Jon Ureña's Blog, page 45
July 8, 2022
Life update (07/08/2022)
I haven’t been able to write anything of value in days. I’d say that I haven’t had such a dry spell for a long time, but I barely remember what I did yesterday. When I get home from work I’m so exhausted and deflated that I can only slump in the chair and waste the rest of the afternoon in a vegetative state. Yesterday I went a bit further: I got in bed and fell asleep as I listened to storm sounds. I was glad to be gone at least for a while.
Half of the days that I’ve woken up at six in the morning recently I’ve regretted that I didn’t die in my sleep. Such is my mental state when I get to the office and I’m forced to deal with people and their computer problems. I’m sluggish, I have trouble thinking, and I can’t remotely begin to care about anything. I don't know how people even approach me, because as I sit at my desk I'm burning in the black flame of my misery. As usual, the worst part of this job is dealing with human beings (it has always been the case in any setting I’ve been involved in), whether they are my coworkers or the generally clueless users.
The following are examples from a single day:
-Someone asked to get the professional version of Access installed in his computer, which is fine, but then he emailed me because the upgraded version of Excel (we install the whole upgraded Office package) no longer allowed him to do something it used to. He turned out to be the only person I’ve come across on this job that sets up Excel workbooks as data sources for his personal Excel projects at the office. I talked with HQ and it seems that this will fail with every upgraded version of Excel for all the regions of my country that HQ covers. I’m still dealing with reverting the upgrade so the guy can do what he used to, nevermind upgrading Access. I was tempted to tell him that if he’s using Excel in a way that nobody else is at work, then he should do it at home. In any case, his boss took the opportunity to ask me personally to upgrade Access in other computers (they know they should mail our office, and not individual workers, when making these requests), but then he gave me the names of computers that already have Access upgraded. I told him that if there’s any issue to call HQ so they open a ticket.
-A user stated something of the effect of, “our computer no longer opens [a program related to sterilization]”, but failed to mention any detail about the computer or its physical location. I emailed her for details. After she failed to reply, I ended up phoning her department until they located her. She gave me the computer’s name. The network connection for that computer was down, so I likely would have to check its physical connections. When I asked for its location, the woman told me that she had no time to handle my problem now, and that I should call some time later. That sentence took longer to say than what it would have taken her to share where in the hospital the computer is located. In the end one of the corresponding cables at the network rack was faulty.
-Someone told me that a vitals monitor was failing, but she also failed to tell me its physical location. It’s amazing how often we are assumed to be omniscient. I think some people just have a hard time understanding that we aren’t in their heads.
-Some request stated that “the Maintenance Department has finished the installation that should allow you to move the computer of X room at Y building”. Of course, I had no foreknowledge of this move, nor the specifics of what the Maintenance Department has done (which means I’ll have to waste time going there and getting the specific details that they should have provided). I email her asking if that X room is the origin or the destination of the move, or both (in case they want to move it from a table to another), and if the computer has already been moved (they know they have to call the department that handles moving installed material from one place to another; they get paid for that, we don’t). She tells me that the move is from a table in that room to another one in that same room. Later on her supervisor tells me that the move is from one room to another. They fail to mention if anyone has already moved the computer and its unmentioned associated devices (such as a phone, a printer, etc.) to its destination; my department is only supposed to handle hooking up the computer to the network and making sure it works properly when it’s already at the location. I expect that when I show up later today with a cart, they’ll tell me to come later, even though I will have arrived at the time they specified (they do this relatively often).
My basic psychological defenses, the “callus” that allows me to withstand the regular assaults of noise (usually in the form of incredibly annoying interactions between childish coworkers), the high light levels that people want to work under, and the closeness of so many humans, are worn down, and I force myself to resemble a functioning human being although in the background of my mind I keep hearing that I need to die. If there’s such a thing as a medical leave for mental illness, I should probably be on it, but in that case I would disappear from the office for weeks at a time every month and a half or so (maybe even more often). I’m simply not built to exist in such environments nor deal with human beings to this complexity of interactions and for the required length of time every day. I’m the kind of person who would have been posted at a lighthouse a couple hundred years ago. I also want to masturbate as I gaze into the eldritch light of some fancifully designed lens.
At times like this I wonder why on earth did I ever think that I was capable of handling the responsibilities of a normal adult when I’m 52 percent disabled according to our regional government, was diagnosed with so-called “high-functioning” autism (by a couple of psychiatrists that said that my autism was obvious, something that previous therapists missed completely) and I was also diagnosed at different times with avoidant personality disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder (apparently OCPD and OCD are not the same thing), a generalized anxiety disorder and a clinical depression “resistant to treatment”.
My current period of cyclical depression has coincided with the confirmation that my heart has a physical problem, even though it may be among the mildest possible: atrial fibrillation. My health has failed me from birth: my first memory was of waking up from an operation in which they had to fix a couple of physical issues. Then in my twenties I discovered that I was born with a pituitary tumor which has fucked me up permanently, and throughout I’ve had to endure an Irritable Bowel Syndrome that only gets worse with age. You can usually tell who has serious IBS from their pictures, because those people look worn out and miserable, as it befits the human beings that a few times a day are a distraction and a loose sphincter away from shitting themselves. Now my fucking heart is compromised. I suspect I’ve been in shock, or affected somehow, ever since I spent hours at the Observation Unit of that Emergency Department. I’m waiting for the next time that my heart will fuck me over again, and unfortunately the two treatments I’ve been offered for it are troubling prospects.
I’m also in the kind of mood in which I’m eager to get rid of any person that annoys me even slightly, from online contacts that somehow have ended up in my friends lists on social sites, to coworkers that bother me unnecessarily or disturb my peace of mind in any way. There’s no point in compromising my mental health and principles except to the absolutely minimal extent required to keep a job. Anyone else can rightly fuck off, especially those who have made me up to be someone I’m not to fit a mental image of theirs. I’m sick of dealing with the delusional projections that human beings regularly force upon others. Just stare into a fucking mirror and leave me alone.
Half of the days that I’ve woken up at six in the morning recently I’ve regretted that I didn’t die in my sleep. Such is my mental state when I get to the office and I’m forced to deal with people and their computer problems. I’m sluggish, I have trouble thinking, and I can’t remotely begin to care about anything. I don't know how people even approach me, because as I sit at my desk I'm burning in the black flame of my misery. As usual, the worst part of this job is dealing with human beings (it has always been the case in any setting I’ve been involved in), whether they are my coworkers or the generally clueless users.
The following are examples from a single day:
-Someone asked to get the professional version of Access installed in his computer, which is fine, but then he emailed me because the upgraded version of Excel (we install the whole upgraded Office package) no longer allowed him to do something it used to. He turned out to be the only person I’ve come across on this job that sets up Excel workbooks as data sources for his personal Excel projects at the office. I talked with HQ and it seems that this will fail with every upgraded version of Excel for all the regions of my country that HQ covers. I’m still dealing with reverting the upgrade so the guy can do what he used to, nevermind upgrading Access. I was tempted to tell him that if he’s using Excel in a way that nobody else is at work, then he should do it at home. In any case, his boss took the opportunity to ask me personally to upgrade Access in other computers (they know they should mail our office, and not individual workers, when making these requests), but then he gave me the names of computers that already have Access upgraded. I told him that if there’s any issue to call HQ so they open a ticket.
-A user stated something of the effect of, “our computer no longer opens [a program related to sterilization]”, but failed to mention any detail about the computer or its physical location. I emailed her for details. After she failed to reply, I ended up phoning her department until they located her. She gave me the computer’s name. The network connection for that computer was down, so I likely would have to check its physical connections. When I asked for its location, the woman told me that she had no time to handle my problem now, and that I should call some time later. That sentence took longer to say than what it would have taken her to share where in the hospital the computer is located. In the end one of the corresponding cables at the network rack was faulty.
-Someone told me that a vitals monitor was failing, but she also failed to tell me its physical location. It’s amazing how often we are assumed to be omniscient. I think some people just have a hard time understanding that we aren’t in their heads.
-Some request stated that “the Maintenance Department has finished the installation that should allow you to move the computer of X room at Y building”. Of course, I had no foreknowledge of this move, nor the specifics of what the Maintenance Department has done (which means I’ll have to waste time going there and getting the specific details that they should have provided). I email her asking if that X room is the origin or the destination of the move, or both (in case they want to move it from a table to another), and if the computer has already been moved (they know they have to call the department that handles moving installed material from one place to another; they get paid for that, we don’t). She tells me that the move is from a table in that room to another one in that same room. Later on her supervisor tells me that the move is from one room to another. They fail to mention if anyone has already moved the computer and its unmentioned associated devices (such as a phone, a printer, etc.) to its destination; my department is only supposed to handle hooking up the computer to the network and making sure it works properly when it’s already at the location. I expect that when I show up later today with a cart, they’ll tell me to come later, even though I will have arrived at the time they specified (they do this relatively often).
My basic psychological defenses, the “callus” that allows me to withstand the regular assaults of noise (usually in the form of incredibly annoying interactions between childish coworkers), the high light levels that people want to work under, and the closeness of so many humans, are worn down, and I force myself to resemble a functioning human being although in the background of my mind I keep hearing that I need to die. If there’s such a thing as a medical leave for mental illness, I should probably be on it, but in that case I would disappear from the office for weeks at a time every month and a half or so (maybe even more often). I’m simply not built to exist in such environments nor deal with human beings to this complexity of interactions and for the required length of time every day. I’m the kind of person who would have been posted at a lighthouse a couple hundred years ago. I also want to masturbate as I gaze into the eldritch light of some fancifully designed lens.
At times like this I wonder why on earth did I ever think that I was capable of handling the responsibilities of a normal adult when I’m 52 percent disabled according to our regional government, was diagnosed with so-called “high-functioning” autism (by a couple of psychiatrists that said that my autism was obvious, something that previous therapists missed completely) and I was also diagnosed at different times with avoidant personality disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder (apparently OCPD and OCD are not the same thing), a generalized anxiety disorder and a clinical depression “resistant to treatment”.
My current period of cyclical depression has coincided with the confirmation that my heart has a physical problem, even though it may be among the mildest possible: atrial fibrillation. My health has failed me from birth: my first memory was of waking up from an operation in which they had to fix a couple of physical issues. Then in my twenties I discovered that I was born with a pituitary tumor which has fucked me up permanently, and throughout I’ve had to endure an Irritable Bowel Syndrome that only gets worse with age. You can usually tell who has serious IBS from their pictures, because those people look worn out and miserable, as it befits the human beings that a few times a day are a distraction and a loose sphincter away from shitting themselves. Now my fucking heart is compromised. I suspect I’ve been in shock, or affected somehow, ever since I spent hours at the Observation Unit of that Emergency Department. I’m waiting for the next time that my heart will fuck me over again, and unfortunately the two treatments I’ve been offered for it are troubling prospects.
I’m also in the kind of mood in which I’m eager to get rid of any person that annoys me even slightly, from online contacts that somehow have ended up in my friends lists on social sites, to coworkers that bother me unnecessarily or disturb my peace of mind in any way. There’s no point in compromising my mental health and principles except to the absolutely minimal extent required to keep a job. Anyone else can rightly fuck off, especially those who have made me up to be someone I’m not to fit a mental image of theirs. I’m sick of dealing with the delusional projections that human beings regularly force upon others. Just stare into a fucking mirror and leave me alone.
July 5, 2022
Life update (07/05/2022)
Lately I've been in a daze, trying to daydream my way through the workday, or at least operating as mechanically as possible, while I feel that nothing going on in this world has anything to do with me. I only look forward to the moment I'll be able to sit down in front of my PC at home and continue working on my current novel, or else lose myself in another board gaming session.
I went to see a cardiologist due to my recent episode of atrial fibrillation. The guy seemed annoyed already, but he got even more testy when I merely informed him that the first instance in my whole life when I experienced these "heart hiccups" was the same day that I got my latest booster vaccine. He proceeded to assure me that the vaccine had nothing to do with it. When I looked up the matter a few days ago, I came across medical articles such as this one that state, "reported data shows a possible correlation between the Pfizer COVID vaccine and [atrial fibrillation]". As small as it might be, it doesn't invalidate the factual reality that I got my first instance of such issues after I got jabbed, as my fever was rising.
He told me that enduring through another episode of atrial fibrillation was a matter of when, not if, and the treatment would depend on their frequency. Apparently the treatment consists on either prescribing me flecainide to take it if the episode of atrial fibrillation lasts a few hours, or else I should undergo ablation. When the word 'ablation' came out of his mouth, the image of a clitoris popped up in my mind, and I couldn't pay attention to the following sentences. According to the internet, the procedure consists of "[using] small burns or freezes to cause some scarring on the inside of the heart to help break up the electrical signals that cause irregular heartbeats." Wonderful.
So it's either heart surgery or taking flecainide, a drug that "[has a] chance that [it] may cause new or make worse existing heart rhythm problems when it is used. Since it has been shown to cause severe problems in some patients, it is only used to treat serious heart rhythm problems." Another site states, "if you’ve had a heart attack within the past two years, flecainide may raise your risk of having another heart attack, which can be fatal. This drug should only be used if you have a life-threatening irregular heart rate."
I don't trust people in general, and I've already been treated as a guinea pig by smiling psychiatrists, one of whom prescribed me an anti-depressant that caused permanent physical scarring, and another one who prescribed me hypnotics for my terrible insomnia issues back then (which thankfully I've managed to regulate thanks to extreme exhaustion from work as well as regular masturbation), and who stated that I could keep taking the hypnotics for months or years (by the way, this video is the closest depiction I've found of how it feels to be drugged with that stuff); I ended up experiencing even worse depression, which felt like I was wading through mud every second, and lo and behold, the indications of the drug stated that it shouldn't be used for more than a couple of weeks, because it could vastly worsen depression and other nasty stuff.
The reaction of such professionals to the notion of covid vaccines causing any health issues at all is just another case of normal people being terrified of social suicide and of potentially losing their jobs. That's how the vast majority also fall in line with mass migrations that are ethnically cleansing the native populations, with the increased influence of certain religions, with the pronouns craze and such. Increasingly totalitarian regimes, as virtually all Western governments are becoming, work not only by directly punishing their citizens but by inducing in them such social pressure that they'll eagerly police other citizens so they keep their mouths shut and agree with whatever insanity they otherwise reject in private. In my case, I already avoid human beings, so if someone stops interacting with me they are usually doing me a favor.
As a single, unattached man with a regular wage, I have some money to spare. I love living card games, and my favorite one so far is 'Arkham Horror'. However, they revised the original living card game they made of 'The Lord of the Rings' back in 2012 or so. I bought the entire series of revised products, which consists on the revised core game, the 'Dark of Mirkwood' scenario, the four starter decks and the 'Angmar Awakened' hero expansion. So far I've only succeeded at one of the missions, the very first one of the core campaign, thanks to my custom decks 'Monster Hunters of the Realm' and 'Scouts of Mirkwood'.
Right now I look forward to playing more of this living card game than of 'Arkham Horror', although part of it must be the novelty. I love, however, the art on these cards, the synergies that you can build with them and the sense of leading bands of fantasy peoples against a whole variety of monsters and treacheries. Although the 'Lord of the Rings' LCG has a simple Location system, with only one active location to explore at a time instead of a board made of cards as in 'Arkham Horror', I've always had the nagging feeling that the other game overcomplicated the matter. As usual, as much as I've loved videogames, few things beat entertainment-wise the tactile and brain-burning experience of having a well designed problem to solve with some fancy tools at my disposal. It's to a certain extent how I feel about putting texts together, whether they are poems or scenes for an ongoing story, but in that case I use words instead of cards.
Otherwise, I'm at work and I wish I wasn't. Having a job sucks, having to deal with people is harrowing, and I can't rest nor be alone remotely as much as I need.
I went to see a cardiologist due to my recent episode of atrial fibrillation. The guy seemed annoyed already, but he got even more testy when I merely informed him that the first instance in my whole life when I experienced these "heart hiccups" was the same day that I got my latest booster vaccine. He proceeded to assure me that the vaccine had nothing to do with it. When I looked up the matter a few days ago, I came across medical articles such as this one that state, "reported data shows a possible correlation between the Pfizer COVID vaccine and [atrial fibrillation]". As small as it might be, it doesn't invalidate the factual reality that I got my first instance of such issues after I got jabbed, as my fever was rising.
He told me that enduring through another episode of atrial fibrillation was a matter of when, not if, and the treatment would depend on their frequency. Apparently the treatment consists on either prescribing me flecainide to take it if the episode of atrial fibrillation lasts a few hours, or else I should undergo ablation. When the word 'ablation' came out of his mouth, the image of a clitoris popped up in my mind, and I couldn't pay attention to the following sentences. According to the internet, the procedure consists of "[using] small burns or freezes to cause some scarring on the inside of the heart to help break up the electrical signals that cause irregular heartbeats." Wonderful.
So it's either heart surgery or taking flecainide, a drug that "[has a] chance that [it] may cause new or make worse existing heart rhythm problems when it is used. Since it has been shown to cause severe problems in some patients, it is only used to treat serious heart rhythm problems." Another site states, "if you’ve had a heart attack within the past two years, flecainide may raise your risk of having another heart attack, which can be fatal. This drug should only be used if you have a life-threatening irregular heart rate."
I don't trust people in general, and I've already been treated as a guinea pig by smiling psychiatrists, one of whom prescribed me an anti-depressant that caused permanent physical scarring, and another one who prescribed me hypnotics for my terrible insomnia issues back then (which thankfully I've managed to regulate thanks to extreme exhaustion from work as well as regular masturbation), and who stated that I could keep taking the hypnotics for months or years (by the way, this video is the closest depiction I've found of how it feels to be drugged with that stuff); I ended up experiencing even worse depression, which felt like I was wading through mud every second, and lo and behold, the indications of the drug stated that it shouldn't be used for more than a couple of weeks, because it could vastly worsen depression and other nasty stuff.
The reaction of such professionals to the notion of covid vaccines causing any health issues at all is just another case of normal people being terrified of social suicide and of potentially losing their jobs. That's how the vast majority also fall in line with mass migrations that are ethnically cleansing the native populations, with the increased influence of certain religions, with the pronouns craze and such. Increasingly totalitarian regimes, as virtually all Western governments are becoming, work not only by directly punishing their citizens but by inducing in them such social pressure that they'll eagerly police other citizens so they keep their mouths shut and agree with whatever insanity they otherwise reject in private. In my case, I already avoid human beings, so if someone stops interacting with me they are usually doing me a favor.
As a single, unattached man with a regular wage, I have some money to spare. I love living card games, and my favorite one so far is 'Arkham Horror'. However, they revised the original living card game they made of 'The Lord of the Rings' back in 2012 or so. I bought the entire series of revised products, which consists on the revised core game, the 'Dark of Mirkwood' scenario, the four starter decks and the 'Angmar Awakened' hero expansion. So far I've only succeeded at one of the missions, the very first one of the core campaign, thanks to my custom decks 'Monster Hunters of the Realm' and 'Scouts of Mirkwood'.
Right now I look forward to playing more of this living card game than of 'Arkham Horror', although part of it must be the novelty. I love, however, the art on these cards, the synergies that you can build with them and the sense of leading bands of fantasy peoples against a whole variety of monsters and treacheries. Although the 'Lord of the Rings' LCG has a simple Location system, with only one active location to explore at a time instead of a board made of cards as in 'Arkham Horror', I've always had the nagging feeling that the other game overcomplicated the matter. As usual, as much as I've loved videogames, few things beat entertainment-wise the tactile and brain-burning experience of having a well designed problem to solve with some fancy tools at my disposal. It's to a certain extent how I feel about putting texts together, whether they are poems or scenes for an ongoing story, but in that case I use words instead of cards.
Otherwise, I'm at work and I wish I wasn't. Having a job sucks, having to deal with people is harrowing, and I can't rest nor be alone remotely as much as I need.
July 2, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 61 (Fiction)
Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Jacqueline's Audi Avant is climbing up the incline that passes by the rain-dirtied bunker of the Lugaritz train station. I would love to sink in her passenger seat and relax. Knowing that my beloved is in charge of driving us to her apartment, my brain would give up on its need to scan the environment for threats, and for as long as the ride lasted I would commit myself to oblivion. But Jacqueline's grip on the wheel is too tense, and she's gazing through the car's windscreen with unfocused eyes full of concern and worry. She has been on edge since I dragged her along to see the bunnyman.
I'm a chipmunk trapped in a narrowing crevice. Although I want to escape, one wrong wiggle will cause me to slide further down, and the rock walls will trap me and suffocate me. I was convinced that drafting Jacqueline in as an escort against the otherworldly intruder was a good idea; her presence invigorates me and relights the delusion that I deserve to exist. But Jacqueline's sanity spared her the sight of that abominable bunny, so from her perspective I hurled insults at the empty space of that hallway even as I wept. I should have kept mum instead of ruining Jacqueline's day by forcing her to witness my pathetic breakdown, like that of a drunkard screaming malarkey into the microphone at a karaoke bar.
