping blood to the rest of my body. I woke up with a helmet over my head, affixed with wires to the ceiling. Inside the game, I was inside of a cavern. The sounds of rats and bats engaging in their midnight hunt. My body felt heavy, could only move my neck. A fellow player, a rogue with a bow and arrow, along with cigarette papers and a quill pen held out her hand, and escorted me to the palace.

Exhausted, feeling like a mass of lead bowling balls. Self doubt rushing in like a beta reader commenting on a your life being a collection of micro cliche. The plot of unplanned setbacks. I wanted to kill the scientist, but instead I was stuck in a maze of masturbating elf girls, free sex inside the castle walls, which were decorated with solid gold. Any reasonable person knew that if any amount of lightning struck, everyone in the room would be fried. Once the rogue dragged me to the queen, she pushed me down abruptly.

I knew I was stuck in the game.

I didn’t need to be executed.

I could be beheaded multiple times at each game over screen, a bloody serrated ax meeting skin and bone.

But now there was no game over.

The game had only begun.

The scientist installed the game software inside of a local area network, so dream-scanners couldn’t snoop inside, unless they were using his specific CPU models, and got himself multi-ports with female connections, the players could wander within multiple levels without an escape. Like mental orbital velocity while smoking a joint and swallowing pure LSD. It took many years to create this network of stages, so the legend goes. He used a specialized portable network on a thumb drive, that he could use to determine on my behalf where I would progress to next. If a certain computer is not connected, then that stages would not be available, until Molokai turned on the Ruby script.

Until this, I was stuck inside of an endless loop, gathering experience points from battling monsters many levels below my current strength. Not available to move onto the next boss. While I played, I managed to learn the game’s code inside and out, analyzing characters in detail. I had had experience reprogramming old artificial intelligence scripts, and it was tiresome having to replay through the same levels meeting the same old queen. The background music a sad rendition of “I don’t want to wait”, the Queen having similar damsel in distress fetishes and Princess Peach in the Mario games.

Every AI, at least in Ruby language, always contained within a class: in this case it was a dialogue class with a rogue like skin of cheap @ signs. But do to the nature of virtual reality, instead of an @ sign, it was a remodeling featuring a three dimensional matrix of fake skin and bone, rendered in a home brew variants of open source human anatomy, with limited sets of clothing. Apparently the scientist had no time for specific tailored outfits. Although apparently the current fashion culture was also as if the twentieth century. But I was fairly positive that these characters were different coloration variants of the same crowd in the castle and town. I had no major experience in three dimensional rendering, having mostly drawn old stupid web comics using Charcoal.

When the scientist wasn’t looking, I took off my headset. I didn’t want him to know I found a way to take it off.

I needed a way to copy over the servers.

Or be caught in the same old loop.

A loop of three dimensional @ signs.

Carefully I took one of the unused wires, used it to snatch a thumb drive off the scientists desk.

I wasn’t sure why the scientist would be so stupid as to just leave his thumb drives hanging around. For all I knew, this was all part of his plan. Perhaps he wanted me to evolve at my own pace, but something in me wondered whether he really thought that through, or whether it was another mindless game, like playing reruns of the music video “I don’t want to wait”. If I was one of the other prisoners, perhaps there wouldn’t be a major risk of evolving to quickly, and by that point the scientist himself would have gathered enough experience points to become something like a god in his own mind.

I hated music before.

I hated it even more now.

Placing the game inside my helmet, I transferred all my levels and equipment over to the next series of plot lines. However something was different this time. I had forgotten to wipe out some of the old MC as per the instructions. I met the rogue girl after I had exited the castle after the last quest, who was still wanting to follow along.

But she didn’t repeat the same old lines.

“Boring game huh?” she said.

“What makes you say that? And…” I began to ask, wondering to finish my other question about how she knew how I felt.

“At least with you, you’re still not converted. There is still a part of you that is still human, despite the tortures of the flesh. And yet for me, I was not always an AI.”

I wasn’t sure what she was implying.

But for now I wanted to act as if nothing changed.

Day came and went, nightfall.

As I played the game, outside the game, I could hear the sounds of some chained up creature inside of the halls. It sounded like no animal that I was familiar with. I wondered if it was one of the alien invaders that the military was able to capture, feeding it some of their malcontents. The scientist, I could hear him speaking, almost in a chant, but I wasn’t quite sure what the specific words were. The creatures words were in a tongue I also could not recognize. The rogue girl snapped me back to attention, and reminded me were were being surrounded by a group of giant spiders.

She shot the one behind me with a crossbow, while I attacked the remaining forces forces with a falx. The falx was a special type of two handed sword, the Eastern European equivalent to the Japanese Katana, except this one predated it by a matter of centuries, back when the Roman Empire was still barely clinging to life. The Romans had to double the size of their helmets in order to properly protect themselves from the onslaught. It carried most of its power in the weight of the inward curved blade. In contrast, the Japanese Katana was much lighter, and designed to bend rather than snap in half. A sword could easily be bent back into shape, but fixing a snapped blade was much harder. But Spiders armor was nothing like Roman armor, having more in common with Arachnids, with an external skeletons. They crawled about in a kind of hive mind. The skeleton was almost metallic looking, unlike the spiders that I had seen in the flesh.

The arrows the rogue girl kept firing would only bounce off the armor, despite the crossbow being many times more powerful than a longbow, having more in common with early firearms, but with significantly more accuracy than the hand canon that were given out to infantry men during various medieval wars. I had the chance to try out some of the head canons, but it just wasn’t the same as trying to fire multiple arrows at once. So I kept to mainly chopping off limbs of different attacking creatures until I reached th boss.

