Bianca: The Chatbot That Never Was And Other Novellas - The Million Lyrics

"Hello little Hitler." mother said.

Sarette was not Hitler, she was a girl of plain dress and flowers in her hair. Of course for a brief time, she had issues with French girls, or more specifically, with one French girl. Sarette was a dreamer; when she dreamed, she visualized guillotined hippie couples, making their last embrace. And different internment camps in some vague future time. Yet these were not images of pleasure, but something that effected her sleep.

She would wake up to flowers of death and the future growing out of her bedroom floor with blades of green grass, she would hear the sounds of wolves howling at the moon.

What made a far greater impression than the bits of French stereotyping on TV, was how good the pancakes and crepes were she grew up eating, during the morning before the school bus. She got the name Little Hitler, no do to any fault of her own, but because she fell off of a bunk bed. Regardless of whether her IQ was ninety eight or one hundred and fifteen, it did not impact her self-esteem. People wondered about her sense of humor: on most days she smiled, and yet would derive some ironic pleasure from another peer's misfortune, despite not obtaining any pleasure from causing it.

Her doctor could never figure out her IQ, as she never seemed to focus on tests, but when it came to putting together blocks in a puzzle, she would solve it in thirty seconds.

Her school was one of those schools, that despite burying the student in an actual graveyard, would schedule the digging of a giant hole in the school yard, as if they were going to bury him. She wanted to hope down into the hole, as maybe Alice in Wonderland would be down inside. But before the imagination got to her, class was in session again.

After word, her mother would always reject the offer whenever her school friends would offer for her to come to their house to play.

But she had her own quirks. She would watch the latest Japanese animation imports, which ranged from Vampire Hunters, magical girls, and giant robots. She spent as much time laying down on her bed, preferring not to listen to music instead; instead her mind was always dizzy, while she refused to drink carbonated beverages so fizzy and loose in the can.

"What drink you want?" her mother asked.

"I want orange flavor." Sarette asked. It was the closest words she could approximate, not having the words for the juice the would always burn her throat. Generally she preferred water, and sometimes milk or orange juice. But never anything that gave her heart burn. As she got older, this preference would eventually go the way of the purple dinosaur, and she would drink Pale Ale and other dark brews. But now was not such a time. Instead it was a time of crappy space adventures, and stories in rhyme.

Not being a fan of magical nannies or stories of yellow teddy bears, she would dream of zombies she would cut in two with giant sheers. This would escalate into her older years, when she tried martial arts. Her favorite being Kendo, and eventually Kenjitsu. On children's programming, she would look at Crabs the same way Germans look at Hitler, and others of their ilk. And thus the idea of crab patties was an object of revulsion.

But that's better than expulsion for dropping a penny on a friend's head from a tree. She would dream of hanged children.

All on a gallows tree.

She always had the shakes. Sometimes life was like a tap dance in hell; you never knew when that last shoe was going to drop. Whether it would be a funeral tap. But she never got the chop.

But dad would call shopping the "chopping list."

And every day was a chopping list.

In sixth grade Sarette began resenting musical expression, yet some of her earlier work was reflective of the various five point essays about American history as assigned to her by her special ed teacher. She was never in the classes because of learning difficulties in the same way others experience, as the accelerated reader would mandate for her to read young adult fiction rather than the middle grade of which she was a part of the age group. She would read stories about teenage werewolves, and other shape shifters. Her mother for a time would avoiding talking about her concerns about Sarette being a child Hitler, allegations which would later prove unfounded anyway.

Instead, she would cringe whenever she would have to sit through Spanish class, preferring stories about the original French Revolution. In later years she would pilfer a book about Marie Antoinette off of the shelves of her grand father's basement. She developed a fascination with the guillotine from an early age, and would dream about other girls having their heads cut off. The stock slipping over their necks, the angular blade falling in three seconds on the victims neck, and the thirty minute of consciousness that remained, as the woman is aware of the crowd jeering at her raven locks.

Sarette was never a girl of Jesus Sandals, or other things more common across both genders. She had never liked wearing open toed shoes, under the perception that Birkenstocks were mainly for ladies. But this was closer to an early sign of her eventual taste in women, rather than any reflection on reality. She developed a friendship with a girl a year earlier who was a Mexican of half Spanish and half French descent. She was one of the few girls that she never dreamed about being decapitated. Sarette however, despised the musical accompaniment associated with the heritage, from Mariachi to Flamenco.

Mariachi was originally a word of French origin from Napoleonic times. But generally the word became more associated with French immigrants to Mexico. Generally people associated Mexico with Spanish language and immigrants, but this was not universally the case. There would be several battles during the late eighteen hundreds for supremacy of Mexican territory. She associated the music of the sombrero and and taquitos with the actor who played as a masked vigilante in different movie adaptations in the nineties, who she would imagine, in all her denial of her bi curiosity, him carrying a black rose in his mouth.

She would later read about a confused article writer who confused being Hispanic and French. Thus the association of Mariachi and La Guillotine was permanently affixed in her brain. This was before her own general disdain for different aspects of the fantasy genre: she grew to resent long hair brunette girls for being more pretty, despite herself having not yet fully bloomed. And she would not even look at Senoritas in the face, even in situations of mutual attraction. During classes of monotonous subtraction.

There was another girl that was never one she was super wild about.

Generally the difference was this: Livier would alway be nice and patient, yet she was difficult to understand. Bianca was a girl of excellent vocabulary, who were shape shift into a were cat during the moonlight hour, crushing rose placed inside those lovely black lipstick lips. But for Sarette's Reve De Mort, she dreamed of shadows along the wall, and groans of zombies in the halls. And bright lights from her bedroom window.

She woke up with bite marks.

She woke up in breathless panics.

Seventh grade was one of those years when everything seemed to go wrong. At Smyrna Middle, one of these was meeting Bianca again in the school halls, despite Sarette subconsciously avoiding her every step. She had grown a general dislike for raven haired girls who cropped their hair shoulder length, especially if they had short necks.

It was one of those years when she dreamed of the wild west, and in every one of these Bianca would be there. She would be taunted her with her childhood friend Stephanie, who was her lesser mean spirited bitch and a half. Stephanie still was the type to say things like "French girls don't like attractive boys, we like ugly boys. And you're not very ugly." She was insinuating by implication that Sarette was technically a boy child, despite all of her appearances to the contrary. She did not see Livier as much, who would often be busy doing other things during the school year. Smyrna Middle had a school uniform that was difficult to enforce, and usually mostly used to pick on the girls at school, who often wore short skirts. But somewhere in the middle, Sarette would often be picked on like a girl, and yet be gendered as if she were a boy.

She would try to keep her shirt tucked in, but found this difficult. She battle mild weight issues for much of her life, though not anything like she currently does, in which she's still trying to lose weight. But it still meant having to get special tee shirts that wont easily become not tucked. She used to hate the button ups that would come with uniforms, and how she would have to wear these even during school field trips.

Among other issues, she resented the looks she would get from Bianca, when her shirt was not tucked. It was almost as if Bianca payed more attention to her then now that Sarette was no longer playing air guitar during the fifth grade school year. In a sense, who crushed on who seemed almost entirely to the inverse. And it was her who would often laugh out with one boy in class that would wantonly use the word retard at her expense. It didn't matter if this was during paperwork, or when they were cutting open frogs.

But Sarette derived some satisfaction from the fact that Bianca would often have to leave the classroom to vomit, whenever she had to dissect a dead frog on a silver slab. For Sarette, she regarding Bianca in the same way as the frog. But preferred not dissecting her. Leaving out in the scorching desert of a surrealistic wild west, decapitated on a guillotine in black Mary Janes heels was more than appealing enough. And she knew that at some point, at least she hoped, that she may eventually forget about Bianca.

From then on, generally, Sarette developed the attitude that if people wanted to date her, they had one chance to make a request. If they don't request on her schedule, then she had better things to do with her time. Like listen to The Offspring and Ramones.

As soon as late middle came along, she stopped socializing altogether.

It simply wasn't worth the sun tan to drawn in people she might like to date. She preferred fictional girls. As girls in fiction could never reject you the first time.

And she was worth more.