Does my girlfriend resent having pressed her warm flesh against mine, or even having allowed me to guzzle her holy juices? Maybe she feels that I contaminated her, and she's trying to figure out how to get rid of me in a way that won't cause this raving lunatic to go on a rampage. For my queen, our relationship is likely a passing, feverish fling, but if she were to go down on one knee and ask me to spend the rest of my life with her, I would faint, collapse backwards and crack my skull open against the chewing-gum-stained pavement of the seaside promenade that Jacqueline would have chosen for her proposal. As dark blood leaked over the chunks of my brain matter, my lips would sport the loveliest smile imaginable.
What would be better than to die suddenly at the height of happiness? Someone should have invented an instant suicide button that people could buy and carry with them, and if for once in your life such a bliss coursed through your veins, a press of the button would sever your consciousness from its organic frame. How sweet it would be to free myself from the panic that roils the depths of my mind, to free myself from these visions of Jacqueline turning her head towards me and stating with a variety of words that our relationship would never work, that I'm too deranged and depraved for love, that due to the putrefaction that I spread to everyone I touch, her cells are necrosing one by one on their way to transform my beloved into a desiccated prune.
Past Jacqueline's profile, a short-haired woman in her forties is pedaling up the steep slope on the bike lane, framed against the slender, skeletal trees that line the path. Beyond, the platinum-colored, concave façade of a building towers over the road. Three sections of the building bulge out like the projecting towers of some ancient capital's walls. Jacqueline should exit the roundabout through the path that runs up the hill; she would continue driving past expensive residential buildings with hedged lawns, past the last isolated shops, until we reached the neighborhood at the end of that winding road, where my pimp girlfriend bought her quiet abode. Instead, Jacqueline passes the exit on purpose.
My heart gallops in my ribcage, my nerves are frayed like tattered strings.
Jacqueline is biting her lower lip as she steers into the parking lot of the concave building that looms over us like some stern sentinel. Two cars, one pastel-grey and the other silver-colored, that likely belong to workers, are maneuvering out of the parking lot. Jacqueline pulls over a few parking spaces away from the nearest car.
My queen shuts off her Audi's engine. After she leans back on the seat, she traces the back of her right hand with the fingertips of her left one. Through the branches of a copse of pines, the slanting beams of the setting sun pouring into the car are shadowing the right half of Jacqueline's face, and highlighting her outline with a golden light.
"Let's talk," Jacqueline says.
This is it: she's going to abandon me to the darkness and the pain. She's going to crush my heart then throw my corpse in a rubbish bin.
My body goes numb, and I let my head droop.
"Let's not," I utter in a hollow voice. "Let's just sit here and remain silent. Like, forever."
"I can't hold it in anymore, Leire."
It's okay, I tell myself. She'll have a better life without me. In a matter of years I'll get sent to a mental institution where I'll be confined until my mind rots away, and even then I'll still be held responsible for all the crimes I committed in my psychotic bouts.
"W-well, what is it?"
"Leire, do you have telekinetic powers?"
I lift my gaze at Jacqueline's face; I must have heard her wrong. Her ivory skin has a splash of red on her cheeks, tendrils of her raven-black hair are peaking over her shoulders, and those cobalt-blue eyes look upon me with their limpid beauty, threatening to sweep through me and make me disappear like dust in the air.
"What a weird question to ask seriously," I say with a tinge of hysteria. "Could the answer possibly be 'yes'?"
Jacqueline stares at me intently as her forehead creases.
"No, no telekinesis," I say. "Never got to learn that one at school. I'm also unable to fly, I can't turn invisible, I can't read minds. Hell, I can barely read my own mind. I'm very clumsy and prone to injuries, I get tired easily, I have difficulty concentrating, and I'm very nervous. I am a pervert to an extraordinary degree, though. W-would you care for me to list all the things I lack, to please you?"
"Not at the moment, sweetie, but thank you." Jacqueline draws a deep breath. "Either you have telekinetic powers or that... person you referred to as 'bunnyman' opened the bathroom door."
"Huh? That he did. Then he slammed the door as if he were a tantruming teenager. Well, more like a giant, matted-haired rabbit with bloodshot eyes and an obscenely fat cock."
Jacqueline touches her temples as if they ached.
"Leire... there was nobody in the bathroom."
As I'm trying to figure out what she means, I remember that after the bunnyman slammed the door, Jacqueline remained frozen for a few seconds, then she strode in pursuit of the demon like some Hellenic heroine, bursting into the bathroom as if she intended to punish the bunnyman for having annoyed me. She searched around frantically, she opened and closed the stall doors, but the intruder had already fled into the netherworld.
I have a moment of this morning etched in my mind: Jacqueline's skirt, the color of Irish coffee, hugging the plump mounds of her ass as she, crouched, wiped the puddles I had left in my wake after I jumped from the toilet, as if I were a wounded beast whose heart pumped piss through her veins. The sight of my beloved cleaning up the liquid by-product of my metabolism permeated me with a snuggly warmth, and it took all of my willpower to avoid touching myself.
"I already figured out that you couldn't see the bunnyman," I say, short of breath, "although I had hoped that you would, because of Spike's revolver."
This ordeal has stunned Jacqueline into silence unless she wrenches herself out of that state, yet I remain calm and in control of myself; I'm a veteran of humanity's war against these otherworldly harassers.
"I should have warned you that a whole variety of demons is visiting our dimension, but can you imagine me saying, 'Don't masturbate, because a demon may be recording it for blackmail,' and expecting you to stop? Wouldn't I have sounded like an idiot?"
"I suspect you would have."
I reach out and stroke Jacqueline's neck. The sternocleidomastoid feels firm against my palm.
"I understand how troubling this encounter must have been for you, but I have survived through all of them, so I suppose I'll be alright no matter how much they insist on wasting my time with their shenanigans. Did I tell you that once I was masturbating in the kitchen when one of these abominations approached me and showed me on his smartphone a picture of my pussy? They aren't above using smartphones to record a naked woman, but at least they're honest about it. After that I was visited several times by a big-titted succubus. She told me that if I didn't hand over my money, she would stuff my mouth with dicks until I suffocated to death. Well... to be honest, I lied just now. I don't know why I felt the need to hyperbolize my experiences, because they are terrible enough on their own."
"Leire, the door opened and closed," Jacqueline says hoarsely.
"That bunny bastard did open the door and close it, yes. What's the matter? If I recall correctly, I told you that Spike had headbutted my living room window into a hundred tiny pieces. These demons have no respect for the objects in our world."
Jacqueline shakes her head slowly as her unfocused gaze rests on my lap.
"This bunnyman terrified you, didn't he? Was it because of how he looked?"
I wish I could reveal to Jacqueline that the awful rabbit has always showed up in my dreams, that he haunts and tortures me, that he keeps returning to remind me that death is preferable to being a broken freak. The instant that fiend appeared under my butt this morning, I should have called the police so they would have shot him like a fish, and all of his demonic essence would have been sucked out through the bullet holes.
"He was a big brute with overgrown incisors and completely unremarkable genitals."
"You referred to his cock as 'obscenely fat'. And I was standing behind you as you berated him for intending to have a normal conversation while he was showing you his monstrous dick."
I shift my weight in the passenger seat, trying to ease the discomfort in my crotch.
"Jacqueline, it was just a dick." The word 'dick' made my lips vibrate like a phonograph record on its last groove. "The truth is that I've never understood how people get aroused by those hideous appendages. A man should only show his penis to a trusted friend, who should then cut it off and bury it as a token of friendship. And perhaps some salt should be sprinkled over its grave; an old Germanic tradition to ward off trolls. Anyway, my point is that every one of the bunnyman's utterances was a cacophonous clatter unbefitting of an intelligent creature. His ugliness did give me goosebumps, but the terror came from his essence: an ooze emanating from him in waves of unconquerable malice, a leprosy of his soul. Even better, let me put it this way: your first impression of someone can last for the rest of your life, right? Think about pets. If you fail to introduce a new cat to the previous one properly, you may end up with two cats who will despise each other until the day one of them dies, after which the remaining cat will likely believe that his nemesis gave up and surrendered the territory. In the case of this bunnyman bastard, he entered the bathroom through the toilet as I was peeing in it. My piss is too precious to waste it on such scum."
"I get it." Jacqueline's voice sounds tired. "Something weird is going on."
I chuckle bitterly.
"Something weird has always been going on, mommy. The world is full of monsters."
Jacqueline reaches over to hug me, and before I know it, my face sinks in the hollow between her shoulder blades. As she squeezes me tight, her hair drapes around my cheeks, and I fill my lungs with her sweet perfume. For a moment, my mind empties like a gutted balloon.
"Whenever any of these creatures visits you again, please, tell me all about it," Jacqueline whispers as she rubs my back in circles. "I bet you felt like you had to keep this nightmare to yourself because I may have thought less of you. But you are my baby and I will help you however I can."
My throat constricts, and I close my eyes to dissuade the incoming tears from falling. I can't understand how Jacqueline prefers a sick freak like me to a normal man with whom she could enjoy a normal life, but I've ceased trying to comprehend this world's obscure logic.
Although I want to sink into a long, soothing slumber, Jacqueline pulls away from our embrace. My head is swimming with hazy, drug-like euphoria as I stare at the colorful spread of my queen's face.
"I would have been grateful if you merely obliged me whenever I brought up some craziness, but you actually believe me!"
Jacqueline fiddles with a strand of my hair.
"I would be delusional otherwise, wouldn't I? As you said, we must accept we are living in a dimension where it's possible for a horse to gift you a gun. From my perspective, the bathroom door opened by itself. So either you are visited by otherworldly intelligent creatures that only you can see, or you have dormant telekinetic powers that manifest themselves through your interactions with hallucinations. Either way, something supernatural is going on. I think it's more likely that intelligent beings are visiting our world and are able to affect it physically. But if they can manifest a revolver, what else could they do?"
A chill spreads throughout my body and turns my nipples to icicles. I had categorized Spike, this bunnyman, as well as a myriad of other foul abominations, such as the black carpet of slimy blobs that proliferate near the garbage bins at the entrance of our office building, as hallucinations caused by a mental illness of mine, a product of some genetic defect, lifelong loneliness and having been treated as an unwanted guest my whole life. But if these demons are real, then I'm fucked, as that Alberto voyeur wrote on the dashboard of my car. I shudder at the thought that I might become the main course at some cosmic banquet of horrors.
"Wh-where the hell do they come from, these demons?"
"You should be the expert on that subject."
I rub my eyes and take a deep breath.
"There are lots of things I don't know, and I understand even less. I don't trust anything beyond my immediate existence and my ability to interact with it. Who knows how planets form, how cells live, how computers function, why plants grow, how dinosaurs survived a catastrophic extinction, how ants communicate, how light travels, how humans blink, how my blood pressure changes when I masturbate, how children grow, why my little toe is smaller than my big one, what I'd be doing right now if my parents weren't dead, what will happen when the sun burns out..."
"I could probably answer a few of those questions."
"The truth is that I can't control anything in this world, I have no intrinsic purpose or meaning here, I can't deceive myself into believing that in some inexplicable way I'm part of a grand plan, and until I met you I wished to forget all about it, go back into the womb and fall asleep, because from the moment I took my first breath I knew that I'm a horrid abomination doomed to wither away for decades until I died an early death. Perhaps the demons are dreaming all of us and we don't even realize it. But don't you think that the government is aware of these intruders from the netherworld and have operated a cover-up all these years?"
I can't tell if I'm delirious or if I'm a puddle of quivering gelatin. Jacqueline touches her index finger to my lips.
"Did the visitors explain what they wanted from you?"
"I mean, they babbled plenty, but I don't have the patience to listen to nonsense. They likely want nothing from me; they hate me like everyone else does, and I'm a living embodiment of their loathing."
Jacqueline's cobalt-blues are shining as though they are aflame. I'm feeling guiltier by the second. All those times Spike intended me to pay attention to some message he wanted to convey, could it be that he wasn't annoying me for his own amusement?
"I-I thought I was dealing with the effluvia of my subconscious mind. At the most they knew as much as I did, right?"
Jacqueline takes my face in her hands and gazes into my eyes.
"Even if that were the case, sometimes your brain needs to blow off some steam, and you should listen to it. But please, try to pay attention to these visitors from now on. Maybe they just want something reasonable from you, and once they are satisfied they'll leave you be."
---
Author's note: listen to Fleetwood Mac's 'Go Your Own Way' and The Velvet Underground's 'I'm Waiting For The Man'.
---
Jacqueline's Audi Avant is climbing up the incline that passes by the rain-dirtied bunker of the Lugaritz train station. I would love to sink in her passenger seat and relax. Knowing that my beloved is in charge of driving us to her apartment, my brain would give up on its need to scan the environment for threats, and for as long as the ride lasted I would commit myself to oblivion. But Jacqueline's grip on the wheel is too tense, and she's gazing through the car's windscreen with unfocused eyes full of concern and worry. She has been on edge since I dragged her along to see the bunnyman.
I'm a chipmunk trapped in a narrowing crevice. Although I want to escape, one wrong wiggle will cause me to slide further down, and the rock walls will trap me and suffocate me. I was convinced that drafting Jacqueline in as an escort against the otherworldly intruder was a good idea; her presence invigorates me and relights the delusion that I deserve to exist. But Jacqueline's sanity spared her the sight of that abominable bunny, so from her perspective I hurled insults at the empty space of that hallway even as I wept. I should have kept mum instead of ruining Jacqueline's day by forcing her to witness my pathetic breakdown, like that of a drunkard screaming malarkey into the microphone at a karaoke bar.
Does my girlfriend resent having pressed her warm flesh against mine, or even having allowed me to guzzle her holy juices? Maybe she feels that I contaminated her, and she's trying to figure out how to get rid of me in a way that won't cause this raving lunatic to go on a rampage. For my queen, our relationship is likely a passing, feverish fling, but if she were to go down on one knee and ask me to spend the rest of my life with her, I would faint, collapse backwards and crack my skull open against the chewing-gum-stained pavement of the seaside promenade that Jacqueline would have chosen for her proposal. As dark blood leaked over the chunks of my brain matter, my lips would sport the loveliest smile imaginable.
What would be better than to die suddenly at the height of happiness? Someone should have invented an instant suicide button that people could buy and carry with them, and if for once in your life such a bliss coursed through your veins, a press of the button would sever your consciousness from its organic frame. How sweet it would be to free myself from the panic that roils the depths of my mind, to free myself from these visions of Jacqueline turning her head towards me and stating with a variety of words that our relationship would never work, that I'm too deranged and depraved for love, that due to the putrefaction that I spread to everyone I touch, her cells are necrosing one by one on their way to transform my beloved into a desiccated prune.
Past Jacqueline's profile, a short-haired woman in her forties is pedaling up the steep slope on the bike lane, framed against the slender, skeletal trees that line the path. Beyond, the platinum-colored, concave façade of a building towers over the road. Three sections of the building bulge out like the projecting towers of some ancient capital's walls. Jacqueline should exit the roundabout through the path that runs up the hill; she would continue driving past expensive residential buildings with hedged lawns, past the last isolated shops, until we reached the neighborhood at the end of that winding road, where my pimp girlfriend bought her quiet abode. Instead, Jacqueline passes the exit on purpose.
My heart gallops in my ribcage, my nerves are frayed like tattered strings.
Jacqueline is biting her lower lip as she steers into the parking lot of the concave building that looms over us like some stern sentinel. Two cars, one pastel-grey and the other silver-colored, that likely belong to workers, are maneuvering out of the parking lot. Jacqueline pulls over a few parking spaces away from the nearest car.
My queen shuts off her Audi's engine. After she leans back on the seat, she traces the back of her right hand with the fingertips of her left one. Through the branches of a copse of pines, the slanting beams of the setting sun pouring into the car are shadowing the right half of Jacqueline's face, and highlighting her outline with a golden light.
"Let's talk," Jacqueline says.
This is it: she's going to abandon me to the darkness and the pain. She's going to crush my heart then throw my corpse in a rubbish bin.
My body goes numb, and I let my head droop.
"Let's not," I utter in a hollow voice. "Let's just sit here and remain silent. Like, forever."
"I can't hold it in anymore, Leire."
It's okay, I tell myself. She'll have a better life without me. In a matter of years I'll get sent to a mental institution where I'll be confined until my mind rots away, and even then I'll still be held responsible for all the crimes I committed in my psychotic bouts.
"W-well, what is it?"
"Leire, do you have telekinetic powers?"
I lift my gaze at Jacqueline's face; I must have heard her wrong. Her ivory skin has a splash of red on her cheeks, tendrils of her raven-black hair are peaking over her shoulders, and those cobalt-blue eyes look upon me with their limpid beauty, threatening to sweep through me and make me disappear like dust in the air.
"What a weird question to ask seriously," I say with a tinge of hysteria. "Could the answer possibly be 'yes'?"
Jacqueline stares at me intently as her forehead creases.
"No, no telekinesis," I say. "Never got to learn that one at school. I'm also unable to fly, I can't turn invisible, I can't read minds. Hell, I can barely read my own mind. I'm very clumsy and prone to injuries, I get tired easily, I have difficulty concentrating, and I'm very nervous. I am a pervert to an extraordinary degree, though. W-would you care for me to list all the things I lack, to please you?"
"Not at the moment, sweetie, but thank you." Jacqueline draws a deep breath. "Either you have telekinetic powers or that... person you referred to as 'bunnyman' opened the bathroom door."
"Huh? That he did. Then he slammed the door as if he were a tantruming teenager. Well, more like a giant, matted-haired rabbit with bloodshot eyes and an obscenely fat cock."
Jacqueline touches her temples as if they ached.
"Leire... there was nobody in the bathroom."
As I'm trying to figure out what she means, I remember that after the bunnyman slammed the door, Jacqueline remained frozen for a few seconds, then she strode in pursuit of the demon like some Hellenic heroine, bursting into the bathroom as if she intended to punish the bunnyman for having annoyed me. She searched around frantically, she opened and closed the stall doors, but the intruder had already fled into the netherworld.
I have a moment of this morning etched in my mind: Jacqueline's skirt, the color of Irish coffee, hugging the plump mounds of her ass as she, crouched, wiped the puddles I had left in my wake after I jumped from the toilet, as if I were a wounded beast whose heart pumped piss through her veins. The sight of my beloved cleaning up the liquid by-product of my metabolism permeated me with a snuggly warmth, and it took all of my willpower to avoid touching myself.
"I already figured out that you couldn't see the bunnyman," I say, short of breath, "although I had hoped that you would, because of Spike's revolver."
This ordeal has stunned Jacqueline into silence unless she wrenches herself out of that state, yet I remain calm and in control of myself; I'm a veteran of humanity's war against these otherworldly harassers.
"I should have warned you that a whole variety of demons is visiting our dimension, but can you imagine me saying, 'Don't masturbate, because a demon may be recording it for blackmail,' and expecting you to stop? Wouldn't I have sounded like an idiot?"
"I suspect you would have."
I reach out and stroke Jacqueline's neck. The sternocleidomastoid feels firm against my palm.
"I understand how troubling this encounter must have been for you, but I have survived through all of them, so I suppose I'll be alright no matter how much they insist on wasting my time with their shenanigans. Did I tell you that once I was masturbating in the kitchen when one of these abominations approached me and showed me on his smartphone a picture of my pussy? They aren't above using smartphones to record a naked woman, but at least they're honest about it. After that I was visited several times by a big-titted succubus. She told me that if I didn't hand over my money, she would stuff my mouth with dicks until I suffocated to death. Well... to be honest, I lied just now. I don't know why I felt the need to hyperbolize my experiences, because they are terrible enough on their own."
"Leire, the door opened and closed," Jacqueline says hoarsely.
"That bunny bastard did open the door and close it, yes. What's the matter? If I recall correctly, I told you that Spike had headbutted my living room window into a hundred tiny pieces. These demons have no respect for the objects in our world."
Jacqueline shakes her head slowly as her unfocused gaze rests on my lap.
"This bunnyman terrified you, didn't he? Was it because of how he looked?"
I wish I could reveal to Jacqueline that the awful rabbit has always showed up in my dreams, that he haunts and tortures me, that he keeps returning to remind me that death is preferable to being a broken freak. The instant that fiend appeared under my butt this morning, I should have called the police so they would have shot him like a fish, and all of his demonic essence would have been sucked out through the bullet holes.
"He was a big brute with overgrown incisors and completely unremarkable genitals."
"You referred to his cock as 'obscenely fat'. And I was standing behind you as you berated him for intending to have a normal conversation while he was showing you his monstrous dick."