Nightfall looms.

It was a distant memory.

I embedded the steganography key inside a .jpg file. The image, located inside a specially created folder, keeping the key used to encrypt and decrypt the message completely secret. But this wasn’t a venture into using one time material, as it was a different kind of cipher. One that’s reciprocal with the correct user name, but a regular Caesar cipher to those uninitiated. Consider the rot13 cipher, completely insecure to those who know how it’s encrypted, but really not even encrypted at all. The true major problem was not being able to encrypt the same cipher text more than once.

On the other hand, if you created a special kind of rot13 assigned to a specific user name, then you can give your friend your user name rot13 modification, and they can give you theirs. This was as much as she could socially manage, she had her reasons.

When I go through life feeling like a bad comedy skit on Argentinian television programming, the only foreigner in the room, the only way to cope with it is to lash out in self-defense. When all the world’s humor was directed at one’s personal expense, like opening a twelve gauge shotgun, loading it with arsenic laced pellet bullets. Shooting it a oneself in all directions, aiming toward one’s central essence, scattering into millions of pieces.

It was when my last friend who entered into the television business, where there was a sense of cultural acceptability of discussing subjects related to murder of a political figure.

Generally under the guise of a school boy’s fart joke. Do to Spain being their conquerors, the target was generally the Spanish Queen. But I supposed this was much better than being cooped up in a lodge just outside of Chattanooga, purchasing old fashioned android smart phone shades. I had thoughts of myself as an extreme anarchist, but tended to quickly buckle under pressure. But the way I tend to buckle under pressure, is slicing open a rival’s cheek with a serrated and slightly blunted falx blade.

It didn’t help that most people I know here didn’t speak a word of French, and I had wanted to stop speaking English as soon as I moved out of Trump’s America. Truth be told, I hated conflict. Leaving behind years of unwritten history in my wake. Wanting each page from my own past completely wiped. Being apprehended by a Totalitarian government was not much of a deterrent.

If felt like you didn’t have a life at all.

I was an alien in my own skin, for more reasons than just being trans female. Life was a flavor of cheap ass Comet cleaner, carefully vomited out by drinking lots of bottled water. Unsure how much of the poison still flowed inside my veins, I didn’t feel like discussing the matter with my extended relationships across the United States. It was difficult enough for me to get them to accept my moving to another state without any prior warning, swallowing what felt like a bottle of anti-depressants to mask the feelings of my own dysphoria. My own personal circumstances were different from most, with what seemed like most of my old friends from my old life participating mindlessly in protest movement the state wants on to pay attention to. But she was another minority.

Growing up, it wasn’t simply a matter of being sensitive to light, staying up long past midnight. Carefully combing my long black hair. Spending most days wandering through endlessly looping mazes in my VR cardboard headset, I found it as a way to distract from my endless supply of apparently false memories. There was much of her life she still didn’t want to write about, but some of it would accidentally get leaked out do to authorial carelessness.

But sometimes it feels like ones life isn’t there.

Like it wasn’t even real.

Revealing some of my own inner desires, attracting the attention of the audience that I never wanted, if not outright dreaded: teenagers that liked to pretend to belong to the Gothic sub culture. For my own self-worth, it wasn’t a matter of being or dressing goth.

It was sexual attraction to blood. The blood flowing through one’s veins. Yet here I was now, masturbating to flying princess heads like it’s going out of style, just another way to pass the time like playing football, or solving Sudoku puzzles. I cut through human bone like it was nothing. Mirages splitting into human jigsaws, blue and green blood spilling on my face like cheap fireworks.

It was as if I never was good at all.

My life, my fall.

My oblivion.

That estranged life.

The midnight forest songbirds singing, hear the raindrop pinging. Hear the sounds of crying crickets, within the woods and thicket. That long for night to never end. Even as one glides through darkness, invisible, one remains seen as a silhouette through life. The little rain droplets in the air, pouring. The old bedtime stories, with grandmother’s snoring. If only the old fairy tales remained, and the superstitions of fairies remained. Yet the technology we know and consider dear, has removed much of this mystery, yet what remains behind are remnants of their old society.

They are waiting.

They long for blood. Ghost stories hidden within wires of encoded text, scrawled on encrypted web pages using public key cryptography, waiting for one bug, exploited by the invisibles in society, in order to steal people’s financial data. They commit crimes for attention, because they don’t want to admit to themselves they nobody cares about them anymore.

Their way of crying out.

Their way to know they’re not dead. I could have become one of the lost ones, yet found that the very nature of her fragile friendships, made it such that she always narrowly avoided a life of crime and homelessness. It was a fragile and superficial veneer, one that could break into millions of little pieces at any moment. She dreams of vampires following her, yet by day it is as if they aren’t there. Yet they speak in riddles to her, calling her name. And at times she considered sending herself to a ward.

Yet her visions were like a perpetual early condition of psychic tumors, never showing up for the radiation treatment. But always on the verge of perpetual migraines.

I felt out of place in society.

Yet even more in myself.

It was as if I didn’t exist.

Adulthood is only an age, if one defined it as by the time one reached eighteen. Yet for so many often people still struggle to find themselves long after high school. If they represented society, the US would raise the age to drink to age thirty five, the match the current issue of people living with their parents for a longer period of time.

That’s not to say that more government is a good thing.