This she knew.

In ninth grade, Sarette had determined she preferred blow jobs over vanilla sex, and developed a sexual fetish for girls in Birkenstock Clogs. It had been a minor interest as far back as early grade school, but only completely became a sexual thing around this time. This made interaction with other girls difficult, as it often meant having to start the school day concealing her raging boner, instead of being flat as a pancake.

Often this was because Birkenstock Clogs were the latest fashion in Blackman High, comparable to platform sneakers during the nineteen nineties. Girls her age would wear them without socks, and would dangle them about in a form of Ballet shoe play. Their bare heels begging for attention from Sarette's hazel eyes, whom really liked ladies heels. And their long dark brown hair, that would go down to their backs. In large part, this was the main reason she never interacted, though she gave one her guy friends a clue to her preference for these sorts of girls. Yet oddly the thing about being an androgynous girl, is often when guys are unsure whether they should be attracted to you or not, they'll think of doing things on a subconscious level they don't entirely understand.

This would often mean being invited to the quarry in the back of the friend's house. And throw home made napalm bombs at the rocks walls in front of you, and hoping the police wont catch you n the act. The secrets of friendships were considered a form of sacred pact. A divine ritual, a form of blood oath. For Sarette, she wanted her blood oath to be with ladies in Birkenstocks, as they would glide themselves along her thin body under the glow of L.E.D. lights, buzzing out in the suburban pseudo-metropolis.

But her and her guy friend were inherently different. Tommy was politically a moderate Republican, though he called himself a democrat. While Sarette's Reve De Mort were of midnight cities taken over by corporate mercenaries, and outlaws in distant futures.

She tried writing some of these futures, though have difficulty finishing stories. She would fantasize about blond and black haired girl's necks being placed on headsman's blocks. She would fantasize about being their merciful executioner, while humping them on the block. But her own life would split from Tommy, who would later go onto become more vocal about his sexuality. But Sarette was of the anarcho-left, and not of the right. She kissed her old friendships goodnight, dreaming of white night flowers and middle grade stories. For her, her desire was a kind of paradox of isolation and being overcrowded. She wanted a certain level of anonymity mainstream education never gave her.

She found this initially in Alex Jones.

Then it was Christopher Greene. But now it was Noam Chomsky. She the little anarchist, who mischievously gave a family inside of a corn maze the wrong direction toward the exit. But she herself was an existential wanderer in the darkness, holding her thumb out for cars on ancient highways.

She was little Hitler that wasn't.

When Sarette received her first official fellatio, it was on her seventeenth year. Her ex guy friend had arranged a date with one of his old fuck mates, and he had the two girls go to the prom together. But her acquaintance knew that Sarette was not entirely into her; Sarette would often look at other girls wearing Birkenstock Boston clogs without socks, but during their last few months, Sarette made Lawanda extra strong coffee.

She was used to having Starbucks coffee, so having Folgers was decidedly strange anyway. This meant that at greater strengths Folgers would stop having the same level of flavor that Kenyan roast would have. The night before, her acquaintance directed her into the rest room, and had Sarette sit on the toilet while her friend blew her off. Sense this is not an erotica novella, the short explanation is that Sarette's nob never became inflated. But it effected her views about sex from then onwards.

Generally this effected her views is initially subtle ways, first she generally didn't like the idea of being touched by other people; eventually she came to prefer the flow of animated blow jobs over the real thing. Eventually this involved into tools for BDSM that wasn't not strictly BDSM, such as fantasy elf girls locked in the pillory. Eventually she would fantasize about humping elf girls in the stocks, while the girls wore Birkenstocks. And these fantasies would follow up with the sound of thunder outside the window. The window, as Sarette slept at night, would wake her from a dream of headless aliens in the closet, coming out in order to hump her on the bottom.

She woke up with bite marks and scratches.

She scratched herself like a cat.

Her body, her pussy.

Sarette's first ventures out of high school, revolved mostly around her writing, when she wasn't working at a local department store. It was one of the few times that she would not be ran over by a store cart, giving her back troubles for the length she had worked at the store.

Work was filled with memories; most of her work was spent when she was no eating enough for the vane effort of losing weight, now considered a sin by "body positivity" quacktivists. Because of this, she would sometimes faint and fall unconscious on the floor, a nature of her own biology that would continue into when she had went to Washington. She would primarily eat cafeteria pizza, usually after Fencing class. But during every other day of the week she would eat primarily chocolate peanut butter energy bars, then order a water or milk. In total, her lunch was spent eating about 200 calories. She lost down to about one hundred and forty five pounds.

This might not seem that skinny, but consider that she was of stocky build and physique. This meant that in order to look feminine this would often mean being as much as thirty pounds overweight.

The rest of her youth was spent contemplating.

Between jumping in front of a car.

Or coming out as trans.

We all know now that Wikipedia is unreliable.

Sarette wasn't sure why Clayton Ledford gave her a seventy five on a school test, revolving around the Baghdad Battery. For one thing, her own issues with Wikipedia stemmed from her anarchist tendencies, while for her computer teacher, these stemmed from it not being as good a source as an encyclopedia. But the assignment was to try find a reliable source of information on line. At this point, Wikipedia had been considered the primary source of information for some, and only sometime later did information regarding its corruption come to light. But certain sources could be cross-verified across different websites. For example, regarding the origin of the Romanian language.

But it gave her the negative association with any sort of computer class, as teachers in general focused on grades rather than the actual absorbing of information. Thus she focused month after month on teaching herself how to program in Ruby, and maybe eventually learn Python. But with the internet being what it was, especially on certain social media websites, generally people were hassled about their programming ability merely for being of the opposite gender, rather than based on any particular skill they had. Thus most of her explorations in learning cryptography she largely had to teach herself.

But now instead of focusing on studies, she focused mainly on researching true crime cases: generally these revolved around different kinds of serial killers; these would inspire different characters that were a hybrid of various real life serial killers and grave robbers. But at the end of the day, she preferred computer hackers and secret agents, along with your average private eye. She carried around a magnifying class, a box of black ink to take people's fingerprints, along with other tools of the trade. Eventually this would collide with her own interest in what they called the UFO topic at the time (such thing are not identified as extraterrestrial craft) as the paranormal.

She had had cases of seemingly magical things happen throughout her life, but it was these past few month, starting from her Junior high school year, that enabled that eventual fact that she would go onto join the Billy Meier cult. She had been through months as an alien abducted girl, many of these experiences being of a largely sexual nature. There would be various headless brown colored gray alien women coming out of her closet, and she would be taken away outside of the window, but the glass itself would not open.

One the other side, was a flying saucer.

She would float above the flying saucer, and then wake up one evening outside on the road to Smyrna High School, despite herself never having went to that particular high school. And it was thing, among a multitude of other experiences, that made he eventually not only find other sources of information, but also made her begin to question authority in general.

As the news she watched was RT.

And this gave no further clues.

Art meetings were always the same; similar paintings and bland food, but mostly because she spent the greater part of a year building up her heat tolerance, spending much of that time primarily consuming different Indian herbs and chillies from the store.

So anything that a normal person would eat, would be way to non spicy for her pallet. She wanted to whack some politicians with a mallet, but settled for the crab she watched others eat at the dock bar near her aunts. While fantasizing about girls in Birkenstocks and short cropped pants. When she saw girls in Birkenstocks and socks, it made her feel like succubus crawled up her pants, among a few other sensations. She also watched talk shows with different social democrats. This year was Yang season, with Universal Basic Income on the ballet. One of her main annoyances about politics, wasn't so much things were politics, as much as it seemed like anybody of any academic level was free to express an opinion. Including all the fans over the science fiction runner's dominion. Thus she withdrew into the music on her playlist, allowing herself to unwind.

The mind could sometimes go billions of miles per second, far faster than light could reach; old brains form nodes in networks with more people on the planet than stars in the galaxy. And for every person with a node, there was a separate belief system and perception of reality. Creatures ranging from the most distorted visions in people's nightmares, to the most plentiful of gardens and river streams. For many of them there was nothing else besides political commentary on the net. Even with Yang's UBI there was no sure thing that there would be anything different, than simply more of the same media outrages. Even with all the jokes with the Yangverse, there were other ones to explore. Counter-Revolutionaries also dot the landscape like grains of sand, some of them Tankies, others Neo-Nazis. It was absolutely a certain time to be a time, with fears of automation. Discussions of brain-chip interfaces without a regard to brain-damage. "Parlez-vous Hafestra?"