I shift my weight in the passenger seat, trying to ease the discomfort in my crotch.
"Jacqueline, it was just a dick." The word 'dick' made my lips vibrate like a phonograph record on its last groove. "The truth is that I've never understood how people get aroused by those hideous appendages. A man should only show his penis to a trusted friend, who should then cut it off and bury it as a token of friendship. And perhaps some salt should be sprinkled over its grave; an old Germanic tradition to ward off trolls. Anyway, my point is that every one of the bunnyman's utterances was a cacophonous clatter unbefitting of an intelligent creature. His ugliness did give me goosebumps, but the terror came from his essence: an ooze emanating from him in waves of unconquerable malice, a leprosy of his soul. Even better, let me put it this way: your first impression of someone can last for the rest of your life, right? Think about pets. If you fail to introduce a new cat to the previous one properly, you may end up with two cats who will despise each other until the day one of them dies, after which the remaining cat will likely believe that his nemesis gave up and surrendered the territory. In the case of this bunnyman bastard, he entered the bathroom through the toilet as I was peeing in it. My piss is too precious to waste it on such scum."
"I get it." Jacqueline's voice sounds tired. "Something weird is going on."
I chuckle bitterly.
"Something weird has always been going on, mommy. The world is full of monsters."
Jacqueline reaches over to hug me, and before I know it, my face sinks in the hollow between her shoulder blades. As she squeezes me tight, her hair drapes around my cheeks, and I fill my lungs with her sweet perfume. For a moment, my mind empties like a gutted balloon.
"Whenever any of these creatures visits you again, please, tell me all about it," Jacqueline whispers as she rubs my back in circles. "I bet you felt like you had to keep this nightmare to yourself because I may have thought less of you. But you are my baby and I will help you however I can."
My throat constricts, and I close my eyes to dissuade the incoming tears from falling. I can't understand how Jacqueline prefers a sick freak like me to a normal man with whom she could enjoy a normal life, but I've ceased trying to comprehend this world's obscure logic.
Although I want to sink into a long, soothing slumber, Jacqueline pulls away from our embrace. My head is swimming with hazy, drug-like euphoria as I stare at the colorful spread of my queen's face.
"I would have been grateful if you merely obliged me whenever I brought up some craziness, but you actually believe me!"
Jacqueline fiddles with a strand of my hair.
"I would be delusional otherwise, wouldn't I? As you said, we must accept we are living in a dimension where it's possible for a horse to gift you a gun. From my perspective, the bathroom door opened by itself. So either you are visited by otherworldly intelligent creatures that only you can see, or you have dormant telekinetic powers that manifest themselves through your interactions with hallucinations. Either way, something supernatural is going on. I think it's more likely that intelligent beings are visiting our world and are able to affect it physically. But if they can manifest a revolver, what else could they do?"
A chill spreads throughout my body and turns my nipples to icicles. I had categorized Spike, this bunnyman, as well as a myriad of other foul abominations, such as the black carpet of slimy blobs that proliferate near the garbage bins at the entrance of our office building, as hallucinations caused by a mental illness of mine, a product of some genetic defect, lifelong loneliness and having been treated as an unwanted guest my whole life. But if these demons are real, then I'm fucked, as that Alberto voyeur wrote on the dashboard of my car. I shudder at the thought that I might become the main course at some cosmic banquet of horrors.
"Wh-where the hell do they come from, these demons?"
"You should be the expert on that subject."
I rub my eyes and take a deep breath.
"There are lots of things I don't know, and I understand even less. I don't trust anything beyond my immediate existence and my ability to interact with it. Who knows how planets form, how cells live, how computers function, why plants grow, how dinosaurs survived a catastrophic extinction, how ants communicate, how light travels, how humans blink, how my blood pressure changes when I masturbate, how children grow, why my little toe is smaller than my big one, what I'd be doing right now if my parents weren't dead, what will happen when the sun burns out..."
"I could probably answer a few of those questions."
"The truth is that I can't control anything in this world, I have no intrinsic purpose or meaning here, I can't deceive myself into believing that in some inexplicable way I'm part of a grand plan, and until I met you I wished to forget all about it, go back into the womb and fall asleep, because from the moment I took my first breath I knew that I'm a horrid abomination doomed to wither away for decades until I died an early death. Perhaps the demons are dreaming all of us and we don't even realize it. But don't you think that the government is aware of these intruders from the netherworld and have operated a cover-up all these years?"
I can't tell if I'm delirious or if I'm a puddle of quivering gelatin. Jacqueline touches her index finger to my lips.
"Did the visitors explain what they wanted from you?"
"I mean, they babbled plenty, but I don't have the patience to listen to nonsense. They likely want nothing from me; they hate me like everyone else does, and I'm a living embodiment of their loathing."
Jacqueline's cobalt-blues are shining as though they are aflame. I'm feeling guiltier by the second. All those times Spike intended me to pay attention to some message he wanted to convey, could it be that he wasn't annoying me for his own amusement?
"I-I thought I was dealing with the effluvia of my subconscious mind. At the most they knew as much as I did, right?"
Jacqueline takes my face in her hands and gazes into my eyes.
"Even if that were the case, sometimes your brain needs to blow off some steam, and you should listen to it. But please, try to pay attention to these visitors from now on. Maybe they just want something reasonable from you, and once they are satisfied they'll leave you be."
---
Author's note: listen to Fleetwood Mac's 'Go Your Own Way' and The Velvet Underground's 'I'm Waiting For The Man'.
June 28, 2022
Revised: 'We’re Fucked, Pt. 60'
I’m afraid that when I uploaded this chapter last night, I befouled the writer-reader contract: I hadn’t finished writing the final version. After I spent most of the afternoon working on it, I figured that I would complete it shortly after dinner, but I ended up revising the text until midnight although I have to wake up at six to go to work. By then, my brain refused to cooperate. I knew that if I didn’t at least upload what I had produced up to that point, I would spend the following morning annoyed and revising the text in my head, so I uploaded the incomplete text, which I’ve continued polishing a bit at the office.
Anyway, I’ve spent another hour working on it at home today. Unless I’ve missed one of those errors that a writer’s brain becomes unable to notice until the final revision weeks or months later, I’d say that this chapter is done.
Read it here: We’re Fucked, Pt. 60
I’m quite fond of the face-off against the bunnyman. One of my favorite recent chapters. It has kept me amused at work the few times I’ve reread it. That’s why I write in general, to amuse myself, but also to liven up (I wouldn’t say improve) the day of the few people who have told me they enjoy my stuff.
Maybe because it was somewhat rabbit-tangential, this whole nonsense reminded me of one of my favorite poems, the otherwise sasquatch-themed ‘Sasquatch Goddess’, which I wrote in June of last year.
Anyway, I’ve spent another hour working on it at home today. Unless I’ve missed one of those errors that a writer’s brain becomes unable to notice until the final revision weeks or months later, I’d say that this chapter is done.
Read it here: We’re Fucked, Pt. 60
I’m quite fond of the face-off against the bunnyman. One of my favorite recent chapters. It has kept me amused at work the few times I’ve reread it. That’s why I write in general, to amuse myself, but also to liven up (I wouldn’t say improve) the day of the few people who have told me they enjoy my stuff.
Maybe because it was somewhat rabbit-tangential, this whole nonsense reminded me of one of my favorite poems, the otherwise sasquatch-themed ‘Sasquatch Goddess’, which I wrote in June of last year.
June 27, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 60 (Fiction)
Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
The bunnyman must have been waddling towards our office at a leisure pace, because we catch him mid-step about seven meters away from us. His flint-grey-tipped ears twitch. On the periphery of my vision, his girthy sausage dangles to a stop. He lifts a dirt-brown hand to scratch at his fluffy mane, that reminds me of an Elizabethan ruff.
I hold my breath as I wait for the bunnyman to pounce at me and sink his incisors into my face. I almost crave for him to do so, to feel the shockwaves of pain as he shreds my flesh.
Jacqueline drapes an arm around my back and squeezes my shoulder to comfort me.
"What are you seeing, Leire? That horse again?"
In my mind, I see myself reflected in my doomed, equine friend's bulging eyes, when they were puffy with sorrow as they leaked copious tears. I wish I could admire his glossy coat, with its tawny shades of sable and russet, perfectly groomed and polished to perfection. I wish I could pet him on his majestic forehead or caress the deep furrows above his nostrils. Spike had been bred by the dark gods to become the best cavalry horse in the universe, but he made the unforgivable mistake of rebelling against his fate.
I swallow a lump in my throat.
"No, Spike died. You know that, mommy."
Jacqueline kneads my shoulder gently.
"A different horse then?"
The hulking, bunny-headed demon is eyeing me up as he sways on his feet like a ship bobbing on the ocean. I want to reach into his chest and rip out the pulsing, black-blooded heart that beats in there with sinister malice.
"Sentient, elegant horses I can handle," I mutter, "but this bunnyman is just a pile of fur and fat with a glistening shaft to show for it. He should have died in the mud long before civilizations came about. I can't deal with his drooling or the stink of death coming out of his armpits. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."
I approach the bunnyman with Jacqueline in tow while my spine trembles. I feel like a svelte, sexed-up whore in front of this brute's sagging belly and his hunched back. The wet, matted fur of his face is yellow-tinged and reeks of urine. A glob of drool drops from the tip of his overgrown upper incisors and lands on the vinyl floor with a plop.
I'm scared out of my wits, I'm shivering with revulsion. I fear that my sanity will snap like a rubber band if I have to stare for one more second into this abomination's gunmetal-grey eyeballs, that resemble marbles wedged into his skull. I've gotten a glimpse of the abyss of his soul, his vast and unfathomable depravity. I want to yank out his eyeballs then plunge my hands into the sockets to squeeze his rubbery gray matter until it bursts out in an explosion of gruel.
"Wh-what's your problem, bunnyman?" I muster in an anguished voice. "You're standing in the middle of our hallway and you think that you are allowed to be here? Look at that mess you call fur! It's like a ratty carpet of fleas and lice. You must be the result of a sick orgy involving donkeys and sows, you hideous bastard. I shan't bear the invasion of a horde of bunnymen who will prowl around to the ends of this planet, so come at me, demon! I'm ready to rip out your festering guts!"
My brain is bubbling with rage and disgust; when I hear Jacqueline giggle, it bewilders me. She bear-hugs me from behind.
"Leire, sweetie, you should calm down. Any of our neighbors may come down the hallway at any moment."
"Good," I grumble. "If I'm forced to stare at a naked bunnyman, so should they."
The intruder draws his lips back, exposing the glinting incisors to their roots; his upper lip is parted in an inverted V-shape, and in between peeks out a clam-shell-pink nub of flesh disturbingly similar to a clit. He then huffs out a thick breath that smells like rotten flesh and stale urine.
"You are Leire," he says with a gravelly voice. "You can help."
My heart sinks into my bowels. I'm tempted to take a step back, then as many necessary until I reach the doorway to our office.
His eyes glaze over and a drooling slobber drops from his mouth.
"Wh-what the hell is wrong with you?" I ask while trying to hold in my hysteria. "Are you on drugs? Did you fall out of a tree and smash your head against a boulder? Spike seemed this spaced out the first few times he stalked me... Wait, you aren't Spike, are you?!"
The bunnyman's whiskers twitch. He raises a stubby hand, and I'm expecting a swipe to my jaw, a punch to my temple or a blow to my groin, but instead he reveals a handkerchief that's embroidered with a coat of arms. He uses it to mop the piss off his face.
"Spike is gone," he says somberly. "He's lost in the void of time."
A pang of grief rises in my throat as I contemplate Spike's hay bed and his empty trough. His crazed black eyes will never gaze at me again with unbridled love as he gallops to greet me, or chase after me for that matter. Spike, my loyal mount, was a visionary: his idea of heaven was forcing me to ride him although I begged him to stop.
I clench my teeth before the tangle of emotions overwhelms me.
"So, Lord of the Hellfires, you are one of his pals, huh...?" I utter in a bitter voice.
The bunnyman lodges the handkerchief between his belly folds.
"We were friends, yes. And I've come in his place because he failed."
I'm shaking with anger.
"You dare to stand before me in your abominable form without bringing me good news about my old pal Spike? You spineless turd! You let your friend rot away in some dank ditch? I was going to send him a bottle of whiskey from France and a letter describing my suffering. Instead, I'll have to compose my own poem: 'I will drink a glass of your piss, old friend, then I'll give you a pat on the head and a scratch behind your ear'."
The bunnyman's lips droop, making him resemble a senile grandpa. As far as I can tell, this furry, bunghole-riddled lump of humanoid is thirty to thirty-five years older than me.
"Well, we've been short of good news since we meddled with the laws of nature, but there may still be hope left."
My eyes are fixed on the bunnyman's gum-nub. I shudder at the thought that one day it'll sprout into a fully functioning clitoris. My loins ache, and the urge to touch myself is almost overwhelming.
"H-how can you expect any help from me while you're presenting yourself as a hulking bunny beast? Why don't you take off your skin and show me what lies beneath, you revolting monstrosity? Your fur is full of muck, your breath stinks of dead animals, you're insane as a bag of rabid squirrels."
The bunnyman huffs.
"We are the result of a daring experiment, one that I fear will get abused again and again."
"I'm also the result of an experiment. Did you know that humans can produce new beings when they copulate? How did you come to exist, though? Were you spawned in a giant pile of manure with the help of some insane proctologist? I wish that the bacteria present in human and animal waste would have concentrated in a broth that would have stewed your beastly flesh in its own juices. If I didn't have a pressing engagement, I'd smash you so hard that you'd end up as a puddle of bone fragments."
The bunnyman's nostrils flare wide.
"Are you done venting your outrage? Can we start talking in an amicable fashion?"
"Not with that cock in the picture! It's so long and thick that it may as well be a shovel. At least Spike had the decency to be castrated. How could I have a civilized conversation with you while you're concealing the most disgusting thing on my planet in that accursed sheath of skin? It looks like a length of rotten, knotted intestine."
The bunnyman grimaces as if I had shoved a cold turd down his throat. More saliva drips down his chin in thick threads.
"It’s not my cock per se," he says in a voice like a gravel-ridden, rusty pump. "And in this dimension I can only wear my current appearance. Leire, I see your thought patterns; they are noisy and illogical. Please, remain quiet and listen to me. You see, we were trying to break out of this awful cycle of death and rebirth. The essence of the cosmos is an electromagnetic field that we're able to manipulate."
I shake my head to disperse the foul thoughts.
"I'm already going through enough heartbreak, and you come searching for my help? Do I look like I can even help myself? And you look like you haven't bathed for months! What can you offer me other than more suffering? I wouldn't trust you with my car keys, and I certainly wouldn't ask you to wash my back if I needed it scrubbed."
The bunnyman glances at the wall.
"I'm not an expert at treating psychological distress, but I know that you have struggled to make the best out of a bad situation for quite a while now. You had been crying in a dark room. You were longing to be free although you had no means of escape. You were looking for hope, but it had faded away." The bunnyman's gunmetal-grey eyes are peeling my soul out like an egg from its shell. "Leire, you can never get rid of your pain. However, you can avoid wallowing in it, and instead focus on saving us from a dark fate."
I lift my chin and try to keep myself from crying, but tears well up and fall down my cheeks.
"Let me guess: this help you want from me involves some ritual," I mutter, "one that will start with me performing a cutesy dance and that will end with you sticking your cock in my mouth and saying 'wibble-wobble-gobble' while I taste your slime. You think that your genitals are going to make me worship the ground you walk on because you're a big bad rabbit and I'm a sick slave girl that just wants to fall in love? You think I'll be begging you for more and more until I become a brainless husk? That's what it always comes down to, isn't it?"
The bunnyman shudders. After he takes a deep breath, the air he exhales stinks like the aftermath of a tornado that devastated a pet shop.
"You were given a brain but no control over your emotions. I assure you: I want no part of such perversion."
I look down to make sure that my nipples haven't sprouted erect, but to my dismay, the nipples have sprouted erect. My lips are trembling.
"All of you freaks think that you know me. Do you have any clue what it's like to exist in a brain infested with spiders, in a body that is constantly wet with pre-cum, in a world full of monsters and abominations? Until Jacqueline found me, all I did was work, work, work, work, and no one understood me. I am a person, I have a mind, and I could have probably achieved some level of mastery, but here I am, stuck with one foot in reality and the other in an insane asylum. I am Leire, the Great Bunnywoman, Lady of the Skull, Emissary of the Gods, Rabbit Killer of the Universe! I am not some nympho who gets turned on by the sight of your oversized dong!"
The bunnyman takes a lumbering step back.
"Look, lady, we're on the brink of a crisis. If we don't do something soon, we will be sucked into the maelstrom of a collapsing universe."
"I won't be your prostitute, I won't be your sex slave, and I will never give birth to a bunch of bunnybabies to further your unholy cause! Do you wish to taste the sweet nectar of death?! I have slain beasts ten thousand times larger than you, a dozen of them a day! I will bite off your giant penis and spit it at your feet! So flee, go back to the mud and the slimy marshland, and tell Alberto to shove his likely furry dick up his own ass!"
The bunnyman gasps, displaying the sickly pink inside of his mouth, which looks like a wrinkled vagina. As he stammers some words, I jab a finger at him and let out a noise of glee.
"I knew it! The bastard who disturbed me with random messages and ruined my car had to belong to your flock of freaks. Tell him that I don't appreciate being filmed while I'm pleasuring myself, unless Jacqueline is handling the cinematography! W-wait... you aren't Alberto, are you?"
The bunnyman bows his head.
"I'm not," he says in a surly voice.
"Are you sure? Is there any chance that Alberto is hiding somewhere in your bunny body?"
He buries his face in his furry hands, and when he lowers them, he evades my gaze.
"Alberto was right: you are impossible. If he's going to interfere anyway, I'll tell him that he should deal with you himself. This place has already begun to collapse into madness."
The bunnyman shifts his hulking weight awkwardly to turn around, then he waddles down the hallway towards the bathroom. His tail is an ash-grey pom-pom; it clashes with his rotund ass as if someone had stuck in there one of those BDSM butt plugs.
A flood of relief pours out of my mouth in the form of an exhausted sigh. I sniffle. I'm about to wipe my tears when two warm hands reach from behind me and dry my cheeks. I flinch, but I remember that I dragged Jacqueline along with me. I forced her to witness this deranged face-off.
When she stands in front of me, the burn of shame compels me to avoid her gaze. She grabs my chin and tilts my head so that I'm looking straight into her cobalt-blues.
"I-I'm sorry..." I whine.
Jacqueline shushes me.
"My baby is afflicted with some sort of incurable condition. She suffers from a lack of sleep, depression, hallucinations and suicidal thoughts. You have burst into tears while shouting obscenities at a bunny. That was a wonderful performance, Leire. I believe that you believe you were arguing with this creature."
"I don't need to believe in what shows up in front of my eyes, or under my butt for that matter."
"Of course. Has he vanished, though?"
I shake my head and point at the big bastard, who's lumbering down the hallway as he scratches his flank through the almond-colored, matted fur.
"I guess he intends to leave the same way he came in, through the toilet," I say in a quavering voice. "B-because I was peeing when he showed up, that's why I likely turned the bathroom into a disaster zone. Perhaps the damage cannot be undone."
Jacqueline's smile lights up my sky like a rainbow after the rain. She grabs my hand.
"Let's chase this bunnyman so you can see him leave. Then tell me all about it."
She's already dragging me along when I react.
"Wait! Are we really going to pursue that monster?"
"Yeah, why not? He had ample opportunity to hurt you, right?"
"He could have caught me in a headlock and smashed my brains against the wall," I concede. "But maybe this is what bunnymen do: they chase prey until they become prey themselves."
Jacqueline lets me control our pace to avoid alerting the otherworldly demon of our pursuit. By the time we catch up to him, he has reached the bathroom door. He looks over his bulky shoulder at us and he scrunches up his nose in disdain.
"Hey, stop following me, you nutbag."
As I'm trying to come up with a quip, the bunnyman pushes the door open, strides inside and shoves the door shut behind him so that it slams against the frame.
Jacqueline's grip on my hand tightens. I sigh.
"Escaping an argument through a toilet must be a sorry sight. Well, good riddance to him."
I glance up at my beloved. Her face has paled, and she's gaping wide-eyed at the closed bathroom door.
---
The bunnyman must have been waddling towards our office at a leisure pace, because we catch him mid-step about seven meters away from us. His flint-grey-tipped ears twitch. On the periphery of my vision, his girthy sausage dangles to a stop. He lifts a dirt-brown hand to scratch at his fluffy mane, that reminds me of an Elizabethan ruff.
I hold my breath as I wait for the bunnyman to pounce at me and sink his incisors into my face. I almost crave for him to do so, to feel the shockwaves of pain as he shreds my flesh.