Bare in mind, in this same world, often political activities would be pummeled by maces, among other instruments of misery and masochism. Mixed with a certain level of ubiquitous neo-Nazism, one could assume the only person worth governing anything about their lives is themselves, and when one can’t even trust that, it leads to a degree of morbid appreciation for the control in complete chaos and disarray. For Gin, she was this disarray, she was the virus that could bring order to society. By first helping herself.

But tonight was different.

I was helpless.

I was fatigued.

Nightly river flow flowing along winter snow. Rain drops falling. The mountain snow falls, falling falling slow. Cherry trees burning hot. Since midnight, chimney hot. Farewell to midnight. The elves knocking down the chimney, falling. Demons from river sticks. The gremlins carve the girls wooden shoes, while humming supernatural midnight blues. Some say its a reward for a season. Yet in truth, we may not know the reason. For the clogs by the chimney bricks dusted by tools so ancient and rusted dusting the clogging, have burn marks in a spiral. Some say it matches a galactic design.

Yet in truth it may be stranger than divine. For though the children play, they are not working. For the Winter Season disables exiting lodging. Night terrors know no season release. Instead one waits for the hot Summer grease. It is easy to live alone. The mountain snow falls, falling falling slow. Cherry trees burning hot since midnight, chimney hot. Farewell to midnight starlight.

The midnight call into another fantasy story, reeks of erotic release.

Yet the release is faint and subtle, yet so near.

With this I thought, whether anyone has considered the feelings of the thumb drive, constantly being beat up inside an envelope, until it reaches its destination. Not a fairy, not an elf, but the closest thing to living swine. One of her least pleasant readers, who send cash for yet another subscription.

I wanted to crush the thumb drive with her clogs.

The rogue girl was one of those women, no matter how many times you tried showing her evidence of something, she would stick by her opinion no matter what. A certain level of faithfulness generally unmatched by most intelligent people. But the Internet has made it such that it’s easy for these people whom spout statements without evidence, to proliferate their opinions to the unthinking masses. But for time being, this was a skill that I was able to exploit when trying to find a way toward the end of the game.

She was able to avoid attracting the suspicion of different incarnations of the Queen, in different iterations, in different fantasy worlds: from Ancient Egypt to modern day France. Reality crumbling each level or so, like floating platformer stair cases. She was able to take me to different hidden mini-game I never thought to explore before. And in doing so, I was able to get many of the thumb drives that prevent our progression. At first it seemed like the end of this madness was near, and I could finally reach the key that could release me from this cell, and finally put an end to this madness. However as I reached the final boss, the Rogue girl stabbed my MC in the back, literally and figuratively. It took work to finally take her down, her having benefited from the countless hours of level up in different fantasy dungeons in various chapters.

Eventually as I was able to escape, she tried following me, but I pushed her into a garbage can, and let the guards find her decapitated corpse. Carefully I mopped the floor to hide evidence of blood, along the semen that had excreted out of my lady parts.

If there was any point where I reconsidered having murdered her, that opportunity was not gone.

She became food for indescribable creatures.

But for me, I was able to regroup my senses. And then carefully avoid detection until I could locate the office of the scientist. Slowly, without dripping blood anywhere. Eventually, I lock picked the scientist’s office. But as it turned out, the scientist wasn’t there.

I find a net of robe get thrust-ed upon me by a guard I did not manage to knock out cold. There was a sleep agent that filled the room, and soon everything became silent.

I hard voices in darkness.

The darkness became a pit.

That time I was fed to an alien.

But instead of being digested, I was able to cut myself out of its body, killing it with no pleasure. After being surrounded by the guards, I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I cut their heads off.

Now as I have Molokai cornered, I don’t give him the chance to recount the ultimate plan he had. I didn’t need to, as I had the notebook in my hands that sketched out all the local area networks that connected various computers. I used the master password to free the remaining prisoners, who were all in a daze wondering what the hell happened.

Molokai was dead, I shot him in the head.

I fed his body to the surviving baby Alien, the offspring of the one that tried to eat me. Then on our group had a new pet.

It had a taste for smart people.

And I saw lots of smart people.

The remains of the old military base floor was covered in blood, and I washed my hands about the filth that made my life a living hell for the last few months. But the song that went “I don’t want to wait” kept playing in my head, like a toxic ear worm, and I had enough.

“Guys, let’s get out of here.”

“Come on”, said a voice in the distance. A silhouette of a rogue girl, who looked like the one I knew in the game. Her body rebuilt from rusty robot parts. “Lets go guys, place is going to blow.”

“I thought you…”

“Shush now, lets enjoy our freedom. Besides, I need myself some new robotic arms and legs.”

5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Game Over.

That was how I got tinnitus, the song “I don’t want to wait” playing forever and ever till the end of time. But the rogue girl had her own Flamenco, playing softly in our bed, which somewhat drowned out the noise. The rest of the story followed after. But all you need to know is this.

She blew me off, then blew me on.

And now I have things going on.

I just wish the music could stop.

When I returned home from Italy, things were never the same. Life bones you like a python. I woke up that morning with a spider bite, yet I didn’t call my mother. It was no use, as she had been dead for a decade.

Regarding the spider, I thought of it in the same way, human teenagers, thought of dildos and condoms. With my pet snake in my bed, it wrapped its tale around my legs like a mouse caught playing a deadly game of cage wheel. My house was made of neon infused tumbleweed, as I stared into the metro sprawl ahead of me, with the same level of disdain, Hitler had for Jews, and Stalin had for the human race. For those who don’t know me, they might think I’m I was bound to snap at a cop someday, and while it would never be a cop, there was not entirely far from the truth. But it would never be a cop, but rather a pimp. Scales, my lovely pet, would wrap itself gently around the curves of my body, its skin the same color as Mexican sand. I wanted to see the world burn.