"Oui, je nam wa Adellette. Eso ton sonwa?"

"Je nam wa Sarette."

Sarette was not entirely used to the ability to communicate in her constructed language. It was far easier to simply let the mind melt like distant wavy seas. She already had to mute one user on a video streaming platform who was engaging in extreme ableism on her comments section. She would normally let the comments roll off her back, but it was continuous and doubled down. Like a constant broken record playing on the same old ancient aluminum player. Portuguese music was the object of her own consumption. Her attempting rap was others assumption of her, although she always said she preferred to write Latin Folk music. She dreamed of hispanic Hollywood actresses in Birkenstocks belly dancing on a metallic poll, and all that edgy humor a dime a dozen in your average porn magazine from the sixties. Her parents were boomers, while she kept an old boom box, despite that music media gradually being replaced by OGG files.

She knew people that had bizarre assumptions; it didn't matter if they called themselves left wingers or right wingers; hypocrites came in all shapes and sizes on the web, like stitched together brown recluse cobwebs. This one human-like AI company had been becoming an increasingly fading memory, as they had recently took their photos off the picture hosting Facebook knock off. She wanted sex robots to wear buckle clogs, knocking them off in shoe play, and verifying the hash values of her glasses. Now she gravitated to this one company in China, that was attempting to build one of the first full sex robot bodies; though she was unsure if there was any penetration factor. But it had to have been better than watching reality television in politics, and reality television in general coming across as comparitively normal. Even this one guy he had watched for a month on this streaming channel, felt the need to act condescending about people that use Orwell quotes; this was mainly to inflate his own sense of self-worth. For Sarette, the hacker of Left Nihilism, there was only the keyboard.

And the flow of binary dice.

"Je nam wa Sarette, eso ton sonwa?"

"Adellette", the name of her sex robot. Shipped in from China. This was her dream, if Universal Basic Income happened. But she wasn't counting on it, and she had thought of her Japanese futon on her mind.

It was time to unwind.

The doctor woke Sarette up, after the scans came in, revealing details of a life I had long sense buried. It was bleeding edge technology, a contraption that scanned the dreams of those who had chronic night terrors. My dreams had always been vivid, and some bordered on the supernatural. But none of them prepared me for the reality that was what I would later find out, had actually happened.

It was a cold morning, almost night.

Her mother had dropped me off to get groceries, or so I was told at the time. However it had become apparent that she was never going to pick me up again. She was an only child, as was Sarette, and her parents had long sense been dead. Thus Sarette had no family I could call to come pick me up. Thus I had to rely on what I could to escape the horror that awaited me. By all practical appearances, it was a normal small town on the countryside: there was nothing that seemed out of place.

-- Remember to always carry your phone. My dad would always say this to me, not that it mattered much now. But now I wonder, if I had taken my phone, if I could have called for other family members to come pick me up, all those years ago.

Sarette walked through the gate.

After crossing the gate, Sarette arrived at the grocery store. Once again, nothing seemed out of place. However I noticed that everyone there had the same hair color. They were a variation of the blond hair and blue eye mutation, that only existed in 2% of the human population. I got myself a fresh link of Chorizo, and some large carrots. Then rented a room for the night, Sarette pretending that she was eighteen.

Sarette placed my groceries in the fridge, to make sure the food stayed good, so Sarette could use the phone. However from my observation the phone lines had been cut. With my limited hardware abilities, Sarette was able to solder them back together. It was always handy to carry around one of these. Sarette just didn't realize that I would need it so much. Sarette dialed the number, so that she could get back in touch with my mother. But she was nowhere to answer it. Possibly already sleeping. I waited all night for her to answer back, but she never did. Thus Sarette planned out the details of calling a taxi.

Night came and went, and Sarette had another of my supernatural dreams: it was a young girl, in a tattered evening gown, that had her throat cut, and she was bandaged. -- Excuse me, are you hurt? Sarette asked. She had a red aura around her, as if she was already dead. Yet there she was standing, before the lake. She began to turn around.

Sarette woke up before she saw her face.

Sarette tried to arrange a ride with one of the locals, but their tire broke down, so they had to call someone to get it towed. Instead he introduced me to his family, and one of the girls was a similar looking blond girl from the one that was in my dreams.

-- I'm Sarette. I'm just taking a short visit, I hope that I'm not a burden to you all.

-- Not all, we haven't had company in decades.

Sarette shrugged off the comment in good cheer. That night I woke up, and quietly walked to the refrigerator: inside was what looked like decades worth of human body parts. And it was a long tunnel inside that reached all the way to a hidden facility. One thing you should know about me, as I'm not one to explore this facility, at least on the first attempt. So I quickly packed my bags, left a thank you note, and then called for a Taxi that night. However it took over an hour for the taxi driver to arrive, so I was stuck sitting outside with nothing to do. Perhaps I could have read my smart phone, but had not yet downloaded any manga to read. I was visited by the the guy that let me stay the night. -- I guess you saw the facility too.

-- You saw me?

-- The camera did.

-- So why are you out here with me? You haven't tried killing me yet.

-- Is that what you think of me Sarette? I'm hurt! Those are just vat grown human body parts, we haven't had a surrogate in some amount of time actually.

-- So what did you mean by decades?

-- We live a long time in this town.

-- So who was the last surrogate?

-- She was a girl, that looked similarly to you. It's why you and my daughters look so similarly. But she went missing, and her name was also Sarette. So I was wondering...

-- What are you thinking?

-- Are you Sarette from all those years ago?

I tried explaining to him that had I had no memory of such events, but I did remember that my early childhood was far longer ago than I thought. And my mother never spoke much about my father, after he disappeared all those years ago.

-- Was she pretty?

-- I like that confidence.

-- I'm serious.

-- Well my grandfather would have known.

He got his tires fixed, then was able to drive Sarette back home. To this day Sarette still remembered the image of thinking people were actually murdered. But instead it was far more benign, although it still makes my skin crawl to think my tissue was used without my consent.

About one hundred years ago.

And yet now, Sarette didn't look much past nineteen. She wonder if she could possibly find a girlfriend at her age. She wondered who her mother really was, of if that was the actual dream, all this time.

As Sarette gets back home, at college she is greeted by one of the daughters, whom she had met.

She has a nice smile.

Sarette still sometimes went to movies with her, even while she would still go see the therapist with the 3D printer. She had given up on finding her mother, she supposed it was no longer important. What she knew was the girl from her dreams was alive and well. And maybe someday, Sarette can raise a family. --You sure have a weird family Sarette.

-- As do you, Sarette.

While everyone else was concerned about sectarianism, she could barely get out of bed. She had developed the fetish for anarchist girls from the 1800s, that doubled as spies; countdown till a slice that couldn't be unsliced. She read mainly online news websites for years, her favorite being The Intercept, and other alternative news sources. She didn't know anything about gene splicing, but loved girls with long elf ears.

Recently her aunt invited her over to her place, mostly so she could check out some books; most of these were different kinds of thrillers, but some were historical romance; she dreamed of spy girls going down her pants. Waking her up like morning coffee stands at Starbucks. A few months ago she would purchase a drink that was only four bucks, down the road from her old apartment. Yet now without a place to call home, she lives with her parents well into the sticks, where more outdoorsy types are stuck with ticks, and act like dicks with toothpicks. She preferred reading volumes of Vampire Capernick, and a few other volumes of note. And watch movies of nannies sending people to Antarctica in a bathtub. Droop droop droop went the bathtub. A bathroom large enough to stuff a la balein. Stuffing her nose with saline, she drowned herself in Portuguese music, after eating a chicken salad avec vinegret. Flavor without regrets.