Jacqueline drapes an arm around my back and squeezes my shoulder to comfort me.
"What are you seeing, Leire? That horse again?"
In my mind, I see myself reflected in my doomed, equine friend's bulging eyes, when they were puffy with sorrow as they leaked copious tears. I wish I could admire his glossy coat, with its tawny shades of sable and russet, perfectly groomed and polished to perfection. I wish I could pet him on his majestic forehead or caress the deep furrows above his nostrils. Spike had been bred by the dark gods to become the best cavalry horse in the universe, but he made the unforgivable mistake of rebelling against his fate.
I swallow a lump in my throat.
"No, Spike died. You know that, mommy."
Jacqueline kneads my shoulder gently.
"A different horse then?"
The hulking, bunny-headed demon is eyeing me up as he sways on his feet like a ship bobbing on the ocean. I want to reach into his chest and rip out the pulsing, black-blooded heart that beats in there with sinister malice.
"Sentient, elegant horses I can handle," I mutter, "but this bunnyman is just a pile of fur and fat with a glistening shaft to show for it. He should have died in the mud long before civilizations came about. I can't deal with his drooling or the stink of death coming out of his armpits. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."
I approach the bunnyman with Jacqueline in tow while my spine trembles. I feel like a svelte, sexed-up whore in front of this brute's sagging belly and his hunched back. The wet, matted fur of his face is yellow-tinged and reeks of urine. A glob of drool drops from the tip of his overgrown upper incisors and lands on the vinyl floor with a plop.
I'm scared out of my wits, I'm shivering with revulsion. I fear that my sanity will snap like a rubber band if I have to stare for one more second into this abomination's gunmetal-grey eyeballs, that resemble marbles wedged into his skull. I've gotten a glimpse of the abyss of his soul, his vast and unfathomable depravity. I want to yank out his eyeballs then plunge my hands into the sockets to squeeze his rubbery gray matter until it bursts out in an explosion of gruel.
"Wh-what's your problem, bunnyman?" I muster in an anguished voice. "You're standing in the middle of our hallway and you think that you are allowed to be here? Look at that mess you call fur! It's like a ratty carpet of fleas and lice. You must be the result of a sick orgy involving donkeys and sows, you hideous bastard. I shan't bear the invasion of a horde of bunnymen who will prowl around to the ends of this planet, so come at me, demon! I'm ready to rip out your festering guts!"
My brain is bubbling with rage and disgust; when I hear Jacqueline giggle, it bewilders me. She bear-hugs me from behind.
"Leire, sweetie, you should calm down. Any of our neighbors may come down the hallway at any moment."
"Good," I grumble. "If I'm forced to stare at a naked bunnyman, so should they."
The intruder draws his lips back, exposing the glinting incisors to their roots; his upper lip is parted in an inverted V-shape, and in between peeks out a clam-shell-pink nub of flesh disturbingly similar to a clit. He then huffs out a thick breath that smells like rotten flesh and stale urine.
"You are Leire," he says with a gravelly voice. "You can help."
My heart sinks into my bowels. I'm tempted to take a step back, then as many necessary until I reach the doorway to our office.
His eyes glaze over and a drooling slobber drops from his mouth.
"Wh-what the hell is wrong with you?" I ask while trying to hold in my hysteria. "Are you on drugs? Did you fall out of a tree and smash your head against a boulder? Spike seemed this spaced out the first few times he stalked me... Wait, you aren't Spike, are you?!"
The bunnyman's whiskers twitch. He raises a stubby hand, and I'm expecting a swipe to my jaw, a punch to my temple or a blow to my groin, but instead he reveals a handkerchief that's embroidered with a coat of arms. He uses it to mop the piss off his face.
"Spike is gone," he says somberly. "He's lost in the void of time."
A pang of grief rises in my throat as I contemplate Spike's hay bed and his empty trough. His crazed black eyes will never gaze at me again with unbridled love as he gallops to greet me, or chase after me for that matter. Spike, my loyal mount, was a visionary: his idea of heaven was forcing me to ride him although I begged him to stop.
I clench my teeth before the tangle of emotions overwhelms me.
"So, Lord of the Hellfires, you are one of his pals, huh...?" I utter in a bitter voice.
The bunnyman lodges the handkerchief between his belly folds.
"We were friends, yes. And I've come in his place because he failed."
I'm shaking with anger.
"You dare to stand before me in your abominable form without bringing me good news about my old pal Spike? You spineless turd! You let your friend rot away in some dank ditch? I was going to send him a bottle of whiskey from France and a letter describing my suffering. Instead, I'll have to compose my own poem: 'I will drink a glass of your piss, old friend, then I'll give you a pat on the head and a scratch behind your ear'."
The bunnyman's lips droop, making him resemble a senile grandpa. As far as I can tell, this furry, bunghole-riddled lump of humanoid is thirty to thirty-five years older than me.
"Well, we've been short of good news since we meddled with the laws of nature, but there may still be hope left."
My eyes are fixed on the bunnyman's gum-nub. I shudder at the thought that one day it'll sprout into a fully functioning clitoris. My loins ache, and the urge to touch myself is almost overwhelming.
"H-how can you expect any help from me while you're presenting yourself as a hulking bunny beast? Why don't you take off your skin and show me what lies beneath, you revolting monstrosity? Your fur is full of muck, your breath stinks of dead animals, you're insane as a bag of rabid squirrels."
The bunnyman huffs.
"We are the result of a daring experiment, one that I fear will get abused again and again."
"I'm also the result of an experiment. Did you know that humans can produce new beings when they copulate? How did you come to exist, though? Were you spawned in a giant pile of manure with the help of some insane proctologist? I wish that the bacteria present in human and animal waste would have concentrated in a broth that would have stewed your beastly flesh in its own juices. If I didn't have a pressing engagement, I'd smash you so hard that you'd end up as a puddle of bone fragments."
The bunnyman's nostrils flare wide.
"Are you done venting your outrage? Can we start talking in an amicable fashion?"
"Not with that cock in the picture! It's so long and thick that it may as well be a shovel. At least Spike had the decency to be castrated. How could I have a civilized conversation with you while you're concealing the most disgusting thing on my planet in that accursed sheath of skin? It looks like a length of rotten, knotted intestine."
The bunnyman grimaces as if I had shoved a cold turd down his throat. More saliva drips down his chin in thick threads.
"It’s not my cock per se," he says in a voice like a gravel-ridden, rusty pump. "And in this dimension I can only wear my current appearance. Leire, I see your thought patterns; they are noisy and illogical. Please, remain quiet and listen to me. You see, we were trying to break out of this awful cycle of death and rebirth. The essence of the cosmos is an electromagnetic field that we're able to manipulate."
I shake my head to disperse the foul thoughts.
"I'm already going through enough heartbreak, and you come searching for my help? Do I look like I can even help myself? And you look like you haven't bathed for months! What can you offer me other than more suffering? I wouldn't trust you with my car keys, and I certainly wouldn't ask you to wash my back if I needed it scrubbed."
The bunnyman glances at the wall.
"I'm not an expert at treating psychological distress, but I know that you have struggled to make the best out of a bad situation for quite a while now. You had been crying in a dark room. You were longing to be free although you had no means of escape. You were looking for hope, but it had faded away." The bunnyman's gunmetal-grey eyes are peeling my soul out like an egg from its shell. "Leire, you can never get rid of your pain. However, you can avoid wallowing in it, and instead focus on saving us from a dark fate."
I lift my chin and try to keep myself from crying, but tears well up and fall down my cheeks.
"Let me guess: this help you want from me involves some ritual," I mutter, "one that will start with me performing a cutesy dance and that will end with you sticking your cock in my mouth and saying 'wibble-wobble-gobble' while I taste your slime. You think that your genitals are going to make me worship the ground you walk on because you're a big bad rabbit and I'm a sick slave girl that just wants to fall in love? You think I'll be begging you for more and more until I become a brainless husk? That's what it always comes down to, isn't it?"
The bunnyman shudders. After he takes a deep breath, the air he exhales stinks like the aftermath of a tornado that devastated a pet shop.
"You were given a brain but no control over your emotions. I assure you: I want no part of such perversion."
I look down to make sure that my nipples haven't sprouted erect, but to my dismay, the nipples have sprouted erect. My lips are trembling.
"All of you freaks think that you know me. Do you have any clue what it's like to exist in a brain infested with spiders, in a body that is constantly wet with pre-cum, in a world full of monsters and abominations? Until Jacqueline found me, all I did was work, work, work, work, and no one understood me. I am a person, I have a mind, and I could have probably achieved some level of mastery, but here I am, stuck with one foot in reality and the other in an insane asylum. I am Leire, the Great Bunnywoman, Lady of the Skull, Emissary of the Gods, Rabbit Killer of the Universe! I am not some nympho who gets turned on by the sight of your oversized dong!"
The bunnyman takes a lumbering step back.
"Look, lady, we're on the brink of a crisis. If we don't do something soon, we will be sucked into the maelstrom of a collapsing universe."
"I won't be your prostitute, I won't be your sex slave, and I will never give birth to a bunch of bunnybabies to further your unholy cause! Do you wish to taste the sweet nectar of death?! I have slain beasts ten thousand times larger than you, a dozen of them a day! I will bite off your giant penis and spit it at your feet! So flee, go back to the mud and the slimy marshland, and tell Alberto to shove his likely furry dick up his own ass!"
The bunnyman gasps, displaying the sickly pink inside of his mouth, which looks like a wrinkled vagina. As he stammers some words, I jab a finger at him and let out a noise of glee.
"I knew it! The bastard who disturbed me with random messages and ruined my car had to belong to your flock of freaks. Tell him that I don't appreciate being filmed while I'm pleasuring myself, unless Jacqueline is handling the cinematography! W-wait... you aren't Alberto, are you?"
The bunnyman bows his head.
"I'm not," he says in a surly voice.
"Are you sure? Is there any chance that Alberto is hiding somewhere in your bunny body?"
He buries his face in his furry hands, and when he lowers them, he evades my gaze.
"Alberto was right: you are impossible. If he's going to interfere anyway, I'll tell him that he should deal with you himself. This place has already begun to collapse into madness."
The bunnyman shifts his hulking weight awkwardly to turn around, then he waddles down the hallway towards the bathroom. His tail is an ash-grey pom-pom; it clashes with his rotund ass as if someone had stuck in there one of those BDSM butt plugs.
A flood of relief pours out of my mouth in the form of an exhausted sigh. I sniffle. I'm about to wipe my tears when two warm hands reach from behind me and dry my cheeks. I flinch, but I remember that I dragged Jacqueline along with me. I forced her to witness this deranged face-off.
When she stands in front of me, the burn of shame compels me to avoid her gaze. She grabs my chin and tilts my head so that I'm looking straight into her cobalt-blues.
"I-I'm sorry..." I whine.
Jacqueline shushes me.
"My baby is afflicted with some sort of incurable condition. She suffers from a lack of sleep, depression, hallucinations and suicidal thoughts. You have burst into tears while shouting obscenities at a bunny. That was a wonderful performance, Leire. I believe that you believe you were arguing with this creature."
"I don't need to believe in what shows up in front of my eyes, or under my butt for that matter."
"Of course. Has he vanished, though?"
I shake my head and point at the big bastard, who's lumbering down the hallway as he scratches his flank through the almond-colored, matted fur.
"I guess he intends to leave the same way he came in, through the toilet," I say in a quavering voice. "B-because I was peeing when he showed up, that's why I likely turned the bathroom into a disaster zone. Perhaps the damage cannot be undone."
Jacqueline's smile lights up my sky like a rainbow after the rain. She grabs my hand.
"Let's chase this bunnyman so you can see him leave. Then tell me all about it."
She's already dragging me along when I react.
"Wait! Are we really going to pursue that monster?"
"Yeah, why not? He had ample opportunity to hurt you, right?"
"He could have caught me in a headlock and smashed my brains against the wall," I concede. "But maybe this is what bunnymen do: they chase prey until they become prey themselves."
Jacqueline lets me control our pace to avoid alerting the otherworldly demon of our pursuit. By the time we catch up to him, he has reached the bathroom door. He looks over his bulky shoulder at us and he scrunches up his nose in disdain.
"Hey, stop following me, you nutbag."
As I'm trying to come up with a quip, the bunnyman pushes the door open, strides inside and shoves the door shut behind him so that it slams against the frame.
Jacqueline's grip on my hand tightens. I sigh.
"Escaping an argument through a toilet must be a sorry sight. Well, good riddance to him."
I glance up at my beloved. Her face has paled, and she's gaping wide-eyed at the closed bathroom door.
Life update (06/27/2022)
Link to this entry on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Last Wednesday I went through my first hours-long episode of atrial fibrillation, which confirmed that my heart has a physical issue. I already suspected it because I had been experiencing weird heart hiccups. I ended up lying in a bed of the Observation Unit at the local hospital for hours, and the episode of atrial fibrillation only passed because they gave me 300 mg of flecainide, an apparently hardcore medicine that comes with plenty of warnings against its use. That medicine made me unable to even sit down for the remainder of the day, unless I wanted to break in cold sweat and get dizzy and nauseous. It took two days to get the drug out of my system.
I didn’t go to work for those two days, but I intended to return the following week unless I endured through a new episode of atrial fibrillation, which would have suggested that my heart was in an even worse state than I suspected. The doctor and nurses that attended me told me that I should monitor my heart rate in my spare time with a pulse oximeter, which I have access to because my mother was a nurse. I have a scheduled visit with a cardiologist in August, but apart from that, they told me that if another episode of atrial fibrillation starts, I should leave whatever I’m doing and go immediately to the nearest Emergency Department to get an ECG and possibly take some medicine. The related information I’ve found online is confusing and often contradictory, but in general people who suffer through atrial fibrillation are much more likely to suffer terrible issues such as ischemic strokes and other conditions caused by irregular blood flow or clots to vital organs.
This Sunday I woke up, prepared myself a cup of coffee and monitored my heart rate. It was in the mid 40s, the lowest I had ever noticed it. I walked around for a bit and it increased to the high 50s and low 60s, but it quickly fell to the 40s again. My heart still felt (and still does) sore, weird and weak in general. The doctor had told me I should monitor my heart rate, and this seemed like a bad sign, so I called to ask what I should do. They told me to visit the Emergency Department and get an ECG, at least to record that my heart rate had gotten that low, in case that factors in when I visit the cardiologist. After I lay on a different bed of the Observation Unit for half an hour, an attractive doctor in her early twenties told me that I shouldn't worry about such a low heart rate, only if it fails to go up after some movement. She suggested that I have an athlete's heart because I walk around quite a bit in the hospital complex where I work, and because I've lifted weights semi-regularly for years. I doubt that anyone who looks at me would seriously think that I'm an athlete of any sort.
Also, getting touched by the warm hands of attractive young women made me face that although I can't stand to be around human beings for long, I do need to get touched. If I wasn't so ashamed of my penis, I may consider visiting some professional.
As a somewhat random comment, suffering through a physical heart issue reminded me of Hisao Nakai from my favorite visual novel/dating sim ‘Katawa Shoujo’ (an obscure reference). I could swear that I played the game back in 2008, but the information I’ve found suggests it was released in 2012. Anyway, its protagonist suffers a heart attack in the very first scene, then he gets diagnosed with cardiac arrhythmia and congenital heart muscle deficiency. He ends up getting sent to a private school for disabled students in which he may get to befriend, romance and possibly frick some peculiar, pained students who endure their own unfair disabilities. The director of this game suffered from the same heart issues, and he ended up passing away due to them a couple of years ago.
Back when I was lying in bed at the Observation Unit, I asked every professional who treated me if the stress I have to deal with on a regular basis contributed to this sudden health issue. They told me that atrial fibrillation is purely a physical matter, unrelated to stress. However, those professionals (all of them suspiciously young) were either ignorant or bold-faced liars, because every article I come across online states the opposite. For example, the following article says that stress and mental health issues may cause atrial fibrillation symptoms to worsen, and it adds that “there is a complex relationship between atrial fibrillation and anxiety and depression. Some research shows that people with atrial fibrillation may be more affected by depression and anxiety.”
I was born with high-functioning autism (formerly Asperger’s), dealing with increasing anxiety is a constant struggle from the moment I leave the safety of a locked room in which I’m alone, and I endure through cycles of a depression that a former psychiatrist diagnosed as “resistant to treatment”. Obviously I’m fucked. I have to assume that heart failure or a serious stroke is on the horizon for me. I don’t think I will go through the pain of trying to find another job that I can tolerate better. I am too old for that already, and although my current job as a computer technician at a hospital only keeps me employed for eight or so months out of a year, it’s still the most reliable job I’ve ever had. Previously I was a programmer; when I managed to get hired, half of the time I worked as an unpaid intern, and exploited as such.
These last four days I’ve rested as much as I could. Instead of writing as feverishly as I used to, I played a couple of sessions of my favorite card/board game of all time: ‘Arkham Horror’. I’m halfway through the ‘Edge of the Earth’ campaign with my personal decks for Zoey Samaras (who’s an OP beast with the Cyclopean Hammer; I suspect it’ll get tabooed at some point), Monterey Jack and my beloved Jacqueline Fine (unrelated), whose ability to manipulate the Chaos Bag makes for a very peculiar playstyle. I’m already playing with premium tokens from BuyTheSameToken (I had to pay sixty-five or so euros just to import them from the UK, though), and I’m waiting to receive in the mail additional 3D-printed stuff such as this fantastic deck/discard holder combo.
In general, movies and shows fail to grab my attention enough (in part because I can’t connect with people); I have very little patience with books and I bail on them if they annoy me, which happens more often than not; and videogames these days are almost fraudulent, or the dreaded FOMO causes me to wait until some vital updates/mods come out. I’m waiting for the Elder Scrolls mod to come out for ‘Crusader Kings 3’, and I’m also waiting for ‘Victoria 3’, the Steam version of ‘Dwarf Fortress’, and ‘Starfield’ to be released. Board games give me a tight, tense two-to-three hours of gameplay, which can go up to four in the case of ‘Arkham Horror’, then I can shelve them for another day.
Anyway, I’m trying to get back into writing my current novel. Plenty of increasingly deranged stuff to come as we head into what will pass for a traditional third act in this tale. I’ll also try not to die, at least until I finish what I must.
---
Last Wednesday I went through my first hours-long episode of atrial fibrillation, which confirmed that my heart has a physical issue. I already suspected it because I had been experiencing weird heart hiccups. I ended up lying in a bed of the Observation Unit at the local hospital for hours, and the episode of atrial fibrillation only passed because they gave me 300 mg of flecainide, an apparently hardcore medicine that comes with plenty of warnings against its use. That medicine made me unable to even sit down for the remainder of the day, unless I wanted to break in cold sweat and get dizzy and nauseous. It took two days to get the drug out of my system.
I didn’t go to work for those two days, but I intended to return the following week unless I endured through a new episode of atrial fibrillation, which would have suggested that my heart was in an even worse state than I suspected. The doctor and nurses that attended me told me that I should monitor my heart rate in my spare time with a pulse oximeter, which I have access to because my mother was a nurse. I have a scheduled visit with a cardiologist in August, but apart from that, they told me that if another episode of atrial fibrillation starts, I should leave whatever I’m doing and go immediately to the nearest Emergency Department to get an ECG and possibly take some medicine. The related information I’ve found online is confusing and often contradictory, but in general people who suffer through atrial fibrillation are much more likely to suffer terrible issues such as ischemic strokes and other conditions caused by irregular blood flow or clots to vital organs.
This Sunday I woke up, prepared myself a cup of coffee and monitored my heart rate. It was in the mid 40s, the lowest I had ever noticed it. I walked around for a bit and it increased to the high 50s and low 60s, but it quickly fell to the 40s again. My heart still felt (and still does) sore, weird and weak in general. The doctor had told me I should monitor my heart rate, and this seemed like a bad sign, so I called to ask what I should do. They told me to visit the Emergency Department and get an ECG, at least to record that my heart rate had gotten that low, in case that factors in when I visit the cardiologist. After I lay on a different bed of the Observation Unit for half an hour, an attractive doctor in her early twenties told me that I shouldn't worry about such a low heart rate, only if it fails to go up after some movement. She suggested that I have an athlete's heart because I walk around quite a bit in the hospital complex where I work, and because I've lifted weights semi-regularly for years. I doubt that anyone who looks at me would seriously think that I'm an athlete of any sort.
Also, getting touched by the warm hands of attractive young women made me face that although I can't stand to be around human beings for long, I do need to get touched. If I wasn't so ashamed of my penis, I may consider visiting some professional.