Yet the faster I walked, pursuing my revenge, for the man whom had sold me into slavery, the more the land of rising sun seemed to move one hundred miles further away than I had calculated. At one point, it seemed as far away as the Moon was to Bangkok. My pet snake, Scales, was my gift from Thailand, after my mother had returned home from the states. At one point I wanted let it wrap itself around my neck, and have it let-her-rip. But the lizard did not eat junk food, preferring home raised paranoid fish.

To the snake, I was essentially carp.

Bone inedible; desirable only for lowly men.

I covered myself in a home made tarp, waited to die. But the snake was hungry for my flesh, but wanted me alive during the process; it would crush my limbs, tickle the bones, gulping at my memories of earlier days, scrounging for scraps of bread on the street. Waiting calmly for oblivion, I thought of the time that I had turned a century plus three years.

She much for rot and tumbleweed.

Memory was all I had besides Scales, and a part of me still wanted to return to Italy, despite not knowing the language. I had mistakenly assumed it was similar to learning French. I didn’t pay attention to warning signs, like generic Tomato Sauce jars with mediocre Italian names. I thought life would not continue, as least not as it was. After a month I’d month up a lung, die of smoking. But do to my regenerative gene, it grew back in a ween. Somewhat like a curse, a song of a life living between Purgatory and Hell. Singing like an angel in my blood, but only at an estranged aunt’s funeral.

My genes used themselves as a pee pot, spraying its matter reject, and giving my an excess of dead skin that gradually withers away into nothingness. Like an unbuckled passenger inside a SR-71 Blackbird, if the lack of oxygen didn’t get you, the sudden stop will. And your stop was in a city, meeting the seven deadliest of sin, and none of the ones taught of in Biblical verse. I lived in my own micro-universe, my own bubble called life.

Crushed by gravitation inertia, taunted by its aunt Bertha.

Tossed out from the old life to the next.

My family regarded me in the same way as a prostitute grown in a vat, so it was easy to get into that line of business on my return trip. Life heading toward its sudden end, on Purgatory Road. When you’re strapped for cash, and completely emotionally obliterated, it was easy to slash one’s neck with a swiss army knife, the same dull blade one used for their charcoal sticks to sketch away varying pages of unmarketibility.

I supposed it was better than going Dutch.

Or being German, and having them throw shit in my face. While treating their inhuman monsters as beneath the human race. All that would be to much to swallow, to much not to ignore, especially when not drowned in scenes of Duck Dynasty, and other circus of Bread and hunting. One never thought a cross bow would be more silent and humane, as murder was about the spectacle, like gladiator in an arena of death of decay.

All I could do, was enjoy the hologram sky beaming with illusionary grocery stores and walk in malls in my virtual reality head set, taking a bet when I’ll gradually lose blood to my face.

Beneath the human race, I fell.

I fainted.

My mother, when visiting the Netherlands, purchased me a pair of wooden clogs, that were the only things that lasted beyond anything else I ever loaned. But they reminded me of Europe, which I had grown to despise. Not for the Free and Open Source software culture, but the general animosity any American might have, despite not having voted for an Authoritarian Republican/Democrat, being more Libertarian of inclination.

All their morality masturbation.

All their ability to get away with murder.

All the fault of my own.

Mom shipped it by a sneaker net vending machine orb. And in receiving, I thought only of Western imperialism, humanity’s dismay and perverse pleasure. One might get a feeling from receiving a pulp manga, brainstormed from some Greek god’s orgasm, mixed with a dose of gasoline lit cocaine burned by a flame gun. I felt like I tripped over a duck reading it.

For someone whose only sex was with untamed snakes, and the unruliest of men, there was something heralding at this bizarre form of escape. But was difficult to finish. As my mind was not a god’s sperm. My Auburn rose skin was silky smooth, as I slept in my sand bed, waiting to be murdered by falling space debris. With today not my lucky day.

I got a call from my old employer.

After chatting, I hung up.

There are two kinds of stiffs; a hard cock, or a zombie. I was never absolutely certain which of these was my old boss. I was 102, wearing my wooden shoes; physically eighteen, I lived through the crash of 08, depression a wicked step sister who liked to masturbate to the corpse that was the American empire. I got a job as a bed maker for bad story lines by sadistic play writers, in cheap shit performances of tap dancing to some bastardization of “The Cup Song”, made dub step and electric, in penny dreadful vending machines. The plots replaced by Russian Cossacks, and serializations of Vladimir Putin politique selects. I came from a another life, hoping for something different from this life. I outlived most of my cousins and family, whom I affectionately calls “Cock Sins.”

When I put a bullet in my old Boss’s head, I was expecting him to die. Instead they recycled me, disposing of my organic flesh, uploading me into a database of misery.

And now here I am, waiting for a new life.

Outside of the machine.

It was always a difficult topic to discuss sex: the topic of sex had been inexplicably and permanently tied to a distortion of punishment and reward. The punishment, at times, blending with reward in time when they did not have the opposite of meaning. An ex room mate asking one about their desires, and then engaging in the shame and ridicule of expressing those core desires. So the topic of expressing ones fetishes were tied toward thinking one might be sexually assaulting. The person was one of many lovers she had, others only merely talking about sex. But it was a room mate that would effect me for the rest of my life, and now I avoid certain words–blurring them out, because I’m not sure who mate anally penetrate me in order to humiliate me inside of a grime ridden motel room. And every night, not getting any sleep.

Always longing for death.

And a demise that never came.