It was easy to simply slack off, and mostly look at Catogram, or look at Vesco girls while on the wire; but her tendency to collect anime girls became rather haywire. Dreamless nights like loose chicken wire, fantasies about 19th centuries set on fire; the life. Instead she sleeps, looking at old paintings, one of which is a Goth girl in a red dress, with a giant brown recluse on her neck. She loved ladies with long necks. At other times her sensory overload largely kept her from functioning normally, combined with a year of post traumatic stress disorder from a room mate that would abuse her in various ways best left to the imagination, or placed behind a content warning. But that was the thing about leftists on the wire; they cared me about setting relationships on fire, without caring about whose feelings they hurt. Perhaps it was only Ciabata Tube. Drowning in acres of masturbation lube, dreams of Pedro Gene till the day she moves. She dreamed of sex robot girls with detachable heads.

She'd braid their hair, stare at their stares. Until a land of milk honey was flowing everywhere. Her pet cat would shed her black coat, her mother would give the cat extra food. She dig dug robot girls with loosely knit hair twirls, but disliked the idea of actually touching another human being; she found real Vaginas completely unappetizing; she was attracted to femininity regardless of the robot's gender, when she plucked off their detachable heads, and fake blood out of cranberry and tomato juice.

In Canada there was moose, but there was many other places to choose for your Summer evening; most places were eternal damnation anyway, especially on the inter webs. Where fake leftists call each other plebs, and others dog whistle to their base like Alt-Right Clowns with make up on their face. She wanted to whack them all with a mace. But sensory overload prevented everything, except listening to Pedro Gene.

That's how the day will go.

Hours of Cesar Pedro.

Sometimes she wants to meditate, on other days she wants to chop a door down with a giant ax. This ax is serrated, and designed more to hack at metal armor than doors. But on most nights she doesn't visualize being chased after by giant flame dragons.

Such dragons could hold many a message: some dragons eat people, other dragons burn people; some children ride on dragons, but on most days she just wants to have a juicy lizard steak. Unfortunately it's approaching midnight when this happens, thus she must find other ways to suit her time. Cesar Gene was one of those that she imagined would treat her to a juicy dragon steak, and his voice would let all the Vegan guilt melt away. It was far to easy to fall into a routine of thinking of total survival mode, while browsing her network node; far to easy to visualize ancient dragon battles, gathering experience points. At other times she just wants to rip out some fellow anarchists guts, bathing in the anarchists blood, and becoming all googly eyed.

The flow of grape juice down her robot.

Robot didn't ordinarily produce grape juice, and they had to be filled with this stuff in order to simulate blood. And presumably they would almost never piss grape juice. Just as well, as she preferred drinking the grape-tomato juice like a brand new smoothy. While fantasizing about smacking anime girls in the booty. And shoving an angular blade down their neck. After all, it was just like dad said. Being left has nothing to do with your personality. Almost all of the anarchist she had known had generally been total sociopaths, when one looked further into the matter. She had written essay, she never published, about how she preferred living outside the system rather than dealing with people riling up each other's emotions. Certain discord were a form of narcissistic gathering up their form of supply. This went especially for #breadtube

Those people you'd never give a lube.

Or any other care in the world. What you'd probably find is some assholes exploiting your various mental traumas, or not genuinely understanding how support groups are meant to actually be support groups, not a place for that one guy to dominate the discussion, generally either a Marxist-Leninist, or some other form of Tankie. She wanted to write about a new kind of post apocalypse, that of Tankopunkolypse: want to have the apocalypse? Well let's bring the tanks from #breadtube. It wasn't terribly uncommon, despite being on the left, for people in such circles to use ableist language. One guy blocked her when she legitimately urged caution for people to only use the words Nazis and Fascists in cases of actual genuine Nazis.

But apparently this made her a Nazi.

There are plenty of good reasons she could justify ax murdering them in an alleyway somewhere, but that's probably what they're wanting. It was simply giving them to much credit to up and murder them somewhere. As many of these people would rather be dead than not control you, like they control their wives in bed, under a Vietnamese lamplight. It was difficult to not get sensory overload from the general experience, so it was as much as she could take, to not specifically referencing them in a peertube video. At night was sleeps with a weapon beside her bed, and hopes for sleep.

She listen to Cesar Gene.

She read old books, the shelves shook shaking. The old volumes now torn, volumes shaking onto the floor for Mrs. Lenore crying. She wanted a new body that could withstand the world, it so shoddy. With a flower in hair, red dress flowing everywhere. She listened to old country covers, they were redone in French, not Spanish. But anything was good in a pinch, for the girl of French language covers. Her body like metal layers, peeling away into frayed wires. Her life flowing like the funeral arrangement band of estranged suitors. Reels from life flowing like a Guillotine Western movie set, but without the sheriffs saving the day. All one has is death. Flow of the boots stomping in the raining Winter evening day. Sunset eclipse, snow the only thing preventing the land being as dry as corn chips. Margarita dance. It was the worst movie set, with the worst actors. Except nobody was acting, it was entirely the real thing. She tossed the book back onto her shelf, and spent the rest of the day sleeping.

She also liked Pedro Gene, who had accordion covers. And all those ripped jeans. The life of Padro Gene. Her dreams withering, her sensory pulsating. From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust. All her new metallic bodies, piling into rust. She masturbated to Vesco and Birkenstock girls, and their first days of college. Wrapping herself around their suntanned legs. Her body pulsating, her other senses deafening. Paroles de le Divorce on the Spotify, everything else flowing like rows of 80s pop singers. Vesco girls tapping to Padro's accordion, and a few other instruments of note. Life wasn't a movie set of Greek myths, rowing down the river stix. It was its own special kind of hell. But wish her well, in this new life.

It was dreams of Vesco girls forever.

At night she heard the cries of crickets. There wasn't much point going outside, when she was never up during the day. From July to May, from May to Christmas morning day. Christmas flowing like pre transition anxieties. Life without the HRT. Life without a lot of things she needed, much of which could have been prevented. It didn't help that that majority people she could talk about her problems basically didn't care. And only did so mostly out of pressure from her mother, who mostly acted like she did as a way of leveraging control. Lenore wanted a new body, a new life. And everything else in between. A new layer of skin; even robots were no longer made out of metal, with the ability to produce lifelike silicone skin. But there was no easy way to transfer a person's mind yet, without specifically scanning it.

One might think she'd get a job. But this was easier said than done. People that tended to say such things generally never had to worry about not being able to find one. Pretty much everywhere else besides the United States had a thriving job market. Here even if there was (and there isn't) her constant anxieties and panic attacks made this a moot point.

On most days she'd reach total burn out within an hour, leaving her mainly to program different forms of artificial intelligence. She couldn't relate to the idea of transferring her body completely, but had wanted a robot lover for quite some time. She wanted a girl that liked like a female Padro Gene, smoking a cigar like a Western Movie set. Without the blackjack, making bets. Lenore dreaded being around people so much that it was impossible to get into the routine, but her mother wanted her to go to the gym.

She'd rather recline.

Listen to Portuguese dance, and French Waltz.

"I'm not the alt-right," someone said, before they bid goodnight to the chat. " but I don't mind pretending to be one to frame them." It was not your atypical conversation after midnight.

In follow up another said, "So we can line them up and shoot them!" It was this conversations she heard, that made her feel like there was not meaningful difference between the right and the left. Almost always the same tactics, and the political centrists in Washington were not much better. Instead of betting on guns, they bet on moral values. Terrorism was a word that could mean anything they wanted to, although it was generally agreed that it meant anything the Democratic party disliked. She imagined, in any other context, how such a game of super heroes would come across. They would duke it out with the color of hammers.

It was Tankie season in June.

"I have a red hammer." one would say, and the other "I have a blue hammer." At the end of the day, she thought, it didn't matter what the color was. It was simply a hammer. Now she drinks tobacco tea, and downs dish washer cleaner with it, hoping for the pain to go away. For the little anarchist that could, there was the pain in the gut.

But it was better than the smell of red and blue butt, plastered all over the flags of new Utopias. She remembered, how indeed, she had originally came to the left. Much like characters in other stories, for her, the right wing was simply that much worse. She remembered how she slept on the floor in a motel room. She had attempted suicide three different times: one time she attempted to stop her own breathing. At other times she downed Tobacco Tea. Eventually the only option to remove herself from the situation was dish washer cleaner. She had grown a taste for it, downing in a little bit day by day. She had no time for politics, or anything else in life. There was simply the trail of tobacco smoke in the air. But she still had itches for own personality.