As a somewhat random comment, suffering through a physical heart issue reminded me of Hisao Nakai from my favorite visual novel/dating sim ‘Katawa Shoujo’ (an obscure reference). I could swear that I played the game back in 2008, but the information I’ve found suggests it was released in 2012. Anyway, its protagonist suffers a heart attack in the very first scene, then he gets diagnosed with cardiac arrhythmia and congenital heart muscle deficiency. He ends up getting sent to a private school for disabled students in which he may get to befriend, romance and possibly frick some peculiar, pained students who endure their own unfair disabilities. The director of this game suffered from the same heart issues, and he ended up passing away due to them a couple of years ago.
Back when I was lying in bed at the Observation Unit, I asked every professional who treated me if the stress I have to deal with on a regular basis contributed to this sudden health issue. They told me that atrial fibrillation is purely a physical matter, unrelated to stress. However, those professionals (all of them suspiciously young) were either ignorant or bold-faced liars, because every article I come across online states the opposite. For example, the following article says that stress and mental health issues may cause atrial fibrillation symptoms to worsen, and it adds that “there is a complex relationship between atrial fibrillation and anxiety and depression. Some research shows that people with atrial fibrillation may be more affected by depression and anxiety.”
I was born with high-functioning autism (formerly Asperger’s), dealing with increasing anxiety is a constant struggle from the moment I leave the safety of a locked room in which I’m alone, and I endure through cycles of a depression that a former psychiatrist diagnosed as “resistant to treatment”. Obviously I’m fucked. I have to assume that heart failure or a serious stroke is on the horizon for me. I don’t think I will go through the pain of trying to find another job that I can tolerate better. I am too old for that already, and although my current job as a computer technician at a hospital only keeps me employed for eight or so months out of a year, it’s still the most reliable job I’ve ever had. Previously I was a programmer; when I managed to get hired, half of the time I worked as an unpaid intern, and exploited as such.
These last four days I’ve rested as much as I could. Instead of writing as feverishly as I used to, I played a couple of sessions of my favorite card/board game of all time: ‘Arkham Horror’. I’m halfway through the ‘Edge of the Earth’ campaign with my personal decks for Zoey Samaras (who’s an OP beast with the Cyclopean Hammer; I suspect it’ll get tabooed at some point), Monterey Jack and my beloved Jacqueline Fine (unrelated), whose ability to manipulate the Chaos Bag makes for a very peculiar playstyle. I’m already playing with premium tokens from BuyTheSameToken (I had to pay sixty-five or so euros just to import them from the UK, though), and I’m waiting to receive in the mail additional 3D-printed stuff such as this fantastic deck/discard holder combo.
In general, movies and shows fail to grab my attention enough (in part because I can’t connect with people); I have very little patience with books and I bail on them if they annoy me, which happens more often than not; and videogames these days are almost fraudulent, or the dreaded FOMO causes me to wait until some vital updates/mods come out. I’m waiting for the Elder Scrolls mod to come out for ‘Crusader Kings 3’, and I’m also waiting for ‘Victoria 3’, the Steam version of ‘Dwarf Fortress’, and ‘Starfield’ to be released. Board games give me a tight, tense two-to-three hours of gameplay, which can go up to four in the case of ‘Arkham Horror’, then I can shelve them for another day.
Anyway, I’m trying to get back into writing my current novel. Plenty of increasingly deranged stuff to come as we head into what will pass for a traditional third act in this tale. I’ll also try not to die, at least until I finish what I must.
June 26, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 59 (Fiction)
Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
My temples are throbbing, my shoes are tapping an anxious rhythm on the ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor. I'm wrung dry, I'm desiccating, I'm wilting. I want to be in ecstasy, possessed, and hear myself moan as I rub my crotch raw, but there's only the chuff of my breath and the hollow beating of my heart. How long will it take me to die of shame?
Maybe I already needed to pee, or I'm about to empty my bladder out of fear; either way, I pull down my pants and panties and I allow myself to relax enough that a stream of urine shoots out from my urethra. I'm rubbing my eyes when I feel something solid and furry pushing my butt cheeks upwards.
I jump to my feet. As I turn around, I stumble and hit the stall door with my back, making the door rattle.
A basketball-sized, furry head is sticking out of the toilet. Almond-colored tufts of matted fur, like fuzzy wings, come out of close-set, pointy ears. A gunmetal-grey eye bulges out on either side of a whiskey-colored, downward band of fur that ends in a tobacco-brown muzzle. Framed against a fluffy, cream-colored mane, a pair of overgrown, shimmering incisors are dripping a gluey drool, and look sharp enough to punch through bone. The fur on top of its head is drenched in urine that is also trickling down its face. This creature resembles some stuffed animal that ghost hunters would come across at a dilapidated insane asylum.
My mind is buzzing with fright. I'm spritzing the tiles with pee, and I doubt I've emptied my bladder when I yank my panties up then I squat awkwardly to reach for the waist band of my pants.
I'm gawking at a rabbit, one whose head is bigger than mine, and whose eyes glint with intelligence. After an instant of recognition, the rabbit rises further, lifting the toilet seat with its human-like shoulders. The creature's massive body gets jammed; the toilet seat won't budge anymore. As my shaking left hand fumbles for the door latch, two dirt-brown, stubby hands maneuver under the toilet seat and lift it over the rabbit's head.
I open the stall door. I'm retreating backwards on my wobbly legs when the toilet water sloshes about and the bunnyman steps out to plant its feet on the ceramic tiles.
This beast towers over me. From up close, its fur is matted with filth and splotched with gunky crusts. Its soaked face stinks of ammonia, and its breath suggests that it's been fed a steady diet of rotten offal and garbage. A grotesquely sagging belly leads down to a pendulating penis as thick and dirty pink as a salami sausage.
I shriek.
My limbic system must have taken the reins, because I'm sprinting down the hallway towards the door to our office while repeating the word 'nope' over and over. My heart skips a beat, and my legs collapse underneath me. The vinyl floor makes a screeching noise as I slide on my chest for half a meter.
I'm stretched out on the floor like a broken doll, I'm breathing in the particles that dozens of shoes dragged into the hallway. As I hold my breath to avoid wheezing and gagging on dust and grime, I turn over and witness the broad-shouldered, fluffy bunnyman waddling down the hallway towards me. In the brute's massive frame, his belly, the color of rusted copper, is swollen like pregnant and wobbles with every step. His cock waggles left and right, bouncing against the furry mounds of his thighs.
A chill shoots through my body. I scramble to my feet and rush to our front door. I throw it wide open, jump inside and slam the door shut behind me.
Jordi and Jacqueline, seated at their workstations, look over their shoulder in unison at the savage that just disturbed their peace of mind.
Sweat is trickling through my pores like molten lead; it burns while it travels down my neck, then along my spine and finally into my lower back. Although I suspect that my eyeballs will collapse into bloody slop and dribble down my cheeks, I fix my wide-eyed gaze on Jacqueline and I gesture for her to approach me. She swivels on her chair, she stretches her tall frame, and as she strides her way to me, her skirt, the color of Irish coffee, rides up slightly towards her waist; her lean legs, tanned by walnut-brown, dotted tights, exchange places in front of the other; her glossy ankle boots clop-clop-clop.
Jacqueline halts a couple of feet away from me and rests her left hand on my neck. Her raven-black hair falls over her shoulders like a wave. Those luscious, moist lips are parted, and her breath smells of spearmint gum.
Jacqueline's cobalt-blues remind me of a summer morning when we were eleven years old and she bequeathed me a kiss in the middle of a forest near our country home in Aquitaine. I want to devour her as if she were a chewy piece of candy.
"Leire, you smell like pee," Jacqueline whispers. "Have you cleaned yourself properly, sweetie?"
A thick, spongy sound rings from my throat, like a retch.
"I-I may have made a mess in the bathroom. I had a fit in there."
My gaze darts around as I try to figure out the best way to explain that a bulky, humanoid rabbit has risen out of the toilet as I was peeing, but Jacqueline caresses my neck, which eases my anxiety, and she speaks to me with a voice like a serene ocean lapping at its shores.
"That's okay. It's all okay, honey."
I wish she would guide her warm hand below the edge of my panties.
"W-wait, you saw the revolver that Spike brought over," I say in a hushed voice, "so maybe you can see the bunnyman as well."
"A bunnyman?"
That's right, I'm sick of being harassed by demons from the underworld. Maybe that well-hung abomination is standing right behind our office door, ready to smash his fist into my skull, but as long as Jacqueline remains by my side, I know that everything will turn out all right.
I'm a swirling dervish, a pouncing panther, an enraged rhino. I grab Jacqueline's left wrist, swing the door open and pull my beloved after me out of the office.
---
Authors note: listen to Echo & the Bunnymen's 'The Killing Moon' (obligatory), Modest Mouse's 'Tiny Cities Made of Ashes' and The National's 'Abel'.
I usually wouldn't upload such a short chapter, but this part of the scene had a natural stopping point. Apart from that, I've run into some personal issues recently and it's been hard to focus on anything. However, I've finished the first draft of the remainder of this scene, so it will go up in a day or two.
---
My temples are throbbing, my shoes are tapping an anxious rhythm on the ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor. I'm wrung dry, I'm desiccating, I'm wilting. I want to be in ecstasy, possessed, and hear myself moan as I rub my crotch raw, but there's only the chuff of my breath and the hollow beating of my heart. How long will it take me to die of shame?
Maybe I already needed to pee, or I'm about to empty my bladder out of fear; either way, I pull down my pants and panties and I allow myself to relax enough that a stream of urine shoots out from my urethra. I'm rubbing my eyes when I feel something solid and furry pushing my butt cheeks upwards.
I jump to my feet. As I turn around, I stumble and hit the stall door with my back, making the door rattle.
A basketball-sized, furry head is sticking out of the toilet. Almond-colored tufts of matted fur, like fuzzy wings, come out of close-set, pointy ears. A gunmetal-grey eye bulges out on either side of a whiskey-colored, downward band of fur that ends in a tobacco-brown muzzle. Framed against a fluffy, cream-colored mane, a pair of overgrown, shimmering incisors are dripping a gluey drool, and look sharp enough to punch through bone. The fur on top of its head is drenched in urine that is also trickling down its face. This creature resembles some stuffed animal that ghost hunters would come across at a dilapidated insane asylum.
My mind is buzzing with fright. I'm spritzing the tiles with pee, and I doubt I've emptied my bladder when I yank my panties up then I squat awkwardly to reach for the waist band of my pants.
I'm gawking at a rabbit, one whose head is bigger than mine, and whose eyes glint with intelligence. After an instant of recognition, the rabbit rises further, lifting the toilet seat with its human-like shoulders. The creature's massive body gets jammed; the toilet seat won't budge anymore. As my shaking left hand fumbles for the door latch, two dirt-brown, stubby hands maneuver under the toilet seat and lift it over the rabbit's head.
I open the stall door. I'm retreating backwards on my wobbly legs when the toilet water sloshes about and the bunnyman steps out to plant its feet on the ceramic tiles.
This beast towers over me. From up close, its fur is matted with filth and splotched with gunky crusts. Its soaked face stinks of ammonia, and its breath suggests that it's been fed a steady diet of rotten offal and garbage. A grotesquely sagging belly leads down to a pendulating penis as thick and dirty pink as a salami sausage.
I shriek.
My limbic system must have taken the reins, because I'm sprinting down the hallway towards the door to our office while repeating the word 'nope' over and over. My heart skips a beat, and my legs collapse underneath me. The vinyl floor makes a screeching noise as I slide on my chest for half a meter.
I'm stretched out on the floor like a broken doll, I'm breathing in the particles that dozens of shoes dragged into the hallway. As I hold my breath to avoid wheezing and gagging on dust and grime, I turn over and witness the broad-shouldered, fluffy bunnyman waddling down the hallway towards me. In the brute's massive frame, his belly, the color of rusted copper, is swollen like pregnant and wobbles with every step. His cock waggles left and right, bouncing against the furry mounds of his thighs.
A chill shoots through my body. I scramble to my feet and rush to our front door. I throw it wide open, jump inside and slam the door shut behind me.
Jordi and Jacqueline, seated at their workstations, look over their shoulder in unison at the savage that just disturbed their peace of mind.
Sweat is trickling through my pores like molten lead; it burns while it travels down my neck, then along my spine and finally into my lower back. Although I suspect that my eyeballs will collapse into bloody slop and dribble down my cheeks, I fix my wide-eyed gaze on Jacqueline and I gesture for her to approach me. She swivels on her chair, she stretches her tall frame, and as she strides her way to me, her skirt, the color of Irish coffee, rides up slightly towards her waist; her lean legs, tanned by walnut-brown, dotted tights, exchange places in front of the other; her glossy ankle boots clop-clop-clop.
Jacqueline halts a couple of feet away from me and rests her left hand on my neck. Her raven-black hair falls over her shoulders like a wave. Those luscious, moist lips are parted, and her breath smells of spearmint gum.
Jacqueline's cobalt-blues remind me of a summer morning when we were eleven years old and she bequeathed me a kiss in the middle of a forest near our country home in Aquitaine. I want to devour her as if she were a chewy piece of candy.
"Leire, you smell like pee," Jacqueline whispers. "Have you cleaned yourself properly, sweetie?"
A thick, spongy sound rings from my throat, like a retch.
"I-I may have made a mess in the bathroom. I had a fit in there."
My gaze darts around as I try to figure out the best way to explain that a bulky, humanoid rabbit has risen out of the toilet as I was peeing, but Jacqueline caresses my neck, which eases my anxiety, and she speaks to me with a voice like a serene ocean lapping at its shores.
"That's okay. It's all okay, honey."
I wish she would guide her warm hand below the edge of my panties.
"W-wait, you saw the revolver that Spike brought over," I say in a hushed voice, "so maybe you can see the bunnyman as well."
"A bunnyman?"
That's right, I'm sick of being harassed by demons from the underworld. Maybe that well-hung abomination is standing right behind our office door, ready to smash his fist into my skull, but as long as Jacqueline remains by my side, I know that everything will turn out all right.
I'm a swirling dervish, a pouncing panther, an enraged rhino. I grab Jacqueline's left wrist, swing the door open and pull my beloved after me out of the office.
---
Authors note: listen to Echo & the Bunnymen's 'The Killing Moon' (obligatory), Modest Mouse's 'Tiny Cities Made of Ashes' and The National's 'Abel'.
I usually wouldn't upload such a short chapter, but this part of the scene had a natural stopping point. Apart from that, I've run into some personal issues recently and it's been hard to focus on anything. However, I've finished the first draft of the remainder of this scene, so it will go up in a day or two.
June 22, 2022
Ended up in the hospital (as a patient)
I woke up at half past two in the morning and I figured that I may as well tell the tale of how I spent most of the previous afternoon in the Observation Unit of the local Emergency Department.
On Tuesday night I went through a routine that I have repeated from time to time at the lowest points of my life: as I was climbing on the bed to sleep, I thought to myself, “this was the last time I’ve stepped on this floor or any other. I’m going to pass away in my sleep. I’ve seen all the things I wanted to see, I’ve done all the stuff I wanted to do. Let it end already.” Well, it feels like I nearly got my wish.
Yesterday I ended up waking up anyway, at six in the morning. I prepared myself in a hurry to walk through my decaying city, get on the train, then on a bus so I could reach the hospital complex where I work. I’ve been feeling even more stressed than usual lately; on top of the maddening routine as a computer technician at a hospital complex where anything can go wrong at any moment, where most people consider their problems the most urgent, and where half of the users I handle are complete idiots no matter how good they may be as nurses, doctors or however the hell they ended up working at the hospital, I had a quarrel with a coworker because he locked me out of books related to a public examination that we bought together (I bought most of them, actually), for no good reason, which made me face I couldn’t trust this guy, which in turn made me realize I have to cut back on involving myself with people in person unless it’s absolutely necessary to earn a paycheck.
Anyway, for whatever reason my job kept piling up tasks on me, some labeled as urgent, while I was already having to schedule operations at specific times and half of my coworkers were free; the trio of loudmouths who spend most of their time at the office blabbering, ruining everyone else’s concentration, seemed to have worked half an hour at the most. Going through the emails I’ve received these last couple of days:
-A laptop located at an operating room of the Ophthalmology Department wasn’t loading their needed apps reliably. Their supervisor had refused to open a ticket about this beyond the first one weeks ago, and instead she was either emailing specific technicians (I was one of them), or phoning our secretary and naming technicians so we would handle the issue. I happened to be one of the technicians who had already seen this problem and was in the office at the moment, so I ended up dealing with this irate supervisor. She was right, though, because the usual solution for this common problem (restarting the computer so it can set up the network drives properly) didn’t work *all* the time; such intermittent issues are the most troublesome to handle. I ended up opening a couple of tickets to HQ so they would review all the basic details about that laptop’s presence in the general network of our organization, and they detected that its specific build of Windows was outdated. Great, I thought, that’s the solution. I convinced my boss to just exchange their oldish laptop for a new one. Eventually, though, when I got there not only the new laptop had the same issue of not loading the network drives reliably, but also did a laptop from a neighboring operating room. Now I think that the problem is more likely due to Wi-Fi coverage, a whole nonsense to diagnose that will involve coordinating ourselves with confused and chatty nurses to move the laptops around (most of the time such devices are under lock and key, because plenty of patients have stolen stuff) so the guys at HQ can check how strongly the specific MAC addresses receive the signal. This will take hours of a single technician’s time, and it hasn’t been done yet.
-Some doctor from a department that does some kind of animal testing complained that she couldn’t open certain Google Drive invites in Chrome, so she requested it to be updated. When I handled the issue I found out that the invites were getting loaded in Internet Explorer instead. I taught her to copy and paste the hyperlinks to Chrome, which opened them properly. However, she ended up calling me later because Google Drive wasn’t letting it open certain files, and it was due to certain idiots from Network Security at HQ that consider it necessary to block stuff from Google Drive, so I had to open a ticket to let that doctor’s requests pass through the firewall.
-They opened up a new “reports room” at a department that handles operating kids. I managed the move, but one of the computers that ended up there was ancient, one of those troublesome kinds who use very specific software that has never been updated for newer operating systems and that some of the time isn’t maintained anymore because the company no longer works with the healthcare organization. Anyway, this computer had a proprietary set of cables that went to specially mounted sockets on the wall, but the cables didn’t make clear which cable went where. I had to locate technicians from that random company and return to that “reports room” (a process that involves me dressing myself up, because it’s a sterile environment) and snap a few photos of the damn cables to mail them. They haven’t answered yet.
-Someone from a clinic located a couple dozen kilometers away wants to be able to print in a different printer, “just in case”. It takes me a good while to coordinate myself with her so she can free up her computer. When I finish, she asks, “hey, can you do that for this coworker and this one and this one too?” I tell her that they should open their own tickets.
-Some barcode scanner works intermittently. Half of the time the users are handling it wrong. The ticket doesn’t say anything about the model of the scanner nor its physical location, so I email the person for details.
-Suddenly nobody in a whole wing of the ICU could print on their assigned printer. Yesterday afternoon they called my department because there were blocked documents on the queue, but whatever my coworker did screwed stuff up for everybody. I connected remotely to the print server; it was still open on the list of printer addresses and focused on the one with the issue: my coworker linked the name of the printer to another IP address by mistake.
-Some lab technician can’t open certain attached images because it gives an error regarding virtual memory. The technician insists on me checking her disk space. It’s partially a RAM issue, but also there may be some weird allocation matter, because restarting the computer (she said she did, anyway) hasn’t solved it. I still haven’t finished dealing with it.
-There were also a few more mundane matters that don’t warrant me writing about them.
I really dislike my job, but it’s the only one that has employed me semi-reliably. As a programmer I ended up working half of the time as an unpaid intern, but even when I was getting paid, I barely made minimum wage. By the way, this is a country where some people can enter illegally from certain continents and earn three times minimum wage just for existing. Such are the ethnic backgrounds of more than half of the people that hang out at the Maternity building of my hospital complex.
Anyway, at a quarter past two I was heading to the Ophthalmology Department located in one of the farthest reaches of this complex to hand them a new laptop. Right as I reach their floor, I start sweating, feeling light-headed and getting a weird pressure in my chest. My heart goes arrhythmic. I feel it jumping, and as I check my pulse, it’s clearly all over the place.
The first time I experienced such arrhythmia was the very same day that I received my latest booster vaccine (which I was forced to take because I wouldn’t keep getting hired as a computer technician at any hospital otherwise). From then on I experienced such “heart jumps” semi-regularly, moments in which my heart seemed to hiccup in a disturbing way, but it had always passed a couple of heartbeats later. This time it didn’t stop. I could tell it wasn’t normal in any way, but I figured that I would give the Ophthalmology crew a new laptop to solve the issue they had been badgering us about, then visit the Workplace Health department or however it’s called in English.