For me, it also became tied together with being blamed for attempted suicide, and self-punishment. The punishment of poisoning oneself on ones missed birthday party, drinking drainage cleaner like it was chocolate, the feeling of your inner tubes melting and receding into nothing, a burning sensation blending with the most intense feelings of Francophobia. And your room mate never taking responsibility for it.

All merely for talking about wooden shoes.

All merely for talking about guillotine and pillories.

When the nearest adult sex store was just downtown, and the only reason you couldn’t give them your business, was do to negative associations that had nothing to do with them, but how an ex spends on your money on tobacco, and lecturing you about ending it all.

This was my life.

My story. My vampire life.

My blood fetish.

There is nothing like sharing pussies in discord, however how the word pussies might be interpreted will largely depend on whether you have a dirty mind or whether you have a clean mind. Sometimes, with certain kinds of people, this can get blurry. Generally they call them furies. But otherwise, it usually falls down to whether the pussy is a vagina or a cat. Certainly, I’ve been in chat rooms where trans ladies showed off their brand new pussies. But in most cases it’s lady friends showing off their pet cats.

When I would hang out in the chat servers of different IRC channels for Ink blazers (a.k.a manga magazine), I would chat to various people in the graphic novel industry. As the artist type, the stereotype often is that you like to keep support animals. For me, and the few I hung out with after the regular chat, they wanted to show me their cats. I’m definitely a huge fan of cats, as I’m currently wearing a kitty tee shirt, gray sweat pants, and a pair of Birkenstock clogs, going outside for a smoke at two thirty AM waiting slowly for the sun to come up, so I can begin my daily routine. But later on, I would switch to Discord, which now currently is replacing skype in a lot of the areas that were largely their domain instead of Discords.

I haven’t talk to this one graphic novelist in a while, though she’s often busy learning to design tattoos. We got to know each other, in that span of a year, more than I can really say about my two exes, one a brief boyfriend (to much for me to go into here now), and an aromantic grand theft transgender thief. She was one of the few I knew that I was relatively certain was not a sociopath, although certainly we both had our own share of other mental illnesses, I also wont go into here. In school I would meet people briefly, then disappear to classroom obligations, even (if not especially) for classes that I cared for the least. I found this was easier than coming out as a trans woman. I lived in the area around Middle Tennessee, that was not the most enlightened in terms of trans issues. You could say all of Tennessee was that way.

But supposedly Nashville was better about this.

If better meant more people asking if you were male or female. Can you imagine if I told them about my other issues? Which I wouldn’t anyway, the question is if I did. I’ve had the tendency to internalize a lot of my issues, so it was easy to let fucked up things that happened to be blow up at me, at least initially, until I couldn’t take it anymore. This isn’t so much of a teenager thing, as it was my thing.

But this isn’t like hanging out with a group of trans friends asking you what your genetic heritage was. I suppose Hitler was a half Jew, and apparently didn’t stop him from hating Jews. At 512th French, with some ambiguity of heritages on my dad’s side, there wasn’t any reason I could not conceivably had the French. I’m a Francophile in a lot of ways, especially these days. But that still makes France little better than Saudi Arabia beheading people, even the Franks stopped the practice in eighty one. Hey Franks, turn your victims to Mecca’s direction.

At least Spain has some Flamenco and Enchenda lyrical rhythm.

Yet your own beheading doesn’t flow like the rhythm of Beethoven’s symphony, at best only matching the musical quality Paganini, which is more Italian than anything else. I’m in another one of those wind up phases, internalizing so many of the memories of things that happened to me in the past. Sometimes it’s not entirely something I can help. But at least I wasn’t living with my parent again, and also not Katy.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to live with kin.

I’d rather avoid those memories again.

When your back home from Washington, having bolted suddenly from your home state, it’s difficult to become attached to your old state, which felt like an oppressive environment.

It’s easy to blame yourself when you don’t have anything else besides missing memories, and kink shaming. In particular, it was only recently I was willing to even admit to myself some of my sexual fantasies, because of all the superficial preaching against it growing up. Yet there were always signs I would be like one of my main characters: fragmented, sex addicted, yet paradoxically avoiding human contact. I only want the best for people, so it messes with your head when your compared to Hitler at the age of eight.

This was hardly a unique thing, as I went through much of my life being blamed for things I didn’t do, or at times acting out against my abusers. In third grade I was molested by two older boys on a school bus, around Franklin, Tennessee. At the time I was going to a private school that only recently has moved locations. Mom says it has to do with money and finances, but this is closer to a symptom rather than the cause.

These were the cases where I was actually explicitly touched. But all these seemed to have somewhat marked me as a victim throughout my life.

When people criticize the Roman Catholic schools, I’m often left wondering where this person has been throughout life. Certainly not growing up around middle Tennessee. At this school, while it wasn’t an alternative school in the sense of going there for misbehavior, practice it was much like this: much of the people I knew either had tattoos despite being twelve. Which might seem like a Libertarians dream come true. But often I would be largely the only one called out for not paying attention in class. The times I could focus, were marked with a contempt for the flesh.

In the bathroom, when I was trying to go empty myself, there was a boy in seventh grade that wanted me to blow his penis. I tried mentioning the issue with the teachers I had at the time, but most of what punishment he got was a slap on the wrist. Not that this isn’t a Catholic school, or wasn’t at the time that I had went there. But later on half the school, before they would move to a smaller location, had become a Catholic church. Which happened to also be the area where in the library, we would do yoga. Thus I developed the association of sex abuse, yoga, and Catholicism being interconnected, like as would later become my other obsession: Abstraction, Obscuring, and Reachability. I found that there was nobody I could discuss my issues with, so I was left internalizing everything.