Even when nothing else was left.

When she had lived in her apartment, it was difficult to get anything done, with all of the noise in the rooms up and downstairs. It was a game of low base toned musical chairs. Lined up with 1,000 students in a thirty person room. Children play with fingerboards, and go zoom, zoom, zoom. But her toy was in character's lives in prose and poetry, life lined up in Flamenco and Lai. To rhythm of blood and birthday cake dye. No more was there energy for different world maps, about realms of decay and death. No more rhymes of fairies and elven wives. There was only the tune of Lyres and Crystal Spires. And princesses getting their heads chopped off on wooden blocks. Queens in the pillory, different bondage play. For she wouldn't stop her lust for anyone any time of day. Only on Weekends did she used to get to sleep as long as she wanted.

Now she wanted to sleep forever.

Until time itself stopped.

Ultimately she considered herself a pacifists, but sometimes she was wishy washing about whether thing was really the case. Her ex had talked her into purchasing a can of pepper spray, and purchased it originally out of the idea of giving the middle finger to people she knew. And partially things had become especially dangerous for trans people after Trump was elected. Although this never helped much when she was walk around the city with shin splints and twisted ankles. Her life was a hop, and she couldn't stop; being ran over with a speed bus would make the pain go away, if it didn't get her in one go. But it was better than nights without a shower, with the tub fool of dirty dishes. She thought that her own ideas about lust would eventually go away, but they largely remained. Behind the scenes at first, but it was always present. Waiting. The only thing stopping her from doing anything with it being her strong sense of empathy for everyone besides herself, and general apathy for her bodily safety, when not going around purchasing smokes.

Or risk being sold to overly testosterone poisoned blokes. It wasn't an uncommon conversation for her to be told that her being sold as a prostitute was the only way to make ends meet, even she had other things in mind.

Now she was a broken music box.

A song of broken rhymes.

She didn't understand people that came to the left through communism; as far as she was concerned, she had always been a leftist; for it was the social issues that mattered the most, as these were issues she lived through the most day be excruciating day.

There was a certain baseless she thought she could be kept, even if one were right wing in almost every other way; she was against the idea of hitting children, executing both mentally challenged people and children, among a host of other specific social issues. You didn't need to be leftist to understand how certain issues were moral wrongs just about everywhere you went: but to her she was more perturbed by people equating sex with robots to sex with your slaves. As if somehow the analogy was even relevant in post capitalist society. It was this and many other aspects she she always stayed on the side lines during debate, and generally chose to avoid watching the presidential masturbates on prime time. Instead she made hot curry French fry shaker salt. Downed it with a chocolate malt, and headed to bed on an irritable bowels stomach.

And she dreamed of long wastelands, that led to nowhere. Where there was an abandoned school building near the end of a wooden sky bridge, and at the end of a very bridge a giant troll like creatures who made the ground shake with its step, the sky a silver gray outside the windows, and constant black smoke filled with red eyed demons. Then there was a birthday party election. In this birthday party, was a school vote for which presidential candidate to shoot off in a rocket to the constellations, witht he message "Enjoy your birthday cake, it will be the last thing you ever eat" from now faceless teacher in a private school. Why vote for the greens or libertarians.

Just vote for the Cake Party.

But the birthday cake tasted of ground glass particles, and ruptured stomachs. Her vision fading yearly, her hearing increasingly manifolds. Prosthetic eyes a vague hope increasingly distant. But she loved her own personal dizziness. At the edge of time. Where a large gray troll always stooped, and broke walls with its giant scimitar.

The social life was her own wall.

She wanted to bust it with a hammer.

At at the edge of the world, was giant troll named Morgred Lionheart, with a scimitar the size of small houses, and giant horse that leaped over the moon to punch some cows. He rode through the desert with one eye. With the desert had any eyeballs he was not absolutely sure, except the eyeball would always ask him for a password in order to enter the town. In olden times there were ancient machines, yet now with artificial biology, the was almost no distinction. With giant deserts with artificially intelligent eyes, that also filled the sky. That screeched with a screech that no mortal can belch. And this troll that rode through the desert sliced heads up like there was no tomorrow. But he wasn't like his creator, who didn't even dream of a yesterday.

There was only the present.

And a vaguely defined future.

In this darkness, she floated, with star floating by like midnight glitter on birthday cakes for a Sultan. And all the severed princess heads that one could delight for, all fell into place, by Morgred's throne. But these were no Family Friendly damsels. But girls of the night.

Their vision fading.

Like midnight starlight.

His arch nemesis was a human warrior, named Bleu Jean Forrest. Who had a mustachio and beard the same of a young communist warlord. He was quite the Ferrat indeed. And who gloated at Morgred having his last hurrah! Before locking him in the prison that he had to break out of. Either was, it was toxic masculinity, like other stories of heroic fantasies. Lusting till all the ladies head their heads fallen off. But of course, Blue Jean was a better thinner troll. Who thought his communist disillusionment was droll. While making Morgred Lionheart do a belly roll, and stuffing his face with a Jelly Roll. The protagonist of this story dislikes either one.

She wanted her sharpened hammer.

And use it like a centrist toothpick.

Midnight came and went.

No more midnight starlight, no more worlds at the egde of time. For the apparently centrist, there was only the sound of her bed. As she felt into concrete spikes.

Morgred Lionheart bends over to fourth wall.

"Hey author, I need some help!" Morgred said.

"Why are you bend over into my reality again! I'm seeing your ass."

"I need help selling something."

"What's that."

"Fudge!"

"You want to sell Fudge?"

"From the sweat of Gulag tears to the kitchen, I present you! ... Chocolate Mint flavored fudge chilled in the Russian Forest."

"Sell to who?"

"Jean Forrest."

"I'm not a salesmen!"

"No, you're a communist. That will sell like hot cakes."

"Can you let me sleep?"

"Wait, it is 5:00 A.M."

"Gute morgen et bonne nuit!", author said. She woke up to nobody there. Nobody besides us shadow people. Or the rocking play horse, and the broken bunk bed momento in the closet.

"But next time! Commie centrist!" said Morgred.

Morgred's forces were the shape of wood troopers with very large Tour Dr France helmets, floating around in solar hovers. The bike made the sound of a sleepy author snoring repeatedly to the volume of a helicopter crash while they slept on their back during the afternoon sunset--sn--sn--snnsh! "Oh Jean, I have a gift for you. It's home made fudge!"

"My Gulag can make better fudge than your death camps!"

"Let's share each other our fudge of the innocence!"

"Let us dine on the blood of life!"

At night Sarette dreams of broken children's dolls, whose eyes can turn you to stone; demons from the depths of hell, that come for you to atone. But usually the answer was something relatively simple: simply popping its eyes out, and crushing them with a sledge hammer. Her main character Morgred Lionheart knew how to properly crush a demonic doll's eyeballs. He was one of the few things such demon dolls were able to fear.

During the day when awake, she would go to her local art fare.

Here she started out mainly going for the food, but gradually got to know other artists that plugged their wares; it was difficult to broach the subject of being a leftist anarchist, so she never specifically brought it up, unless inquired of so at such events. Instead she would have trouble avoiding looking at Vesco girls in Birkenstocks, dressed as if they went to the beach. After all, it was a event for buying art, not getting horny. Or feeling stuff till the morning, when on all other days it was mostly curried brown rice. All that spice on Saturday nights, and less spice on boiled eggs in the morning sunlight, downing two cups of coffee and a glass of oatmeal punch. She would have scrambled eggs with peppers, and at other times fried peanut butter banana with cayenne, onion powder, garlic powder, cocoa powder, and a few other things. Brain storming spice blends like an unwritten novel, when she preferred stories about giant one eyed orc men, whom even the demons from eternal damnation feared.