As I waited for a few nurses to get me some disposable operating room clothing, one of the chatty nurses (have I said enough times that talking to people in person makes my skin crawl?) approached me and asked me, “by the way, do you work for [our Healthcare Organization]?”. Me, wearing a lab coat that features prominently the logo of said organization: “Yes.” “Can you help me with a problem? I haven’t been able to print reports with my credentials in forever. My coworker can’t do it either. We keep asking around and going crazy because nothing works and we have to ask other nurses to let us enter with their credentials.” “Have either of you opened a ticket for it?” “Well, no.” I realized quickly that they hadn’t assigned the printer correctly in the program like virtually every other department is told how to do.
I was expecting any of them to point out that I seemed sick, because I was sweating profusely, my pulse was trembling, and in general I must have looked like death. But they just ended up giving me one of those disposable sets of clothes. When I found myself alone in the locker room, my heart kept going crazy, I was getting weaker and weaker and experiencing weird electrical pains along my collarbone and shoulders. I thought, “I’m having a heart attack. I’m having a heart attack and the last thing I’ll do in my worthless life is set up a laptop for these motherfuckers who have been pestering us for weeks without following any proper protocol.” I wanted to cry, or throw myself out of the window. Instead I got dressed and walked to the operating room. There I discovered that changing the old laptop for a new one didn’t solve the issue, and I explained to a few nurses that we’d have to coordinate ourselves to arrange a Wi-Fi coverage study in the following days.
When I left that department, it was already time to go home. My arrhythmia hadn’t stopped; if anything it had gotten worse. I felt dizzy and confused, and I can’t remember almost anything about the ride home. I realized that my heart issue was serious; although usually I would avoid going to a hospital for any reason because it would be too much of a bother, this time I got my father to drive me to the Emergency Department of the local hospital at Irún. By then I could barely stay upright, so an orderly wheeled me to the Observation Unit in a wheelchair. They hooked me up to a vitals monitor that kept beeping because my heart rate was out of whack, jumping wildly from the 80s to the 140s, and beeping even more urgently when it hit the 140s. The main nurse that treated me had the same name as the girlfriend that fucked me over the worst, but this young woman was very kind. They referred to my condition as atrial fibrillation. I have forgotten most of the stuff they did to me, but they made me swallow three flecainide pills and told me that I would lie in bed for the foreseeable future. If in six hours my heart hadn’t gone back to normal, they would defibrillate me.
I lay there for hours (most of the afternoon), staring at the hooks hanging from the ceiling and at the curiously designed ventilation slits, which looked like the bidimensional version of one of those spiky balls that they use to detonate minefields. On the opposite box some woman in her forties was being treated for covid. I would have supposed that these observation units were reasonably quiet due to the rest that the patients require, but the son of a bitch they had on the box immediately to my left kept groaning in an obnoxious, obviously fake way every few seconds, annoying everyone to the extent that the nurses kept saying, “we have to do something about the guy from 7”, and even other patients were shushing that idiot. I figured he must have been an elderly man with dementia or such shit, but the orderly that later wheeled me around to get an X-Ray of my chest told me, “he’s a Hispanic guy, just forty years old. I don't know what is it with these Hispanics, but we get such kinds all the time: habitual drunkards who sometimes come in also drugged up to their eyeballs.”
After the nurses had to rush at the Hispanic guy because he kept trying to get up and even push stuff around, they decided to move him to another box. Regarding where they had to move him, they specified that he should be “distanced from the guy on 6 (me); he has a heart condition.”
Eventually my heart stopped hiccuping. The main nurse talked to me about the health issue assuming that it would happen again in the future, and that when it does I should go immediately to the nearest Emergency Department to get an ECG. They also told me I should make an appointment with a cardiologist. I asked them if my stressful routine may have caused this, but they told me it was a purely physical issue. I asked them if I should end up carrying with me the kind of pills they made me swallow, in case I experienced such an episode again when I was out there in the wild. They told me no way.
Later on I googled flecainide; most of the websites warn against its use with notices like this one: “This drug has a Black Box Warning. This is the most serious warning from the Food and Drug Administration (FDA). A black box warning alerts doctors and patients to potentially dangerous effects. If you’ve had a heart attack within the past two years, flecainide may raise your risk of having another heart attack, which can be fatal. This drug should only be used if you have a life-threatening irregular heart rate. Tell your doctor if you have atrial fibrillation or atrial flutter. If you have these conditions where your heart does not beat correctly, you have an increased risk for developing certain types of irregular heartbeats. Flecainide is not recommended if you have chronic atrial fibrillation.” So either my nurses (or their hospital) were incompetent, or I’ve gone through a life-threatening irregular heart rate. Good to know.
They gave me the following report:
When they told me I could go home, I quickly discovered that I couldn’t even sit down without breaking in cold sweat and getting nauseous. I felt like I would pass out at any point. The same orderly wheeled me out to my father’s car. Soon after I got home, I emailed my boss to tell him that I would take it easy the two following days and that I would contact my GP to figure out what to do about this matter. Shortly after I went to bed and passed out.
I woke up at half past two in the morning and I decided to write this account, as I had nothing better to do. My heart feels physically weak and sore. Of course, I’m paranoid about it failing at any point. I read up on atrial fibrillation, and the following stuff bothered me the most: it’s associated with an increased risk of heart failure, dementia, and stroke. That’s on top of my regular migraines, which are also linked to an increased risk of stroke. The two fates I fear the most health-wise are dementia, Alzheimer’s and the likes, and strokes. One of my favorite writers, John Fowles, who wrote ‘The Collector’ and ‘The Magus’, suffered one in his sixties. Fowles never wrote another novel again, and stated that the stroke had “robbed him of his imagination”.
It’s nearly six in the morning, when I would need to wake up to go to work, but I’m going to sleep. I won’t have to work, which will likely cause me untold issues next week. However, as far as I care at the moment, it can fuck right off along with my failing body and my pointless life.
On Tuesday night I went through a routine that I have repeated from time to time at the lowest points of my life: as I was climbing on the bed to sleep, I thought to myself, “this was the last time I’ve stepped on this floor or any other. I’m going to pass away in my sleep. I’ve seen all the things I wanted to see, I’ve done all the stuff I wanted to do. Let it end already.” Well, it feels like I nearly got my wish.
Yesterday I ended up waking up anyway, at six in the morning. I prepared myself in a hurry to walk through my decaying city, get on the train, then on a bus so I could reach the hospital complex where I work. I’ve been feeling even more stressed than usual lately; on top of the maddening routine as a computer technician at a hospital complex where anything can go wrong at any moment, where most people consider their problems the most urgent, and where half of the users I handle are complete idiots no matter how good they may be as nurses, doctors or however the hell they ended up working at the hospital, I had a quarrel with a coworker because he locked me out of books related to a public examination that we bought together (I bought most of them, actually), for no good reason, which made me face I couldn’t trust this guy, which in turn made me realize I have to cut back on involving myself with people in person unless it’s absolutely necessary to earn a paycheck.
Anyway, for whatever reason my job kept piling up tasks on me, some labeled as urgent, while I was already having to schedule operations at specific times and half of my coworkers were free; the trio of loudmouths who spend most of their time at the office blabbering, ruining everyone else’s concentration, seemed to have worked half an hour at the most. Going through the emails I’ve received these last couple of days:
-A laptop located at an operating room of the Ophthalmology Department wasn’t loading their needed apps reliably. Their supervisor had refused to open a ticket about this beyond the first one weeks ago, and instead she was either emailing specific technicians (I was one of them), or phoning our secretary and naming technicians so we would handle the issue. I happened to be one of the technicians who had already seen this problem and was in the office at the moment, so I ended up dealing with this irate supervisor. She was right, though, because the usual solution for this common problem (restarting the computer so it can set up the network drives properly) didn’t work *all* the time; such intermittent issues are the most troublesome to handle. I ended up opening a couple of tickets to HQ so they would review all the basic details about that laptop’s presence in the general network of our organization, and they detected that its specific build of Windows was outdated. Great, I thought, that’s the solution. I convinced my boss to just exchange their oldish laptop for a new one. Eventually, though, when I got there not only the new laptop had the same issue of not loading the network drives reliably, but also did a laptop from a neighboring operating room. Now I think that the problem is more likely due to Wi-Fi coverage, a whole nonsense to diagnose that will involve coordinating ourselves with confused and chatty nurses to move the laptops around (most of the time such devices are under lock and key, because plenty of patients have stolen stuff) so the guys at HQ can check how strongly the specific MAC addresses receive the signal. This will take hours of a single technician’s time, and it hasn’t been done yet.
-Some doctor from a department that does some kind of animal testing complained that she couldn’t open certain Google Drive invites in Chrome, so she requested it to be updated. When I handled the issue I found out that the invites were getting loaded in Internet Explorer instead. I taught her to copy and paste the hyperlinks to Chrome, which opened them properly. However, she ended up calling me later because Google Drive wasn’t letting it open certain files, and it was due to certain idiots from Network Security at HQ that consider it necessary to block stuff from Google Drive, so I had to open a ticket to let that doctor’s requests pass through the firewall.
-They opened up a new “reports room” at a department that handles operating kids. I managed the move, but one of the computers that ended up there was ancient, one of those troublesome kinds who use very specific software that has never been updated for newer operating systems and that some of the time isn’t maintained anymore because the company no longer works with the healthcare organization. Anyway, this computer had a proprietary set of cables that went to specially mounted sockets on the wall, but the cables didn’t make clear which cable went where. I had to locate technicians from that random company and return to that “reports room” (a process that involves me dressing myself up, because it’s a sterile environment) and snap a few photos of the damn cables to mail them. They haven’t answered yet.
-Someone from a clinic located a couple dozen kilometers away wants to be able to print in a different printer, “just in case”. It takes me a good while to coordinate myself with her so she can free up her computer. When I finish, she asks, “hey, can you do that for this coworker and this one and this one too?” I tell her that they should open their own tickets.
-Some barcode scanner works intermittently. Half of the time the users are handling it wrong. The ticket doesn’t say anything about the model of the scanner nor its physical location, so I email the person for details.
-Suddenly nobody in a whole wing of the ICU could print on their assigned printer. Yesterday afternoon they called my department because there were blocked documents on the queue, but whatever my coworker did screwed stuff up for everybody. I connected remotely to the print server; it was still open on the list of printer addresses and focused on the one with the issue: my coworker linked the name of the printer to another IP address by mistake.
-Some lab technician can’t open certain attached images because it gives an error regarding virtual memory. The technician insists on me checking her disk space. It’s partially a RAM issue, but also there may be some weird allocation matter, because restarting the computer (she said she did, anyway) hasn’t solved it. I still haven’t finished dealing with it.
-There were also a few more mundane matters that don’t warrant me writing about them.
I really dislike my job, but it’s the only one that has employed me semi-reliably. As a programmer I ended up working half of the time as an unpaid intern, but even when I was getting paid, I barely made minimum wage. By the way, this is a country where some people can enter illegally from certain continents and earn three times minimum wage just for existing. Such are the ethnic backgrounds of more than half of the people that hang out at the Maternity building of my hospital complex.
Anyway, at a quarter past two I was heading to the Ophthalmology Department located in one of the farthest reaches of this complex to hand them a new laptop. Right as I reach their floor, I start sweating, feeling light-headed and getting a weird pressure in my chest. My heart goes arrhythmic. I feel it jumping, and as I check my pulse, it’s clearly all over the place.
The first time I experienced such arrhythmia was the very same day that I received my latest booster vaccine (which I was forced to take because I wouldn’t keep getting hired as a computer technician at any hospital otherwise). From then on I experienced such “heart jumps” semi-regularly, moments in which my heart seemed to hiccup in a disturbing way, but it had always passed a couple of heartbeats later. This time it didn’t stop. I could tell it wasn’t normal in any way, but I figured that I would give the Ophthalmology crew a new laptop to solve the issue they had been badgering us about, then visit the Workplace Health department or however it’s called in English.
As I waited for a few nurses to get me some disposable operating room clothing, one of the chatty nurses (have I said enough times that talking to people in person makes my skin crawl?) approached me and asked me, “by the way, do you work for [our Healthcare Organization]?”. Me, wearing a lab coat that features prominently the logo of said organization: “Yes.” “Can you help me with a problem? I haven’t been able to print reports with my credentials in forever. My coworker can’t do it either. We keep asking around and going crazy because nothing works and we have to ask other nurses to let us enter with their credentials.” “Have either of you opened a ticket for it?” “Well, no.” I realized quickly that they hadn’t assigned the printer correctly in the program like virtually every other department is told how to do.
I was expecting any of them to point out that I seemed sick, because I was sweating profusely, my pulse was trembling, and in general I must have looked like death. But they just ended up giving me one of those disposable sets of clothes. When I found myself alone in the locker room, my heart kept going crazy, I was getting weaker and weaker and experiencing weird electrical pains along my collarbone and shoulders. I thought, “I’m having a heart attack. I’m having a heart attack and the last thing I’ll do in my worthless life is set up a laptop for these motherfuckers who have been pestering us for weeks without following any proper protocol.” I wanted to cry, or throw myself out of the window. Instead I got dressed and walked to the operating room. There I discovered that changing the old laptop for a new one didn’t solve the issue, and I explained to a few nurses that we’d have to coordinate ourselves to arrange a Wi-Fi coverage study in the following days.
When I left that department, it was already time to go home. My arrhythmia hadn’t stopped; if anything it had gotten worse. I felt dizzy and confused, and I can’t remember almost anything about the ride home. I realized that my heart issue was serious; although usually I would avoid going to a hospital for any reason because it would be too much of a bother, this time I got my father to drive me to the Emergency Department of the local hospital at Irún. By then I could barely stay upright, so an orderly wheeled me to the Observation Unit in a wheelchair. They hooked me up to a vitals monitor that kept beeping because my heart rate was out of whack, jumping wildly from the 80s to the 140s, and beeping even more urgently when it hit the 140s. The main nurse that treated me had the same name as the girlfriend that fucked me over the worst, but this young woman was very kind. They referred to my condition as atrial fibrillation. I have forgotten most of the stuff they did to me, but they made me swallow three flecainide pills and told me that I would lie in bed for the foreseeable future. If in six hours my heart hadn’t gone back to normal, they would defibrillate me.
I lay there for hours (most of the afternoon), staring at the hooks hanging from the ceiling and at the curiously designed ventilation slits, which looked like the bidimensional version of one of those spiky balls that they use to detonate minefields. On the opposite box some woman in her forties was being treated for covid. I would have supposed that these observation units were reasonably quiet due to the rest that the patients require, but the son of a bitch they had on the box immediately to my left kept groaning in an obnoxious, obviously fake way every few seconds, annoying everyone to the extent that the nurses kept saying, “we have to do something about the guy from 7”, and even other patients were shushing that idiot. I figured he must have been an elderly man with dementia or such shit, but the orderly that later wheeled me around to get an X-Ray of my chest told me, “he’s a Hispanic guy, just forty years old. I don't know what is it with these Hispanics, but we get such kinds all the time: habitual drunkards who sometimes come in also drugged up to their eyeballs.”
After the nurses had to rush at the Hispanic guy because he kept trying to get up and even push stuff around, they decided to move him to another box. Regarding where they had to move him, they specified that he should be “distanced from the guy on 6 (me); he has a heart condition.”
Eventually my heart stopped hiccuping. The main nurse talked to me about the health issue assuming that it would happen again in the future, and that when it does I should go immediately to the nearest Emergency Department to get an ECG. They also told me I should make an appointment with a cardiologist. I asked them if my stressful routine may have caused this, but they told me it was a purely physical issue. I asked them if I should end up carrying with me the kind of pills they made me swallow, in case I experienced such an episode again when I was out there in the wild. They told me no way.
Later on I googled flecainide; most of the websites warn against its use with notices like this one: “This drug has a Black Box Warning. This is the most serious warning from the Food and Drug Administration (FDA). A black box warning alerts doctors and patients to potentially dangerous effects. If you’ve had a heart attack within the past two years, flecainide may raise your risk of having another heart attack, which can be fatal. This drug should only be used if you have a life-threatening irregular heart rate. Tell your doctor if you have atrial fibrillation or atrial flutter. If you have these conditions where your heart does not beat correctly, you have an increased risk for developing certain types of irregular heartbeats. Flecainide is not recommended if you have chronic atrial fibrillation.” So either my nurses (or their hospital) were incompetent, or I’ve gone through a life-threatening irregular heart rate. Good to know.
They gave me the following report:
When they told me I could go home, I quickly discovered that I couldn’t even sit down without breaking in cold sweat and getting nauseous. I felt like I would pass out at any point. The same orderly wheeled me out to my father’s car. Soon after I got home, I emailed my boss to tell him that I would take it easy the two following days and that I would contact my GP to figure out what to do about this matter. Shortly after I went to bed and passed out.
I woke up at half past two in the morning and I decided to write this account, as I had nothing better to do. My heart feels physically weak and sore. Of course, I’m paranoid about it failing at any point. I read up on atrial fibrillation, and the following stuff bothered me the most: it’s associated with an increased risk of heart failure, dementia, and stroke. That’s on top of my regular migraines, which are also linked to an increased risk of stroke. The two fates I fear the most health-wise are dementia, Alzheimer’s and the likes, and strokes. One of my favorite writers, John Fowles, who wrote ‘The Collector’ and ‘The Magus’, suffered one in his sixties. Fowles never wrote another novel again, and stated that the stroke had “robbed him of his imagination”.
It’s nearly six in the morning, when I would need to wake up to go to work, but I’m going to sleep. I won’t have to work, which will likely cause me untold issues next week. However, as far as I care at the moment, it can fuck right off along with my failing body and my pointless life.
June 20, 2022
Life update (06/20/2022)
Last week was rough, but then again I don’t recall any week of work that hasn’t been grueling for one reason or another. I have been enduring stress-related pains such as upper back strains; many years ago I ended up getting such aches checked, and they confirmed that they were caused by stress. Last Monday, as I was standing on the bus on my way to the hospital complex where I work, I got the characteristic migraine aura that impedes my sight. In addition, every migraine seems to reduce my IQ for as long as it lasts, likely due to changes in the blood flow to my brain. Whenever I get one I fear that I’ll end up with permanent brain damage, which is apparently possible. Anyway, I always carry some ibuprofen with me, but I still had to deal with the resulting headache, that lasted two days.
I have forgotten the details of the many problems I had to solve at work; they have blurred into the general hellish sensation of navigating around in a hospital complex during a record-breaking heat wave while wearing a lab coat. I’m likely still depressed, which may explain part of why I’ve found half of my coworkers utterly unbearable these past few weeks. A group of them ruins whatever passes for peace in the office whenever they are present; although they are in their forties and fifties, they behave like children in a playground, bickering about stuff unrelated to work or goofing around with each other so loudly that if I were in charge of this place I would have admonished them almost daily. I'm forced to wear earplugs so I can concentrate on whatever the hell I’m doing.
The most bitter moment for me was a quarrel I had this Friday with a coworker. We are both preparing to pass a public examination in a few months, which requires the students to buy about twelve expensive textbooks. This guy and I decided to divide the purchases between us. He bought four and I bought about eight. It happened that way because he had already bought the first four, and I went ahead and bought the remainder. He decided to go through the trouble of paying a stationery store, or however they are called in English, to remove the spines and covers of the books, then use the industrial printers we have at the office to scan them, a process that he said took like a minute and a half per book. He then gave me access to a single folder of his Google Drive that only contained the scanned books in PDF format.
This guy is more than a bit paranoid, the kind who’ll get weird with you if he realizes you are talking to someone who may dislike him or have an issue with him for one reason or another. He told me that under no circumstance should I download the books on my workstation, because some other coworker may snatch them. I obliged him. After all, I could just go to the shared folder and open them there. I didn’t download most of them at home either, because I could access that folder.
I’m the second person that enters the office every morning. This guy is always the first one; he starts an hour early because it’s more convenient for him. Anyway, four of the five days of the week he wasn’t at his workstation when I came in, which was odd. We only greeted each other in passing otherwise.
At about ten in the morning on that Friday, I tried to open one of the PDF files located in the shared folder, so I could study for a bit between tasks. I found out that this coworker had revoked my access. This was a folder of his Google Drive that contains the digital versions of eight books that I paid for, and four that he did. Nobody else had access to this folder. He made the very conscious decision of shutting my access down.
Through Google Drive’s interface, I sent him a petition to regain access, saying that I hadn’t downloaded all the books. From my position I can see enough of his screens that I’m quite sure that he opened that request (I recognized the layout of the website), and let out a derisive chuckle. He wasn’t talking to anyone.