I thought fifth grade would be a break.

But it was the beginning of my anarchism.

It was the year I would begin fifth grade. Generally you might think most kids were raised on Saturday morning television, although certainly I was raised on quite a bit of it. Along with being able to ride a neighbors four wheeler into the forest behind our house. This was before it would become a horse stable.

Before I moved I moved onto fifth grade, I had ran away from home because I felt like I could not really relate to my parents, although at the time it was merely because I felt it might be fun. I wanted to leave this world behind, ride the river downstream, and come back home. Instead my parents called the cops, because they thought I was kidnapped, and was pretty much spanked with a belt to more times than I could remember. It was almost like they were trying to make a point. Even today I brought it up to them, they would deny it and say that the belting never happened. This would be a continual pattern throughout my life.

In one of the teacher’s class, he didn’t really have a whole lot of experience dealing with kids with mental health issues and other “learning disabilities”, he was unsure how to take me playing air guitar in front of one of the girls I knew in school, that told me she was a black Spanish girl, whose grandfather came from Spain during the Franco era. So my first month was marked with changing home rooms, not really knowing what was going on. This would later repeat in my ninth grade year when it was recommended I’d get out of nursing, and switch to legal class in high school. Once is one thing, twice is an administrative catastrophe. But after that I would mark the rest of the year remembering the rigged system that allowed for things like perfect attendance and honor roll. And reading books in fifth grade like Blood And Chocolate, in actuality a YA novel. I remembered one passage about the MC talking about how it would be hard to kill herself by hanging, because the neck wouldn’t always snap.

I was honor roll alright.

Honor roll out of this life.

The Spanish language in general, in contrast to French, had a considerable amount of negative associations with it, but generally the issue to me was the language itself, and not the people who spoke it. I met this one Mexican girl in special ed, who was as sweet as can be. I loved the hell out of her really, but I was so stuck inside myself it was hard to really interact much. I was stuck in a bubble of iron, wires, and laser gun rapid fire. Wanting to become part of a galactic federation of Space pirate rather than focus on the real world. I had the tendency to let my mind wonder.

Negative associations with Spanish would continue in high school, permanently effecting the learning choices that I would make. I had much more fond feelings of the French language in general. But this was around the time I had developed some of my own kink, related to blood and gore. Spilling on the floor like Bethoven’s sympathy and Bach’s harpsichord. In general I was able to distract myself with games like Final Fantasy 6 and 7. But no matter what, there was no escaping my own feelings about seeing blood. Combine this with having watch Legend Of Galgameth, and other issues where I knew in reality a princess just isn’t going to be rescued for anything, even if she had her junk ripped out and entries removed.

Around this time, I would have dreams of shadow people on the wall. Following me, I was unsure of they were real or all part of a massive dream. I had the tendency to sleep walk for a while, and when I was awake, enhance the negative about everything.

When I met Tommy, I wont mention his last name, he came out in such a fashion that it felt like a blessing at the time. Turning one’s life on what felt like a dime, it was easy to forget about my own fantasies, and focus on the few friendships I was able to maintain, despite being outcast from the goths, emos, and punk.

I never could attach myself to a label, I was simply trying to make it through. I found my solace in Cyberpunk novels, and science fiction graphic novels. I also stopped watching Bill and Ted finally around the same time, with issues that would follow me through out life.

There was Tom and Tony.

They were my Bill and Ted.

Eventually after high school, I met this one guy on line that really wanted to see me naked. With all the association in place, already he was making me extremely uncomfortable. I tried telling Tommy about it, and he said he was surprised Todd was even gay. It wasn’t long after that I came out to Tommy as being trans, and he didn’t quite believe it. But being trans isn’t something that just comes out of the blue, it’s something that’s always been there, waiting, haunting you. Heading in your direction like a speeding train running at super luminal velocity. Later he himself would stop talking to me.

I read on the news a story that would later make him have to sign up for the sex offender registry, and I knew it was pretty much hopeless at point to really find a friend that was normal. Tony would always cut Tommy off, and sign up for the armed forces, the American Empire of dominance and control. The easiest thing was to lock myself into the closet, take out a swiss army knife, and begin cutting myself. But I was always to much of a coward to really cut deeply, whether that was in me or anyone else.

Ken saw this in me, so it was easy to grasp onto someone that he perceived as weak. I started losing a bunch of weight when I met him, and also had some of my money stolen from me indirectly by purchasing a negative ion generator, under the idea that it would allow my sinuses to clear up, as this had been a recurring issue throughout my life.

I finally left the UFO cult, when I overheard a conversation, about how pedophilia was not technically against the Billy Meier material.

I left, I bled, I fainted.

I gave in to the darkest fantasy of the self.

You never can guess what kind of movies your best friends will want to watch, whether it’s Anime Video Hell, where I could have sworn there was a blond yuri couple of hot chicks in gray Birkenstocks. But memory is of such a nature that sometimes what you remember did not happen quite in the same way you first envisioned. At Tommy’s house, we would hang out with Ashley and Megan, watching Japanese horror movies, or play various Japanese role playing games. My friends played a lot of fighting games, but for various reasons, to extensive to go into here, I was never huge fan of the genre. Instead I spent most days browsing the pages of True Crime novels, researching different serial killers.

It was one of those interests, I wont make any excuses. For me it was as close and dear as the Sunday morning football game, and I would lock myself in my bedroom. So things like having you go to your room stopped having much of a purpose after a while, so eventually they wanted me outside the room. I have various old sketches I drew over the years, that I still need to get framed. I also have a giant sword collection from when I went to the Renaissance fare. I only went a few times, but only went there to buy swords.