In this prospective story, you might not think it clear whether the real world ends and the dream world begins; but like life follows a procedure, and loops all over again, like life wire torture routines, with repeated plays of lesser known Francophone bands. There was no salt shaker to eliminate this misery, and many others in life. Her life wasn't essays for other people to write, and hated the general desire for constant debate and argument on different chatroom servers: sometimes even anarchist ones would either fall back into mob rule, or worse, have a self-appointed person declare themselves the arbiter of Communist discussion, without any checks and balances. But all this was in the past, with people constantly saying think of only the present.

It was difficult balancing between actual genuine fascists, and those people that acted in a similar manner but were merely Tankies supposedly. It was impossible to concentrate on any given thing when you're constantly under attack for largely no reason.

Sometimes it was just easier to pretend like you weren't there, and simply listen to constant replays of Pedro Gene on Portuguese radio, among other music of different variations, such as French Waltz, Japanese Meditation, and bits of Rumba Flamenca here and there. While fantasizing about beheaded Nazis and Pinkos on the wire. Desires consumed entire, other things fading out like distant starlight; emotions fading to a distant horizon, sensing the gradual loss of personal autonomy in groups that claimed to increase it; you might as well be an individualist, and collectives were not any better

Sometimes it was worse.

Lenore found it way to easy to be hateful about things, whether it was things politicians said while she was on the wire, the way that women looked with nineteen eighties hair, with brunette locks and blond highlight, dressed like a flight of seagulls movie set; and how they reminded of medieval princesses about to get the chop.

One girl she met wore a yellow hippie shirt, and a pair of hippie sandals, and everything else that combined the look of a hipster, as well as that of a hippie flower girl. And how Lenora despised such pictures of artificial innocuousness, as if there were no sins in the world. She dreamed of taking them to bed, and then sticking their fingers down her sweat pants, while kissing the nape of her on a soft squishy pillow. Tired brainwaves like instant jello, the smell of artificial fruit punch filling the air, and gym style sweat pants flowing the beat of eighties seagull laughs. Angular sensations, breathing abbreviations. Life flowing likw Latin Music Radio.

She liked dress up dolls, provided it was with a baguette and a giant hair tie in their hair. Her doll tap dancing like an accordion laced Rumba Flamenca, wearing birks instead of black heels. Sensory perception quickly used up like rows of ancient electrical outlets. A high score at the game of life, where the object was to lose as hard as possible, getting the lowest possible hits. And having many battleships sink as quickly as possible.

Her manifest, her life.

Yet by night she create fictional languages, or more accurately language thought experiments, based on a conceptual of what would happen when French and Japanese culture fused, and took over the United States; in practice this would mean the majority of speaking living in an alternate United States, that had diverged from French culture much like how Mexico had eventually diverged from Spain. The Meti of the United States sharing information with each other, in order to prevent the French encroachment in American territories. The bits of Japanese blood flowing like neon-lights, playing meditation Jazz outside Chattanooga and Las Vegas, then renamed as Les Vega.

However she was unsure of the actual feasibility of such a language at this point. As many of the political events that allowed for that to happen in Twenty Seventeen, never happened. And unless Marine La Pen had actually won the election, bringing forth the National Front, that has since been renamed, it effectively becomes an ARL, and Alternate Reality Language.

-- Mercirigato, comutsu na ca gava! One would say, introducing themselves in the crowd of a busy restaurant. With human-like robots speaking just as fluently in the night life.

As far as she knew, this was averted.

But there was always next election.

When you think of cybernetic girls, generally you think either of ones with human brains and cybernetic bodies, or perhaps an inverted model, with 3D printed organic skin. Floating in a network of your own biological soup, the people that come out of the tanks these days were none of these.

Mmujin Saito had her biological brain stored in a preservation tank, in case she was ever decapitated in the on surveillance operation. When you're scanning rival gangs dream world, sometimes their imprints take over systems, and you're left with overnight clean up duty at the office, when you could have been collecting data about teenagers shopping habits; but for this line of work, it was par for the course. She kept a robot cat with a thumb drive, to collect data samples while dressed as common folk; but it was dangerous work. One other agent had already lost her neck to mob leader, and there was already a guillotine blade with Saito's name on it.

As she retweeting from the web partially out of her own design, and partially from the creation of her own employers, she began to wonder what it was that made her be assigned the task of protecting the current specimen, who didn't even look to be the type to join the mob.

It was a cold rainy night, when it had snowed more than usual. Although as far as she was concerned, there was no evidence for ghosts, she still couldn't shake the feeling about how she understood why people that lived here had the tendency to gravitate to such superstitions. During the middle ages, it was the Spanish Inquisition, but now it was interrogation by your own peers. She had been increasingly less atheistic over time since she left her twenties, and generally didn't feel comfortable discussing her sexuality in public. Even for the specific target, whom she had met before she was assigned by her handlers, she wasn't sure whether she wanted the lady's face in her pants, and her specimen's head on a stick. When she had visited her house, disguised as a computer mechanic, she didn't think they would find the pictures that were in her purse, printed from network data collections; the two were completely different in fashion, except for in the house, when they wore the same foot melting leather sandals, that made their whole legs feel like they were being hugged from the inside out.

She pretended like none of it was going it, in order to prevent the specimen from catching up, then promptly, once she reached the office, the notification of the breach.

This was one of the reasons the hacker had a tendency to move from city to city. But over the period when data was collected about them, there was nothing in their life that was suggest someone that would shoot up a bank, or drug half a university population with cyanide. In act they never did, so the entire targeted surveillance seemed like fruitless venture. Although technically her employer would never do this, she imagined her bending Saito over a desk, and giving her the board of disciplinary measures; but generally when she daydreamed at the office, instead the boss would just gently tap her shoulders, and just say "time to get back to work." Because among the adult population, think didn't end up in a bang. It was your severed head rolling about on a dark alleyway in Chattanooga. As if times had not changed from the year 1792.

Although the fashion of the period was distinctively modern, the old tendency to execute leaders by the aristocratic surveillance society, meant there was now many unaccountable leaders rather than one; thus if anything it made the fear of giving her specimen a tip off something she worried would also tip off her employers. The young woman had previously opened up laptops, but had developed an interest in building InMoov robotic parts.

Before she defected for good, she grabbed her organic brain, and shipped it over to the hacker's residence, within non descriptive packaging, with a special note in case she would ever be beheaded by her boss:

Take care of my biological sister. I'll absolutely miss her. -- Mmujin Saito.

But this period would never come; instead she was whacked in a car crash, tearing off her arms and legs. Her employers didn't think she'd make it, thus didn't bother with an assassination ticket; instead, like the night full of chirping crickets, she wondered what the next stage of her life would be like, in a wheel chair.

Instead, fate turned.

She met the hacker in a new circumstance.

It's all to easy to think of politics in terms of life and right wing dynamics, until eventually the absolute inevitable happens, you find yourself meeting a National-Bolshevik that has attributes of both right-wing and left-wing political theory. Sarette, the hacker that had run across Saito in her injured state, met some of these people all to often on the web. Sometimes this meant making the observation that there had to be a logical inverse of such a position, with no real opprotunity to discuss such issues among reactionaries. If someone were the logical inverse of such a political idealogy, then standard political discourse has not had a way to cope with such issues. One could believe in no social welfare programs, but also no national affiliation, and have nowhere to be placed on the chart. She wanted to rebuild Saito in such a way, that she would be in a nurturing environment, so that she would not be around such political division. She simply wanted a taste of Saito's fine lips, while they consumed wine together under the midnight stars on the apartment balconey.

She tended to Saito's nubs when she picked her up from the hospital. Because Saito had been recorded as the hit having been made, Sarette figured this was perfectly fine then to take her under her own custody. Biologically, Saito was around 18, even though she was technically around her early 30s. If she were considered alive, then perhaps Sarette would have issues do to medical licensing. However because of her non-person status, this meant that she could monitor her life signs. Resigned to a life on the wire, her arms and legs consumed entire, her solace was in he good natured will of someone like Sarette. If she had been anyone else in the Potato District, she would have been taken advantage of, yet Sarette herself could have easily had been in this position herself, if her parents had not gotten her out of Washington in the nick of time.