I gave him five minutes or so to grant me access again, but he didn’t. I was fuming. It was such a pointlessly malicious thing to do, to revoke access to a folder that just contains stuff that both of us had purchased, and for a shared purpose that won’t be resolved until October or November. There was no way I couldn’t interpret this except as a “fuck you” to me. In truth, I hadn’t gotten so internally enraged for good while, and it harkened me back to the years I had to live with my seven-years-younger sister, who stole money and jewelry from her family members to fund her drug habit, and in general started arguments and conflicts of every kind because she couldn’t tolerate boredom. I also grew to understand that although I’m a laid back person and I want as little conflict with people as possible (internally I'm often on the verge of brutally murdering someone), some will step on people like me because they consider us easy targets that won’t retaliate. I knew I had to confront my coworker about this immediately.
I walked up to him as we were surrounded by six or so other coworkers. I told him that I give him the benefit of the doubt, but that he must reinstate my access to the folder, because I hadn’t gotten to download all the books. This guy usually turns around on his chair with a self-assured smile as soon as anyone approaches him, but this time he remained still for my entire part of the dialogue, as if he went “oh shit” internally. That was my impression anyway. He told me that he didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked him whether or not he had revoked my access to the folder. He told me that he had, because he thought I would have already downloaded the files (why revoke my access, though, to a folder that just contains those files, when there’s no security risk?). I reminded him how particular he got about not downloading the books at work; I’m not sure if he opens the books at the office, but I did tell him that I was studying them when I'm not busy. Anyway, he told me that he would reinstate my access. I proceeded to immediately download all the PDFs and store them in a pen drive.
He didn’t speak to me again, and in fact he still hasn’t, but when I got home from work I had received two emails. The first one said that he thought I would have downloaded the files already, and that he had meant not to download them at work. The second email, in a sterner tone, told me to download the files this weekend because he would revoke my access again early on Monday. I still have access to the folder, though.
After this nonsense, I want to cut back on dealing with people in person as much as humanly possible. Due to autism, my brain simply can’t tell others’ intentions as normal people apparently can, and due its inability to process and register people’s faces properly (prosopagnosia; bad enough that I have no clue if I ever saw again people I was romantically involved with), I can’t read much on their faces. I’ve always had to distrust people to survive; I get taught that lesson over and over again. I just can’t ever know when someone is going to fuck me over, and the intentions and motivations of people often seem incomprehensible to me.
Obviously my job isn’t fulfilling; I only work to add money to my bank account at the end of the month. And I can only consider it tolerable because I have no social life nor a family of my own. When I get back home, half of the week I barely have the energy to stay awake. At the most I can invest two hours and a half of lucidity into whatever scene of my novel I’m working on at the moment. During my last long-term relationship I was so exhausted and mentally worn out from my nine-to-five job that I once took the train in the opposite direction by mistake, and I didn’t find out for forty minutes because I fell asleep; and after I went to my then girlfriend's place just to spend the afternoon together, I sat on her sofa and passed out. She was mad at me often during those last months because I barely had the energy to shamble around.
Having to keep a job is truly a disaster, as it steals the most valuable things of your life: your time and your energy that should be spent on stuff that matters. Obviously I wish I could write from morning to night, which I’ve done gladly whenever I’m unemployed. However, if you expect to make a living writing, you are delusional; you may as well base your future on winning the lottery. It’s always been in part about having the right connections, but these days you need to belong to some preferred group and have the right opinions as well.
I’m getting assailed by the intrusive thoughts that have visited me regularly for as long as I remember, and that suggest that I should kill myself and get this whole bullshit over with. When I think about why I still stick around, I can only come up with the following: I want to finish my current novel, I have some campaigns of Arkham Horror to play through, and one of these days both ‘Victoria 3’ and ‘Starfield’ will get released. Otherwise, the sensory issues that autism causes make navigating virtually any environment a low-level torture (or even trauma inducing), at least beyond the confines of a locked room containing only me. I’m always bloated and gassy, and several times during the workday I'm even on the verge of shitting myself, due to Irritable Bowel Syndrome that I can’t regulate because it’s linked to anxiety, and I'm always anxious whenever I'm around people. I deal with life-long health issues caused in part by the pituitary tumor with which I was born. Virtually every interaction with other human beings in person is damn near unbearable. The intimate relationships I got involved in, until I gave up in my early-to-mid twenties, were humiliating, painful, forced me to run on a treadmill to fulfill someone else’s wishes and goals although mine remained neglected, and in the end those girls/women just left. I don’t see myself ever wanting to have children, because I’d only curse them with conditions that make me wish I wasn’t born; besides, I'd be a horrible father because I can't give enough of a shit about anyone, even myself. I can’t look forward to the future on this continent, because in a generation or two Europe will become an extension of Africa and the Middle East, and I lack any support system to move elsewhere. It seems inevitable that one day the growing mountain of painful memories and traumas will tip the scales in favor of getting the hell out of Dodge as soon as possible.
Right now I have to prepare a couple of computers and hook them up to the network, and this afternoon I’ll work on my next scene. I’m close to finishing its first draft already. How did Cioran put it? "Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows."
I have forgotten the details of the many problems I had to solve at work; they have blurred into the general hellish sensation of navigating around in a hospital complex during a record-breaking heat wave while wearing a lab coat. I’m likely still depressed, which may explain part of why I’ve found half of my coworkers utterly unbearable these past few weeks. A group of them ruins whatever passes for peace in the office whenever they are present; although they are in their forties and fifties, they behave like children in a playground, bickering about stuff unrelated to work or goofing around with each other so loudly that if I were in charge of this place I would have admonished them almost daily. I'm forced to wear earplugs so I can concentrate on whatever the hell I’m doing.
The most bitter moment for me was a quarrel I had this Friday with a coworker. We are both preparing to pass a public examination in a few months, which requires the students to buy about twelve expensive textbooks. This guy and I decided to divide the purchases between us. He bought four and I bought about eight. It happened that way because he had already bought the first four, and I went ahead and bought the remainder. He decided to go through the trouble of paying a stationery store, or however they are called in English, to remove the spines and covers of the books, then use the industrial printers we have at the office to scan them, a process that he said took like a minute and a half per book. He then gave me access to a single folder of his Google Drive that only contained the scanned books in PDF format.
This guy is more than a bit paranoid, the kind who’ll get weird with you if he realizes you are talking to someone who may dislike him or have an issue with him for one reason or another. He told me that under no circumstance should I download the books on my workstation, because some other coworker may snatch them. I obliged him. After all, I could just go to the shared folder and open them there. I didn’t download most of them at home either, because I could access that folder.
I’m the second person that enters the office every morning. This guy is always the first one; he starts an hour early because it’s more convenient for him. Anyway, four of the five days of the week he wasn’t at his workstation when I came in, which was odd. We only greeted each other in passing otherwise.
At about ten in the morning on that Friday, I tried to open one of the PDF files located in the shared folder, so I could study for a bit between tasks. I found out that this coworker had revoked my access. This was a folder of his Google Drive that contains the digital versions of eight books that I paid for, and four that he did. Nobody else had access to this folder. He made the very conscious decision of shutting my access down.
Through Google Drive’s interface, I sent him a petition to regain access, saying that I hadn’t downloaded all the books. From my position I can see enough of his screens that I’m quite sure that he opened that request (I recognized the layout of the website), and let out a derisive chuckle. He wasn’t talking to anyone.
I gave him five minutes or so to grant me access again, but he didn’t. I was fuming. It was such a pointlessly malicious thing to do, to revoke access to a folder that just contains stuff that both of us had purchased, and for a shared purpose that won’t be resolved until October or November. There was no way I couldn’t interpret this except as a “fuck you” to me. In truth, I hadn’t gotten so internally enraged for good while, and it harkened me back to the years I had to live with my seven-years-younger sister, who stole money and jewelry from her family members to fund her drug habit, and in general started arguments and conflicts of every kind because she couldn’t tolerate boredom. I also grew to understand that although I’m a laid back person and I want as little conflict with people as possible (internally I'm often on the verge of brutally murdering someone), some will step on people like me because they consider us easy targets that won’t retaliate. I knew I had to confront my coworker about this immediately.
I walked up to him as we were surrounded by six or so other coworkers. I told him that I give him the benefit of the doubt, but that he must reinstate my access to the folder, because I hadn’t gotten to download all the books. This guy usually turns around on his chair with a self-assured smile as soon as anyone approaches him, but this time he remained still for my entire part of the dialogue, as if he went “oh shit” internally. That was my impression anyway. He told me that he didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked him whether or not he had revoked my access to the folder. He told me that he had, because he thought I would have already downloaded the files (why revoke my access, though, to a folder that just contains those files, when there’s no security risk?). I reminded him how particular he got about not downloading the books at work; I’m not sure if he opens the books at the office, but I did tell him that I was studying them when I'm not busy. Anyway, he told me that he would reinstate my access. I proceeded to immediately download all the PDFs and store them in a pen drive.
He didn’t speak to me again, and in fact he still hasn’t, but when I got home from work I had received two emails. The first one said that he thought I would have downloaded the files already, and that he had meant not to download them at work. The second email, in a sterner tone, told me to download the files this weekend because he would revoke my access again early on Monday. I still have access to the folder, though.
After this nonsense, I want to cut back on dealing with people in person as much as humanly possible. Due to autism, my brain simply can’t tell others’ intentions as normal people apparently can, and due its inability to process and register people’s faces properly (prosopagnosia; bad enough that I have no clue if I ever saw again people I was romantically involved with), I can’t read much on their faces. I’ve always had to distrust people to survive; I get taught that lesson over and over again. I just can’t ever know when someone is going to fuck me over, and the intentions and motivations of people often seem incomprehensible to me.
Obviously my job isn’t fulfilling; I only work to add money to my bank account at the end of the month. And I can only consider it tolerable because I have no social life nor a family of my own. When I get back home, half of the week I barely have the energy to stay awake. At the most I can invest two hours and a half of lucidity into whatever scene of my novel I’m working on at the moment. During my last long-term relationship I was so exhausted and mentally worn out from my nine-to-five job that I once took the train in the opposite direction by mistake, and I didn’t find out for forty minutes because I fell asleep; and after I went to my then girlfriend's place just to spend the afternoon together, I sat on her sofa and passed out. She was mad at me often during those last months because I barely had the energy to shamble around.
Having to keep a job is truly a disaster, as it steals the most valuable things of your life: your time and your energy that should be spent on stuff that matters. Obviously I wish I could write from morning to night, which I’ve done gladly whenever I’m unemployed. However, if you expect to make a living writing, you are delusional; you may as well base your future on winning the lottery. It’s always been in part about having the right connections, but these days you need to belong to some preferred group and have the right opinions as well.
I’m getting assailed by the intrusive thoughts that have visited me regularly for as long as I remember, and that suggest that I should kill myself and get this whole bullshit over with. When I think about why I still stick around, I can only come up with the following: I want to finish my current novel, I have some campaigns of Arkham Horror to play through, and one of these days both ‘Victoria 3’ and ‘Starfield’ will get released. Otherwise, the sensory issues that autism causes make navigating virtually any environment a low-level torture (or even trauma inducing), at least beyond the confines of a locked room containing only me. I’m always bloated and gassy, and several times during the workday I'm even on the verge of shitting myself, due to Irritable Bowel Syndrome that I can’t regulate because it’s linked to anxiety, and I'm always anxious whenever I'm around people. I deal with life-long health issues caused in part by the pituitary tumor with which I was born. Virtually every interaction with other human beings in person is damn near unbearable. The intimate relationships I got involved in, until I gave up in my early-to-mid twenties, were humiliating, painful, forced me to run on a treadmill to fulfill someone else’s wishes and goals although mine remained neglected, and in the end those girls/women just left. I don’t see myself ever wanting to have children, because I’d only curse them with conditions that make me wish I wasn’t born; besides, I'd be a horrible father because I can't give enough of a shit about anyone, even myself. I can’t look forward to the future on this continent, because in a generation or two Europe will become an extension of Africa and the Middle East, and I lack any support system to move elsewhere. It seems inevitable that one day the growing mountain of painful memories and traumas will tip the scales in favor of getting the hell out of Dodge as soon as possible.
Right now I have to prepare a couple of computers and hook them up to the network, and this afternoon I’ll work on my next scene. I’m close to finishing its first draft already. How did Cioran put it? "Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows."
June 19, 2022
We're Fucked, Pt. 58 (Fiction)
Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---
I run the latest batch of unit tests on Visual Studio Code. When the red cross next to the test name changes to a green mark, a speech bubble pops up in the swirly tar of my mind, and it says, "Well done!" Some organic contraption in my body tasked with synthesizing drugs supplies the promised dopamine hit. My brain is convinced that I have stepped forward towards fulfilling my purpose as a living creature, but the wrinkly mass of soft tissue and blood vessels that contains my self won't remain deceived for long. Soon enough, another speech bubble will pop up inside my head, this one saying, "Leire, you are wasting your time. You have the chance to do something worthwhile in your life, why do you let it slip through your fingers?"
Thankfully, some programming maestros figured out that if you systematize software development into a growing pyramid of unit tests, you can chase a reliable sequence of dopamine hits and still end up with a functioning product. If I didn't spend my workdays zooming through this reward course of intellectual orgasms, I'd get mired in self-destructive thoughts regarding my inability to become an acceptable member of my species. It takes a regular pounding of dopamine hits on my soggy brain to shield me from the background radiation of reality; only when I am under the influence do I manage to forget the vast swath of shit that I've been dragging around: the pains of inhabiting a rotting body, the knowledge that we were born to grow old and die, the humiliation of wasting at least eight hours working, five days a week, so the government can steal part of my paycheck to fund the destruction of our society.
Yet, these dopamine hits are a pale shadow of the main reward that life built into us so we would remain slaves to its bidding: orgasms. I wish I could catalyze each orgasm from the previous one, in a consecutive chain that would barely allow me to breathe; that's how I could aspire to enjoy my existence instead of tolerating it for a few minutes at a time. I'd love to see my brain turned into a bonobo jungle. I want to become a selfish, self-obsessed idiot whose only goal is to indulge her appetites without any regard for her fellow human beings or the planet she's inhabiting. I want to stay in a bath for hours, lazing and masturbating. I want to eat a whole damn vat of ice cream even though you can only hold so much before you feel ill. But I suspect that life must have developed some regulatory programs into our brains or into some hormone-secreting lump of tissue, and if those biological algorithms detected that we dared to enjoy ourselves too much, even orgasming would start to feel dull and pointless. If due to excessive self-diddling I ended up locking my finite-state machine into such an anhedonia, I'd have no choice but to grab the nearest sharp tool and lacerate my carotid arteries. Then I'd jab the tool's pointy end into each of my eyeballs, because I wouldn't want to witness a second longer of this worthless world. I better take a break every now and then from masturbating, lest I become permanently brain-damaged.
I once read an article about a woman, a Floridian I believe, who due to a medical condition was blessed with constant, uncontrollable orgasms. She had so many that she didn't know what to do with them. She could have bought a jet ski, a houseboat, a miniature zoo, and an island in the Bahamas so she could party with her friends and family. She could have invested in several casinos, started a line of vibrators, founded a private school where rich kids would be taught by tutors how to be filthy rich and even filthier in bed. She could have built a huge robot, crammed all the most important men in the world inside, and fucked them all in every orifice she had. Instead, such bliss impeded her ability to function as a human, so she chose to escape her life through the emergency door. She swallowed a bottle of pills, or perhaps she slit her wrists. In any case, I wish I had stood in front of this woman during her final moments as she cursed the purest pleasure that nature made available to us, claiming that even the ultimate reward wasn't worth suffering through the terror of being alive.
"It seems we are both in the zone, senpai," Jordi says. "We are going to finish this contract two or three days ahead of time."
Our intern's fingers dash across the keyboard as his gaze darts over the screen in precise jumps. When I first met him, Jordi seemed frail and timid, but these days he comes off as an unyielding machine, so concentrated at times that I could sneak away with one of his kidneys. While I distracted myself suffering mental breakdowns and wishing to die, my twenty-three-year-old coworker absorbed new programming techniques. I dread the day that he'll choose to keep treating me deferentially as a legacy issue.
"I'm in the zone alright," I say in a croaky voice. "I keep coming and coming."
Jordi snorts, then he pushes the glasses up his nose as his dark eyes snap into focus on me.
"Both of you have been on an exhibitionist streak recently. I'm feeling out of my element."
Jacqueline giggles.
"Leire, you can't be that frank with the kids these days. They force them to grow up in padded rooms, the poor things."
Jacqueline, seated to my right, is wearing a purple-magenta crossover blouse with puff sleeves that show off her toned arms, which she strengthens regularly by imitating the grueling exercise routines of American YouTuber despots. The way the crossing pieces of fabric struggle over Jacqueline's majestic tits makes me want to grasp the blouse in a fist, rip it off, and latch on to either of my girlfriend's nipples for an hour-long session of sucking and nibbling. It would white out the myriad of anxious scribbles that have marred the surface of my mind lately.
I swallow the excess saliva building in my throat.
"Jordi is forced to share a desk with the most curvesome temptress, whom he'll never get to touch, so his subconscious must be bubbling with sexual frustration on a daily basis."
"You know that I usually have my mind on other things," Jordi says as he continues typing.
I may have intended to turn Jordi's pale, freckled cheeks into hot fudge sundae of molten desire, but I missed my target. This kid seems as detached from sex as if he had been chemically castrated.
"I was only... what's the word that humans use? Teasing. You may need to see a neurologist, though. At your age you should be awkwardly trying to hide your erections under the desk."
Jordi stops typing and turns his head towards me to gift me a gentle smile.
"Senpai, I wouldn't pursue a taken woman."
"My, aren't you a gentleman," Jacqueline says in a mellow voice.
"Besides, I believe that flat is justice."
Jacqueline gasps, then she stares open-mouthed at our intern as if he insulted her ancestors. Jordi has returned his fingers to the keyboard and his gaze to the screen, but the kid is pursing his lips to restrain a silly grin.
I'm amused despite my instinct to experience every instant of living as a nerve-racking nightmare. I grab my bottle of water, and when I lean back in the chair to take a sip of the tepid liquid, I find myself staring at a sentence in bold letters glued across the row of frost-white cabinets as if it were a sticker. The sentence reads: YOU'VE GOT MAIL.
A chill runs down my spine. I shudder. Although Jacqueline's heavenly voice is flowing around my head on its way to our intern, it sounds remote as if I were sinking underwater. I must have blinked; the sentence, a message to me, has vanished. I once saw a sentence like that written across the dashboard of my car, didn't I? That one told me that we were fucked. It had shouted silently at me until I tried to peel it off, then it blinked out of existence.
I scoot closer to the desk. My hands coordinate themselves to move the mouse and type on the keyboard so Gmail opens in a new tab. I've received a new email from someone named Alberto Portuondo. The subject reads: KNOCK KNOCK.
I've heard of plenty of Albertos, but if I ever met one, it must have been at school. Back then I had no choice but to interact unwillingly with thirty or so other students in my classroom, in addition to the rest of the developing humans whose lives collided with me over those grueling years. I couldn't tell you the name of most of the boys who spent their time staring at the back of some girl's head, who made eyes at anyone with a pussy so they could get a girl's attention, who whispered words into some girl's ear as they moved their hands under her skirt. I remain only distantly aware of the adults who were in a position to take care of me, but I doubt that any of them were looking out for my best interests. My own father, a dark shape in a forest of faces, would pull me up into his lap, stroke my head, and tell me to be brave. I thought that being brave meant suffering more to earn their love, so I acted as brave as I could.
The email body contains a single sentence: Now check your phone, you silly bitch.
I slide my gaze to the mobile phone lying close to my mouse, and as soon as the first photons that bounced off the phone hit my retinas, the device buzzes. An ice cube of dread is melting in my stomach. After I grab the phone, a notification leads me to a new message. Someone who chooses to represent himself as the Linux penguin has sent me a video locked behind a black thumbnail. A down arrow symbol offers me the choice to download its seven point seven megabytes of content.
"No thanks," I mumble, then I press the download button.
While a loading wheel spins, my heart thumps faster and faster. About ten seconds later, a video fills the phone screen showing an isometric view of a seated woman, filmed as if the camera was mounted on the ceiling behind her right shoulder. The woman is sitting on the same chair that is holding my body, near the desk that supports the workstation that justifies my existence. She's wearing a dark mauve hoodie with white, frayed drawcords and long sleeves that hide half of her hands, as well as rifle-green cargo pants that look like a hand-me-down from a drug-dealing older brother. I refuse to focus on the woman's face, but why would I need to, when that stranger has presented herself as me for my entire life as I remain trapped inside her human frame? She's a cuckoo in a nest of fluffy eggs, a worker drone for the horse-human empire.
The creature in the video is squeezing her thighs together, spellbound by the territory of the desk that Jacqueline claimed for herself, which she embellished with a photo collage, a plastic rose bouquet, a silver pen holder and a leather blotter. The line of four puncture wounds on my past self's neck, from when I stuck a fork in my flesh, must have scabbed over a couple of days before this video was shot. As the woman breathes deeply, her right hand keeps fiddling with the fabric of her pants next to the fly. She resembles some trailer park loner who's peeping through a hole in a wooden fence at a sunbathing babe.