I think if I went again, I’d probably look for dresses women wear, when they’re about to get their heads chopped off with an ax.

I tried doing a free on line message board, but this eventually was deleted do to inactivity. Over the next few years I decided I was tired of message boards, and focused on social control media.

But even that’s a sham, honestly.

We live in a time when we can’t write a diary, without mentioning smart-phones and tablets. We’re also seeing the decline of once popular social network, such as Facebook becoming like Myspace.

But even decentralized social networks would occasionally become scarcely populated. When your country is stuck in multiple wars over seas, it’s difficult not to think of one’s life as a science fiction novel. Although I don’t think most science fiction novels have a MC who masturbates to Guro on various porn sites. I wont mention any specific websites, as I have no idea who may be reading this diary, and some of the porn I look at, I wouldn’t exactly want to pass on. Even if watching heads fall off were completely harmless.

I once met a girl on Mastodon, who I assume could mow her lawn. Instead she rides a swing set, when the day has come and gone. Black hair falling down to her shoulders, closer to what I had originally thought French girls looked like, but apparently she’s a Romanian in Berlin. With skin the shade of ivory, like murdered elephants turned into furniture for Oligarchs.

But back in high school, I was still getting used to having a laptop. I was one of those late bloomers that took a while to get one, and when I did I liked porn so much it was virtually impossible not to have to wipe the hard drive at some point, because of thirty two Trojan viruses, named after the espionage mission in ancient Greece during the Iliad. That was one of those movies, like Legend Of Galgameth before, where decapitation grew on me. Yet another subverted death sentence, poor sword who is just trying to make it through.

But this isn’t a blog about breaking skin.

Or getting the hose again.

This isn’t a transgender autobiography, in the sense that the point is my trans status, so much as to highlight one of many other issues that made it difficult to form long term friendships. Combine with my sexual fantasy of blood and severed heads, I knew that it was a matter of time before people would find out. And yet I kept hiding and avoiding being the real me.

On my twenty sixth year, I was kidnapped, and had 1.3 grand vanish from my bank account. Not be coercion, but because of the legitimate believe that Katy would take better care of me than my parents. I’d like to think that wasn’t true, but I think in truth the only one who has my best interest is me. I would spend my birthday consuming comet like it was birthday could, lying on the floor in agony. It was the first time I attempted suicide, when Katy, instead of trying to talk through my issues, felt it was better to lecture me and be angry. I tried poisoning myself again, because I was under the idea that people that had fantasies of such a nature were not fit for this world. I wanted to save the world from myself.

Even now, I still remember how Katy would constantly argue with me, and keep me from sleeping soundly at night. There was never sex when I wanted it, which was pretty much never, at least not with her. But she would every night anally penetrate me like I was just someone’s sex doll.

She thought she had it all.

Even now I try to suppress my memories, especially of the time when I would have headless alien women come out of my closet, and have sex with me while I was in bed. I would run through a never ending forest of vampires and teeth. I felt I had been through death and back. Running, I arrived in my own personal gothic kingdom of skull-fairies and death elves.

I was queen of the midnight forest.

It had no engine, it simply didn’t need one. It rode along the wind as long as it could, and could glide long enough to reach the next air current. Because of its shape, it could get to the next air current in short order. With almost no tail, and a tail that did exist was twin shaped, it got most of its glide from its flying wing design, carefully angled downward. When there wasn’t wind, it’s gravity motion allowed it to change the direction of gravity. The very edges of its wings angled upward, so as to balance the craft. If one changed the directional flow of its wings, you could even raise or lower its altitude. Unlike a train, that only flows with a predetermined set of rails, one could fly anywhere they wanted. Attach balloons at the bottom, and one could hover in the air indefinitely. Down in the desert below, were various towns along the river.

These peoples had distinct languages, however for the most part were mutually comprehensible to a large percentage. You had the sea people, who lived along the shore. Their neighbors, the mountain peoples, lived in normal log cabins. The exterior walls were solidified by a layer of clay, with a dome at the table in order to allow for rain to flow down gently. Most of the time people stayed inside, do to the rain; torrential, it seemed to flow as if without stop. In the previous age, there were sky scrapers that reached the stars, however this was scarcely within the memory of those that live in this age, who dined primarily on the desert arachnids, and the dark colored beans they could grow. Beans in this climate, seemed almost the only thing that could grow consistently.

After going through a lifetime of eating them, one gets used to them without having to worry about farting. But the farts that did occur, were recycled in a ready supply of methane used for the adobe stoves those whom cooked for their households used to break flat breads.

At least according to this gamer manual, but lets get real, when you’re playing with a group of friends on a Saturday night, drinking a six pack per person, who really focuses on such drivel? The only thing interesting was the gliders, and that was only because certain missions and campaigns allowed one to shoot down other gliders with laser beams, despite it being set in a post apocalyptic landscape that shouldn’t have such technology. For the groups playing week by week, night by night, the game could have easily be set inside of a deep cave, and having to swim to the top. But most of them were not into the sort of game play that was randomly picked from a list.