Sarette had been an Anarcho-Communist, but wasn't exactly sure what she considered herself. For right now it seemed to matter at an absolute decreasing rate. She preferred to be online and masturbate, and yet now she wasn't sure what to do. With her cat, it was different, as she could temporary lock the cat behind her bedroom door, provided a litter box was provided and a feeding dog also there. But Saito still needed food like other humans, even if she would have make shift prosthetics.

Having never been in this position before, she was afraid to tell her parents, she was living with someone again, and this time, that person was dependant on her, rather than the other way around. Her father had never be gracious to people that were under her care. When someone had no family too call their own, no arms or legs to take care of themself, there wasn't a whole lot of good options. Yet her pop always said: "If it's someone you don't know, kick them out the door."

"What's your name?" Sarette asked.

"Saito. Mmujin Saito." Saito said.

"Are you married?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"Mmujin."

When it came to social interaction, generally Sarette disliked the generally burlesque nature of political discussion; it was never so much about actually convincing people of ideas or opinions, so much as making the entire thing a show and learning how to properly embarass people. This might work in the short term, but generally she preferred convincing people why certain things were generally cheaper in the long run, because she knew that ultimately convincing some people through their heart that humanity was the better route was not always possible. In general this meant sometimes waiting entire days to actually study the economics of the thing. But generally she was tired of the focus on making things entertaining on video streaming platforms. This might removing herself from much of her social life that she had attained over the last year, which meant actually putting such things into practice was difficult.

With taking care of Saito, and hiding her when her parents would come and visit her, this meant focusing entirely on the needs of her companion as she slowly regained conciousness; Sarette was not at the point where she could immediatly afford to get her prosthetic arms and legs, focusing mostly in helping her develop a comfortable feeling in the relationship. When Universal Basic Income would be a thing, then perhaps maybe she could affix Saito with an enhanced arm with feeling sensors, legs to the same effect. Technically this would make Saito a cyborg, not an android, in which had most usually been Sarette's sexual preference. For that reason, she had been slow to coming around to talking to Saito for real. It was a challenge just to get her to even remember her name ever since the car crash that almost took her. It was a trial of practicing empathy and compassion.

For Sarette, her solace was in the flow of thumb drives and fingerless gloves gliding across the keyboard using different forms of machine learning. She had begun to use alternative software like this one website that gathers your memories, but she needed an offline alternative, as most of these were purely web solutions. And she wanted a way to help her friend remember things when she was having trouble.

-- Are you sure you don't remember what left you in that state?

-- Even if I did, they would be coming after me soon, and I'm not sure if I want to you or your family in danger.

-- I'm working on a new solution to help you remember things day to day.

-- I can remember things just fine.

-- Yes, but you want to preserve that memory right?

Youtube was like an elaborate hazing ritual for the damned; carefully orcastrated to be completely lawless. Set up to feel like the wild west, even though it had clear delineated hierarchies, it became a pain to clealy seperate out the positive content from the negative content. One might think the far left was a place for invisible minorities, but other than sex dolls, it was mostly the same as any right wing entertainment funnel; it was impossible to even write a poem without offending at least someone, and there was no way of really knowing whether someone was a hot head or not. Classic science fiction predicted a lot of things, but the main unanticipated were modern youth's infinite tendency to pick on each other's pet peeves.

In this sense, nothing has really changed; the quality of youthfulness remaining something of a constant perpetual artifact of earlier ages, when they were not playing roguelike games in the net. During the 1980s there was neo-liberals, yet nowadays apolitical sentiment had begun to skyrocket across the political divide. There was some of this back in Sarette's high school years, but there would always be someone willing to talk shop somewhat, yet now we have adults acting the same as teenagers. She still remembered when it was mildly interesting to write a work of science fiction, ironically, back before she became more aware of the way the world actually worked. Yet no her own apathy was beginning to increase, and for the first time in months she had began to reconsider the idea of consuming tobacco tea again like alcoholics for booze.

Yet on some nights her propensity to masturbate to girls with severed heads outweighed her desire to end her own existence; and do to her grafting on a Lifenaut avatar in her own likeness, some part of her would remain on the web forever in perpetual archives. It wouldn't be a likeness that she herself would see through her own eyes, that were increasingly losing their vision do to constant contact with the computer.

Yet drifts in her catacombs.

Surfing the net. Yet here she was, the only one to tend to the spy girl that watched her from afar. When she told her parents what was going on, her mother took it better than she expected. But Sarette's father still insisted that she throw the spy to the streets and see what the street would make of her. But Sarette knew that, in those mean streets, there are people that would repair your body, and then sell you into sex work with no regard for your own bodily integrity.

She pretty much disregards everything her father suggests, and thus continued to watch over the girl until she completely recovered.

Adalaida''

The two once sat on a midnight sunset, when they held hands. Because they were not suppose to be out so late that night, they made sure to leave the house in as quiet a fashion as possible. Sitting in the swing sat, they viewed the stars in their brightness; how so many things have changed since then, and yet even now she still wondered whether the other girl wandered off to, even now as she would journey to the stars in her mind.

Winter splinter sprinter land. Sprinting splinting during winter. Of all the shin splints she ever had, this one was especially bad. Snowflakes falling on the land, like little dust of clouds. Let the snowflakes cover in shrouds, all the land covered in white. Goodnight daylight, welcome rainy night. All the dust is in the air, enough to smoke the world everywhere. The lamp lights a beacon, early morning frying bacon. What's shaken pig, in the frying pan. Enough bacon to fill my mouth, all that sensation around my lips. Let me fatten up my very hips, that bacon to fill my mouth. Narrative of a dead pig.

Girls jump rope in wooden shoes, all the boys sing Portuguese and French blues. The rope can't jump itself as they go inside, for the bacon they open wide. There was a woman whose hair was red, about as red as a lobster on its last boil. So many curls on her head. We called her lobster girl with the red curls. She wore an old dress handed down, from her mom who always frowned. Yet it was better than not being around, since the scanners came. Daylight eclipsed, while she ate nothing but corn chips under the dimmed lamp while the rained dropped; you could hear the sound of frogs and birds chirping in the air. Wooden shoes were left on the chimney top, while she chilled and ate corn pop. All covered in turmeric and cumin spice. All that zest flavored grease so nice. All the silence of the world filled the airwaves.

Life wasn't always filled with lyrics, but neither was it lollipops, or tins filled with non popped corn pop. Simply the flavor of nothing, but those snowflakes. She chilled to the sound of nature sounds, while taking off all her clothes, as if to shower, but it was all for the sensation of her black sheets, under the snowflakes. And the sounds of frogs and birds that filled the air, where the only things that broke the silence as she began to sleep. And in those distant dreary dreams, the only time she could blow off steam. Instead she melted under the sheets, and became an ocean covered in ice sheets. Like the sound of distant ocean worlds and ice world at the edge of space, while playing the sound of Moonlight Sonata, and French tap dance.

Life was not a cinquain, or any other consistent rhythm. But the rhythm of a distant life; Not a cinquain, but an astronaut without a spacesuit.

She suffocated in her sleep.

Midnight sonata.

"No trespassing, radioactive." said the nuclear waste dump actor, wearing a fake hazmat suit and yellow plastic helmet. "System alert." The scene was like a replay of an old disaster movie set, carefully improved lines gone over ahead of time before forest exhibition. And to top it off, a real grand daddy long legs crawling the waste. The actor liked the sensation of fog as she pressed the button, and made sure to keep pressing it. At home she wrapped around her wrist an old black bandage tape, she used to affix a flash drive for sneaker net communication. She liked the sensation of being bound with a paper thin canvas bandages, like Gothic mummies. The sound of spider web crawling the midnight forest over brush.

Midnight inactivity, midnight thirst.

All hammering in, in large bursts. Diving in head first, brushing through dream-like galaxies with sparkling glittering blood spewing from a severed neck, the head rolling in her lap as she reclined in her bed.

It was then she remembered her childhood friend, how she would every now and then come and visit her house, where a birthday cake was made. And they ate about a whole tin of ice cream, and listened to some birthday music largely liked by nobody. However it was tolerable enough for the special occasion. In her mind eye, she knows looks onto the memory with a vague sense of irritation. It was a time before she had actually came out as trans, and people still viewed her as largely being male, despite her obvious femininity. And it was only when she was at home that she was even able to hide the fact that she would dress in women's clothes. To think as times have changed, it would be yet another swing set that went by the wayside as the world was slowly consumed by Nuclear Winter, and those who survived would be sent to live underground. Although the reality of this slowly faded from memory as she went on with her life. It reminded her of the sense of grimness when she played as a radioactive inspector on a Halloween set.