I had to sneak extra items on campaigns, even though it was generally agreed within the group that we would use our items sparingly, for when we would encounter main zombie bosses, and other creatures of more apparent importance than the standard enemy in Japanese Role Playing Games. It was easy for us to get absorbed into the sessions, as the virtual reality head set had simply become lighter, and now it was stiffer than a diamond, yet lighter than a piece of paper. Designed thick so as not to be so brittle, that if it dropped from your face, it would bust and shatter. Simply use enough glue from a glue stick or a supply of liquid Scotch, and your VR honey will ask you if she can suck your dick for the rest of the week. That was why it was very rare for me to want to exit out of my Veer headset. I had gotten a room from one of her old fellow prostitutes, one who had also used her shotgun on her ex pimp. The particular crime surprisingly common in these parts.

Murders that would rarely get prosecuted, and when they were, the people capturing them would be murdered before the cops got the chance to take them to death row, before having their heads taken off by Guillotine. Scales, my pet snake, was snoring on our leather couch in the living room, thinking of girls playing soccer, in cheap early 2000s era console games, that were little more than fling fare for those sexually inclined.

Sleeping, it yawned.

It was as if scales wasn’t there.

I woke up that night, combing the knots out of my hair, slipped into my Birkenstock clogs, slipped on my virtual reality headset. But when I tried playing the game, something was different. It seemed like the sounds I normally heard in the game were coming from my surprisingly kept bedroom. I thought of asking her room mate if she was playing a campaign with the others. But decided to simply play along, as if nothing major was happening inside the flat. No changes in the nature of time and space.

The levels I ground through flowed like usual. I was inside of an ice cavern. At first she I thought her mind was playing tricks on me as it completely surrounded my vision, but I knew that people tended to hallucinate do to network/gaming addiction. But I didn’t realize it could be so pronounced. The vision slipped away in the blink of an eye.

I wanted to take the headset to the script doctor.

However he wasn’t so much of a doctor, as a voodoo programmer, in neon dreadlocks, consuming peanut butter and banana chocolate smoothies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I didn’t want to smell peanut butter again.

Not in that context.

There are French girls, and there are Spanish girls; both highly rude, but otherwise twins in their mutual difference. The difference in their style of rudeness was complete. I had a thing for Flamenco, then a thing for Alexandrine lines. The epic misery of a life, read in between the lines. And these girls, whom hate nobody else, long to solely hate each other, no matter what American girl they must throw under the bus to get what they want. If the French were cowboys, the Spanish would be Native Americans.

For the two Latinas, their hate knows no continental limitation, only the even of mutual hatred type masturbation of the Dutch and Belgian life. To think … that to mention Frog legs, was worse than working for the Nazis. And yet in their derangement, within the empire of their own narcissism, they seek the blood of Africans and Muslims across the globe. Only marginally less bad than the Americana life, but for me it felt life I belonged nowhere, not anywhere in this life.

I longed for a kind of digital wife.

Preserved eternally, made of holograms instead of flesh. The feeling of digital sex comparable to the best of orgasmic cycles. When she drives home from work, and work to home, and plan out my next new song. Not country, because I cannot stand this genre. Instead the song of a girl with a pink bow in her hair. Who I loved, and nobody else:

The Sunday eclipse

Flows, like black corn chips.

Salsa flows off the

Flap, let the spice flow free.

Not a Flamenco song.

I used to think imperialism was an American thing, and to be fair to Europeans, certainly America is the worst of the bunch. With the Spaniards and the French, it was a morbid game of Hetalia roulette, only marginally less bloody than the Russian equivalent during the second world war. For me, I wanted nobody. Yet I longed, with lust, for something more. Like fireworks melting in the air, a distant celebration of the dead:

The Sunday eclipse

Flows, like black corn chips.

Salsa flows off the

Flap, let the spice flow free.

Not a Flamenco song.

I was not an ugly girl, because neither the Spanish or French flirted with me. And that was just fine with me. Instead I found solace in the flow of digital underpants. Prancing about like ants in your pants, and gentle robot fingertips to the rhythm of dub step scores. It was one of those performance days, and I needed something different, to keep the score, from the tried and true tap dancing cup song constantly rehashed by dub step radio floors. I hated country, and I had Americana. I hated everything, besides the pink bow score. The closest comparison, was something akin to dub step flamenco, with the an epic pattern of disintegration. Flowing like blood on the floor:

Her long blond flowing locks flow freely downward,

If it were England, she would date a man named Edward.

But the spiral staircase flowing down,

Greets the nymph as a growling, even clown.

Come around this charcoal sketched mountain,

And settle this score.

Beyond the dreamland where terror is born.

Beyond this world call, the meat space life.

I see the call, crawling to me.

I can here, the demon’s roar.

Sombrero et une toupe.

Perhaps will meet again.

Some other day.

Eclipse wanes, on Gipsy morning sonnets.

No knots tied long.

I’d rather kiss, some other day.

I’d rather date a Gipsy,

In this midnight song.

With this I thought of the girl I knew in high school, named Emily. Will long flowing straight blond hair, I thought of the betrayal I felt. And all the nastiness surfacing into bile and torment.

I wanted, to settle the score.

But the reality was, most of the people she knew, never even played the game. The game with the girl, with the pink bow in her hair. And long flowing brown hair, gently curved into a braid. That romance, for me, whom loved nobody else. I wanted nothing else. But to be absorbed in her embrace. That wizard staff, with endless healing powers.

I felt as if drained dry.

Reality was no the flow of flowers in the church, and gentle raindrops on a cloudy morning day. Or a remake by Flair Screamix. Our Earth, my love, my life; all melting away like radioactive streams. At once the fear of the unloved, could melt away.

As I settled, my personal score.

I’d rather date a Gipsy, in this midnight song. Not lust after idealization of unreality and the resulting sex. Instead I wait for the next shift, the next day’s work. Knowing, I could offer nothing to a flower girl.

All I could offer was death.