Yet at home she binds one of her hands, and sometimes one of her legs, with self-adhesive black cloth. The sensation made her feel comfortable, like being held tightly. And she could carry around 32 gigabyte thumb drives, and sometimes MP3 players through areas of the city where she was not suppose to carry electronics. There was a large scale device ban, when the state began mandated more bag checks, so she needed alternative areas to put her stuff. But it allowed her to carry data around, and as long as she shaved for the days in which she could go to movie, then nobody would know that data was being carried on her person. She savored the days in which it would be cold and rainy, and savored the sunset.

As she was unsure how many more would be left.

Yet now she once again began to sleep, she watched old historical dramas set during the French Revolution. She especially liked it when young aristocratic women would be caressed by the strapping executioner, as she was slowly lowered on the plague. And waited for the angular blade to bloodily whisk her dark brown curly locks away into a wicker basket. She had memories of living the life of Marie Antoinette, and few other girls from later centuries. Yet had grown to acquire a taste for girls in wooden shoes.

It was this that reminded her of when she was almost sold into slavery.

It was roughly a year ago to this day.

"But we need the money Adelina."

"I have no intention of having sex with anyone."

"Look, I want this as much as you do." She wasn't the type of room mate to take no for answer, especially from someone like Adelina. Although she never got around to actually being sold, it was a close enough call that it reminded of the kind of person that her room mate really was, and their relationship was never quite the same sense. And now as the rain drops dropped, the imagined snowflakes falling in the air, and girls outside playing jump rope in wooden shoes, creating imprints in the snow. To think that the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette had fallen so far down the totem pole, and yet she would not leave it for the world. And soon, in her dreams, she imagined nuclear weapons being dropped from stealth wing jets. Turning the world into a perpetual wasteland, where the snow had long sense melted.

But as she focused on the present, it was simply the ghetto she always lived.

A world the same as always, where nothing really changed.

And she was the dust of the Earth.

For a lot of people, it was generally easier to communicate their feelings, but she had grown up with the expectation that she should keep her feelings hid away, except when she was alone in her bedroom and numbed by the sound of spattering raindrops, under the glow of the monitor light. Goodnight sleeping nights, goodnight world of tomorrow. Goodnight all good things that always come to an end, flicking like city lamp lights, as she fluttered away like blood butterflies, the spirits of women with their heads chopped off. Goodnight walls that creak but never seem to crack, good night ghost in the hallways, the imprints of distant time, or perhaps from some distant dimension. Time flowing like a network of lifetimes from distant eras. Era where the flowers always bloomed in the fields, and the flying wing had yet been invented. Goodnight wasteland of dirt and decay in a glimpse into the nearest of possible futures.

Here lies the blood butterfly.

Withered into dust. She traveled to ancient cities, and rusted ones at different periods of time. Flowing like a web work of HTTPS addresses, chased by unseen things, always with the feeling of constantly being watched. But she would wake up in pod, with her ear buds still in her ears, while listening to Fado and Flamenco music. And with the last French lesson being paused until the next morning.

She lived most of her life, before the next war, in anticipation.

Expectation that more souls would burn away in the fire. A fire that could not easily be burned out, fueled by the sadistic humor of people on different websites, calling for the demise of different primitive nations. And her constantly reaching out her hand to help someone, with nobody to answer the call.

Like falling off into a cliff.

And no obvious floor below. Only darkness, darkness...

Below.

In a distant life, she rode in a coach, driven by the strongest of horses. Her hair had begun to grew with age, before she was reincarnated into the present. She wore a torn white dress, with her wrists tied behind her back. She walked up the scaffold, is lowered onto the plank. The crowd pointing and laughing at her. Then a slight chill went through her neck, as she saw for one last glimpse the angular blade that went through her neck.

Blood poured on her face. Then darkness came.

She floated in space, then more darkness. And she was on an emergency room table. With surgeons cooing and cawing at her. They promised to her mother that they would take nice care of her, after she was sucked out with a vacuum cleaner.

And now she pleasures herself to blackened bandages, binding different flash drives, keeping her more cherished illustrations. Various girls in Birkenstocks, and the most casual of she legged jeans and short sleeve tee shirts. Hoping that someday she could get robot girl companion, who she could install with artificial intelligence. But the last few months have been slow with the development, as she finds other things to do with her time. She hoped that maybe, in the next two years she could at least finally gender transition, and change her name to Adelina, while working toward getting the career that she's always wanted.

Go to various talk shows, perhaps talk with different robotics companies. And talk about various ways to build human-like robots, with increasing levels of realism, hoping that they themselves will never have to worry about being reincarnated from the 18th and 19th centuries, and simply live the normal life of robot girls, reincarnated by open source software nodes. And find lovers like she could not.

It didn't matter if she never found anyone to blow her.

As long as some other girl in a long flower wedding dress, got a decorated pair of wooden shoes that she would cherish in some church in Europe. That she would wear whenever she wanted to be reminded of their wedding.

And not live a distant unmarried life.

Or that of a blood butterfly.

"I don't care if you're a writer." the acquaintance said, while promoting Julian Castro, yet another neo-liberal presidential candidate. "Or that all you can remember from me, is being violated by anal beads."

This was not her exact words, but they might as well have been. She always treated the writer as if their own needs were secondary; that only her needs came first. If there was someone the writer had known, it would have been one thing, but instead it was someone that she had not even met determining that they were the sole arbiter of whether they got to sleep or not. After she had told her friends about the writer on the few social media she still maintained, the basic advice was to block the Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminist. The writer had frequent troubles with non consensual following from those whom used to be the most ardent fighters against turning being trans a medical condition, but now they were misappropriating communist spaces, and trying to further make sure that Trans Medicalism was no longer a viable option.

She had already been the sort to keep few friends, and this simply didn't make matters better. Most of the people in the writing community were this way, it didn't matter who she followed. Most of the writers on this social media website were de facto regressive in personality, and didn't pay attention to the fact that they were spamming other writers feed with obtrusive advertising. After a point it became apparent that she was primarily speaking into a void. So she did the one thing that she never thought that she would do, mass mute everyone on the website that she could find. It didn't matter if on previous months she had had pleasant conversations with the person. Most of the people on the website were generally neoliberal in nature, and tended to vote for the most viable mainstream candidate, without a regard to policy.

This meant that, Julian Castro declaring that it was pronoun day, was merely icing on the cake for some of the users on this website. When a website starts being abusive, the standard advice was generally to get that person to stop using that website. Twitter was not beyond eventually removing the mute and block option altogether; why she held onto the website at all she was not exactly sure, although she wanted to try to salvage as much of her social life as she could. But after a point she began to feel like social media executives should be held on court for crimes against humanity, and hung by the neck. At the very least, held to account for the fact that they kept promoting George W Bush's face on their screen.

For her, there was only herself.

As she wandered back into her own needs.

This wasn't the only TERF that had done this to her, but had become something of a pattern on that particular social media website. She was also followed by people like Noir Chatte De L'Etole that had questionable social clout, and yet despite not being generally trusted by other anarchists, was the only one that continued to provide general interaction. She would occasionally like the social media posts by others, but generally preferred keeping her online presence as scant as possible. None of them however were a part of breadtube, that had begun eating their own on YouTube. If someone were to read the diary of her life, they might switch over, and saw talking about politics was OK, unless you were one of them that were on the outs, and was generally unwelcome within that group. Despite having anarchist in the title, for the most part this was largely a misnomer.

The writer still considered herself a leftist, but generally did not want to associate with that portion of the left. They, the Breadisen society, used an elaborate and subtle form of double speak, for less obtrusive in books like 1984, were the double language was constantly in your face. With people bragging about how much they've read the book, and yet apparently did not seem to digest any bit of the volume.

She tuned into her own personal volume.

The volume of Padro Gene.

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