The woman on-screen rolls her chair closer to Jacqueline's domain. She runs her fingertips over a half-empty water bottle that belongs to her coworker, and when she stares at the pineapple-yellow tube of lip balm, a shiver of recognition makes me stop the video and flip my phone. I know against which part of her greasy body my past self was going to rub that cosmetic product.
I feel like a deer who has stumbled into the middle of the road in front of a speeding truck. When I rise to my feet, my legs are trembling. A maniacal laugh rings through my head, like the high-pitched screeching of a murderous harpy.
"You've gotten so pale all of a sudden," Jacqueline says as she looks up at me.
"With all due respects, my queen: have I ever not looked pale as death? It's safe to assume that I will look sickly for the rest of my life. Anyway, I've received a sexual video on my phone, so I'm going to lock myself in a stall and enjoy it in private."
Jacqueline chuckles, then she twists her lips in a silly smile.
"Alright, baby doll. Have fun."
Jordi clears his throat.
"And remember to wash your hands afterwards."
I stride towards the front door of our office while I clutch the mobile phone. When I close the door behind me, I dash down the hallway to the bathroom. Both stalls are vacant. I lock myself in one and I plop down on the toilet seat. Hunched over, I resume the video. The recorded sounds of ragged breaths fill the enclosed space as my past self plants kisses on the surface of Jacqueline's lip balm. She slides it cap-first into her drooling mouth, and after she closes her eyes, the ruminant motion of her jaw suggests that she's licking the cap of the tube. I vaguely recall that I imagined myself suckling on any of Jacqueline's nipples, but instead it looks like I was giving a blowjob to a micropenis.
The woman on-screen shivers. She unbuckles her belt and pulls down her pants, revealing her downy thighs.
I feel a wave of embarrassment and anger at my own crotch. I stop the video, then shove the phone in a pocket. My head spins with dizziness. Why would I want to witness the proof that I violated that innocent lip balm? And I already knew that someone had recorded me as I diddled myself at work, didn't I? My mind must have blocked it out the same way it allows me to forget, at least for a couple of hours at a time, that I have an expiration date. Why would any random Alberto want to record me masturbating at work? Does he intend to extort money from me?
I stick my head between my knees, I dig my fingers into my scalp, I force air deep into my nostrils. I'm tasting bile. My chest feels like a barrel of toxic waste that's been dragged through mud and filled with acid.
As my fingers knead my temples, I yearn for the shadow of the goddess of lust to spread over my mind and take up residence inside my cranium. I would feel her thighs squeezing me into a quivering pulp as she mounted the back of my mind. I need to close my eyes and enjoy the delights of an orgasm-by-numbers, a mechanical act. My crotch would clench, my breasts heave, my nipples throb and my toes curl. I would hold my breath and pretend to be a dolphin. Then I'd relax and sink into the sticky pool of orgasmic sensations until I fell asleep.
If any justice remained on this shell-shocked planet, in any of the millions of videos distributed of me pleasuring myself, I'd resemble a creature of myth and legend. Instead of skin I'd be covered in scales, which would be painted red as a raging fire. I'd have pointed ears, gills on my neck and a tail that flicked behind me. I'd inhale the smoke of smoldering wood and breathe out flames. Instead of a bra I'd wear a spiderweb that hung from my breasts. Instead of a heart I'd have a pulsating jellyfish inside my chest that was drowning in a sea of my own blood. My inner thighs would be slick with sweat and shimmering with a shiny sheen. Two pink and dainty protuberances would stick out from my cheeks, ready to satisfy simultaneously two women who would be squirming on their knees, desperate to lick the viscous secretions from my dripping face-cocks. I'd hear the sounds of my flesh sloughing off my bones and into the void as I climbed up cliff walls and fucked every hole and crevice like some monstrous woodpecker. I would be hideous as a blackened sun, and worshipped by a mass of sex-crazed creatures who'd want nothing more than to adore my cold and crackling scales.
My stomach churns, my chest heaves in and out. I retch, but I can't throw up. The acid that burns my tongue is me, that's my very flesh roasting from within. A razor-sharp claw stuck in my guts is scratching and scratching, trying to break free by gouging out my entrails.
I can always escape into daydreams. I light up the theater of my mind, where I materialize an octogonal mahogany table, an Edwardian antique that would make a great prop for a murder mystery. I conjure up some velvet curtains that billow gently when the room gets a breath of air. I add a gilt-framed mirror, a chandelier, two thronelike chairs, and a sculpted lamp with ornate shades that look like they were made from King Louis XIV's ceremonial wigs.
On the tabletop I set up a session of one of my imaginary games, which I named 'The Game of the Gods: the Tower'. It's the first and arguably best entry in a trilogy that was continued by 'The Game of the Gods: the Agony' and 'The Game of the Gods: the Fall'. The game's black box is adorned with a relief that shows three women making love under a crown of roses. The gameboard is made of thick grey board, but regarding the pawns I invested in premium replacements, which are made of jade, green jasper and blood-red agate, all carved from mythical gemstones by a master jeweler. Several sculptures represent the traps that must be arranged on the board, including a heart-shaped maze of thorns, a secluded hideaway guarded by a phoenix that spews fire, a boudoir full of handcuffs, and a cavernous vagina in the shape of a satyr's penis. The game's main piece is a figurine of Minerva, the Roman goddess of civilization, strategy, poetry, the crafts and twenty or so other subjects, whose bejeweled crown and rich robes represent wisdom and power. Minerva's finely carved, white-faced beauty is backed by a silver shield and a shining gold spear.
I place my player pieces on the board. My avatar, an elf queen, wears a metallic lace dress and stands on a mountaintop. Her elaborately braided hair hangs down past her hips, trailing in the wind like a golden mantle. She's surrounded by a court of warrior princesses, dwarves, a charioteer, a cat-headed lady who's carrying a pomegranate, and a few stags who sport crowns of oak leaves.
In the solo version, the player decides between fighting to protect their civilization and starting a war of extermination against their enemies, which are controlled by Automa decks. In the multiplayer version, each player must keep taking sips of poisoned wine and wear a mask made of human skin. The masks get glued to their faces, so if they tear them off, they'll expose the skulls underneath. In the solo game, any player who reveals all of the opponents' cards triumphs, but in the multiplayer game, if even one player removes their mask, that's the end of civilization.
I have played this board game a couple hundred times, and I've developed a simple, if obtuse strategy for victory: I try not to lose. I play the same strategy for life, and it's worked out pretty well so far.
---
Author's note: shout-out to the YouTube channel named Nemo's Dreamscapes due to videos like this one, that allow me to remain sane during the many, many hours that takes me to produce any of these chapters. I must also thank the anonymous sentient creatures that upload hours of genuine storm and rain sounds, which I use to shut out the outside world during my train rides and in bed as I'm trying to sleep. I have no clue what I'd do without you.
I've also been on a Jackson C. Frank binge recently. I came across this recording from back in 1968, when he hosted a BBC Radio program. He plays fantastic live versions of beloved songs, and even speaks to the audience. I wish that cursed bastard had gotten to do more with his life.
---
I run the latest batch of unit tests on Visual Studio Code. When the red cross next to the test name changes to a green mark, a speech bubble pops up in the swirly tar of my mind, and it says, "Well done!" Some organic contraption in my body tasked with synthesizing drugs supplies the promised dopamine hit. My brain is convinced that I have stepped forward towards fulfilling my purpose as a living creature, but the wrinkly mass of soft tissue and blood vessels that contains my self won't remain deceived for long. Soon enough, another speech bubble will pop up inside my head, this one saying, "Leire, you are wasting your time. You have the chance to do something worthwhile in your life, why do you let it slip through your fingers?"
Thankfully, some programming maestros figured out that if you systematize software development into a growing pyramid of unit tests, you can chase a reliable sequence of dopamine hits and still end up with a functioning product. If I didn't spend my workdays zooming through this reward course of intellectual orgasms, I'd get mired in self-destructive thoughts regarding my inability to become an acceptable member of my species. It takes a regular pounding of dopamine hits on my soggy brain to shield me from the background radiation of reality; only when I am under the influence do I manage to forget the vast swath of shit that I've been dragging around: the pains of inhabiting a rotting body, the knowledge that we were born to grow old and die, the humiliation of wasting at least eight hours working, five days a week, so the government can steal part of my paycheck to fund the destruction of our society.
Yet, these dopamine hits are a pale shadow of the main reward that life built into us so we would remain slaves to its bidding: orgasms. I wish I could catalyze each orgasm from the previous one, in a consecutive chain that would barely allow me to breathe; that's how I could aspire to enjoy my existence instead of tolerating it for a few minutes at a time. I'd love to see my brain turned into a bonobo jungle. I want to become a selfish, self-obsessed idiot whose only goal is to indulge her appetites without any regard for her fellow human beings or the planet she's inhabiting. I want to stay in a bath for hours, lazing and masturbating. I want to eat a whole damn vat of ice cream even though you can only hold so much before you feel ill. But I suspect that life must have developed some regulatory programs into our brains or into some hormone-secreting lump of tissue, and if those biological algorithms detected that we dared to enjoy ourselves too much, even orgasming would start to feel dull and pointless. If due to excessive self-diddling I ended up locking my finite-state machine into such an anhedonia, I'd have no choice but to grab the nearest sharp tool and lacerate my carotid arteries. Then I'd jab the tool's pointy end into each of my eyeballs, because I wouldn't want to witness a second longer of this worthless world. I better take a break every now and then from masturbating, lest I become permanently brain-damaged.
I once read an article about a woman, a Floridian I believe, who due to a medical condition was blessed with constant, uncontrollable orgasms. She had so many that she didn't know what to do with them. She could have bought a jet ski, a houseboat, a miniature zoo, and an island in the Bahamas so she could party with her friends and family. She could have invested in several casinos, started a line of vibrators, founded a private school where rich kids would be taught by tutors how to be filthy rich and even filthier in bed. She could have built a huge robot, crammed all the most important men in the world inside, and fucked them all in every orifice she had. Instead, such bliss impeded her ability to function as a human, so she chose to escape her life through the emergency door. She swallowed a bottle of pills, or perhaps she slit her wrists. In any case, I wish I had stood in front of this woman during her final moments as she cursed the purest pleasure that nature made available to us, claiming that even the ultimate reward wasn't worth suffering through the terror of being alive.
"It seems we are both in the zone, senpai," Jordi says. "We are going to finish this contract two or three days ahead of time."
Our intern's fingers dash across the keyboard as his gaze darts over the screen in precise jumps. When I first met him, Jordi seemed frail and timid, but these days he comes off as an unyielding machine, so concentrated at times that I could sneak away with one of his kidneys. While I distracted myself suffering mental breakdowns and wishing to die, my twenty-three-year-old coworker absorbed new programming techniques. I dread the day that he'll choose to keep treating me deferentially as a legacy issue.
"I'm in the zone alright," I say in a croaky voice. "I keep coming and coming."
Jordi snorts, then he pushes the glasses up his nose as his dark eyes snap into focus on me.
"Both of you have been on an exhibitionist streak recently. I'm feeling out of my element."
Jacqueline giggles.
"Leire, you can't be that frank with the kids these days. They force them to grow up in padded rooms, the poor things."
Jacqueline, seated to my right, is wearing a purple-magenta crossover blouse with puff sleeves that show off her toned arms, which she strengthens regularly by imitating the grueling exercise routines of American YouTuber despots. The way the crossing pieces of fabric struggle over Jacqueline's majestic tits makes me want to grasp the blouse in a fist, rip it off, and latch on to either of my girlfriend's nipples for an hour-long session of sucking and nibbling. It would white out the myriad of anxious scribbles that have marred the surface of my mind lately.
I swallow the excess saliva building in my throat.
"Jordi is forced to share a desk with the most curvesome temptress, whom he'll never get to touch, so his subconscious must be bubbling with sexual frustration on a daily basis."
"You know that I usually have my mind on other things," Jordi says as he continues typing.
I may have intended to turn Jordi's pale, freckled cheeks into hot fudge sundae of molten desire, but I missed my target. This kid seems as detached from sex as if he had been chemically castrated.
"I was only... what's the word that humans use? Teasing. You may need to see a neurologist, though. At your age you should be awkwardly trying to hide your erections under the desk."
Jordi stops typing and turns his head towards me to gift me a gentle smile.
"Senpai, I wouldn't pursue a taken woman."
"My, aren't you a gentleman," Jacqueline says in a mellow voice.
"Besides, I believe that flat is justice."
Jacqueline gasps, then she stares open-mouthed at our intern as if he insulted her ancestors. Jordi has returned his fingers to the keyboard and his gaze to the screen, but the kid is pursing his lips to restrain a silly grin.
I'm amused despite my instinct to experience every instant of living as a nerve-racking nightmare. I grab my bottle of water, and when I lean back in the chair to take a sip of the tepid liquid, I find myself staring at a sentence in bold letters glued across the row of frost-white cabinets as if it were a sticker. The sentence reads: YOU'VE GOT MAIL.
A chill runs down my spine. I shudder. Although Jacqueline's heavenly voice is flowing around my head on its way to our intern, it sounds remote as if I were sinking underwater. I must have blinked; the sentence, a message to me, has vanished. I once saw a sentence like that written across the dashboard of my car, didn't I? That one told me that we were fucked. It had shouted silently at me until I tried to peel it off, then it blinked out of existence.
I scoot closer to the desk. My hands coordinate themselves to move the mouse and type on the keyboard so Gmail opens in a new tab. I've received a new email from someone named Alberto Portuondo. The subject reads: KNOCK KNOCK.
I've heard of plenty of Albertos, but if I ever met one, it must have been at school. Back then I had no choice but to interact unwillingly with thirty or so other students in my classroom, in addition to the rest of the developing humans whose lives collided with me over those grueling years. I couldn't tell you the name of most of the boys who spent their time staring at the back of some girl's head, who made eyes at anyone with a pussy so they could get a girl's attention, who whispered words into some girl's ear as they moved their hands under her skirt. I remain only distantly aware of the adults who were in a position to take care of me, but I doubt that any of them were looking out for my best interests. My own father, a dark shape in a forest of faces, would pull me up into his lap, stroke my head, and tell me to be brave. I thought that being brave meant suffering more to earn their love, so I acted as brave as I could.
The email body contains a single sentence: Now check your phone, you silly bitch.
I slide my gaze to the mobile phone lying close to my mouse, and as soon as the first photons that bounced off the phone hit my retinas, the device buzzes. An ice cube of dread is melting in my stomach. After I grab the phone, a notification leads me to a new message. Someone who chooses to represent himself as the Linux penguin has sent me a video locked behind a black thumbnail. A down arrow symbol offers me the choice to download its seven point seven megabytes of content.
"No thanks," I mumble, then I press the download button.
While a loading wheel spins, my heart thumps faster and faster. About ten seconds later, a video fills the phone screen showing an isometric view of a seated woman, filmed as if the camera was mounted on the ceiling behind her right shoulder. The woman is sitting on the same chair that is holding my body, near the desk that supports the workstation that justifies my existence. She's wearing a dark mauve hoodie with white, frayed drawcords and long sleeves that hide half of her hands, as well as rifle-green cargo pants that look like a hand-me-down from a drug-dealing older brother. I refuse to focus on the woman's face, but why would I need to, when that stranger has presented herself as me for my entire life as I remain trapped inside her human frame? She's a cuckoo in a nest of fluffy eggs, a worker drone for the horse-human empire.
The creature in the video is squeezing her thighs together, spellbound by the territory of the desk that Jacqueline claimed for herself, which she embellished with a photo collage, a plastic rose bouquet, a silver pen holder and a leather blotter. The line of four puncture wounds on my past self's neck, from when I stuck a fork in my flesh, must have scabbed over a couple of days before this video was shot. As the woman breathes deeply, her right hand keeps fiddling with the fabric of her pants next to the fly. She resembles some trailer park loner who's peeping through a hole in a wooden fence at a sunbathing babe.
The woman on-screen rolls her chair closer to Jacqueline's domain. She runs her fingertips over a half-empty water bottle that belongs to her coworker, and when she stares at the pineapple-yellow tube of lip balm, a shiver of recognition makes me stop the video and flip my phone. I know against which part of her greasy body my past self was going to rub that cosmetic product.
I feel like a deer who has stumbled into the middle of the road in front of a speeding truck. When I rise to my feet, my legs are trembling. A maniacal laugh rings through my head, like the high-pitched screeching of a murderous harpy.
"You've gotten so pale all of a sudden," Jacqueline says as she looks up at me.
"With all due respects, my queen: have I ever not looked pale as death? It's safe to assume that I will look sickly for the rest of my life. Anyway, I've received a sexual video on my phone, so I'm going to lock myself in a stall and enjoy it in private."
Jacqueline chuckles, then she twists her lips in a silly smile.
"Alright, baby doll. Have fun."
Jordi clears his throat.
"And remember to wash your hands afterwards."
I stride towards the front door of our office while I clutch the mobile phone. When I close the door behind me, I dash down the hallway to the bathroom. Both stalls are vacant. I lock myself in one and I plop down on the toilet seat. Hunched over, I resume the video. The recorded sounds of ragged breaths fill the enclosed space as my past self plants kisses on the surface of Jacqueline's lip balm. She slides it cap-first into her drooling mouth, and after she closes her eyes, the ruminant motion of her jaw suggests that she's licking the cap of the tube. I vaguely recall that I imagined myself suckling on any of Jacqueline's nipples, but instead it looks like I was giving a blowjob to a micropenis.
The woman on-screen shivers. She unbuckles her belt and pulls down her pants, revealing her downy thighs.
I feel a wave of embarrassment and anger at my own crotch. I stop the video, then shove the phone in a pocket. My head spins with dizziness. Why would I want to witness the proof that I violated that innocent lip balm? And I already knew that someone had recorded me as I diddled myself at work, didn't I? My mind must have blocked it out the same way it allows me to forget, at least for a couple of hours at a time, that I have an expiration date. Why would any random Alberto want to record me masturbating at work? Does he intend to extort money from me?
I stick my head between my knees, I dig my fingers into my scalp, I force air deep into my nostrils. I'm tasting bile. My chest feels like a barrel of toxic waste that's been dragged through mud and filled with acid.
As my fingers knead my temples, I yearn for the shadow of the goddess of lust to spread over my mind and take up residence inside my cranium. I would feel her thighs squeezing me into a quivering pulp as she mounted the back of my mind. I need to close my eyes and enjoy the delights of an orgasm-by-numbers, a mechanical act. My crotch would clench, my breasts heave, my nipples throb and my toes curl. I would hold my breath and pretend to be a dolphin. Then I'd relax and sink into the sticky pool of orgasmic sensations until I fell asleep.
If any justice remained on this shell-shocked planet, in any of the millions of videos distributed of me pleasuring myself, I'd resemble a creature of myth and legend. Instead of skin I'd be covered in scales, which would be painted red as a raging fire. I'd have pointed ears, gills on my neck and a tail that flicked behind me. I'd inhale the smoke of smoldering wood and breathe out flames. Instead of a bra I'd wear a spiderweb that hung from my breasts. Instead of a heart I'd have a pulsating jellyfish inside my chest that was drowning in a sea of my own blood. My inner thighs would be slick with sweat and shimmering with a shiny sheen. Two pink and dainty protuberances would stick out from my cheeks, ready to satisfy simultaneously two women who would be squirming on their knees, desperate to lick the viscous secretions from my dripping face-cocks. I'd hear the sounds of my flesh sloughing off my bones and into the void as I climbed up cliff walls and fucked every hole and crevice like some monstrous woodpecker. I would be hideous as a blackened sun, and worshipped by a mass of sex-crazed creatures who'd want nothing more than to adore my cold and crackling scales.
My stomach churns, my chest heaves in and out. I retch, but I can't throw up. The acid that burns my tongue is me, that's my very flesh roasting from within. A razor-sharp claw stuck in my guts is scratching and scratching, trying to break free by gouging out my entrails.
I can always escape into daydreams. I light up the theater of my mind, where I materialize an octogonal mahogany table, an Edwardian antique that would make a great prop for a murder mystery. I conjure up some velvet curtains that billow gently when the room gets a breath of air. I add a gilt-framed mirror, a chandelier, two thronelike chairs, and a sculpted lamp with ornate shades that look like they were made from King Louis XIV's ceremonial wigs.
On the tabletop I set up a session of one of my imaginary games, which I named 'The Game of the Gods: the Tower'. It's the first and arguably best entry in a trilogy that was continued by 'The Game of the Gods: the Agony' and 'The Game of the Gods: the Fall'. The game's black box is adorned with a relief that shows three women making love under a crown of roses. The gameboard is made of thick grey board, but regarding the pawns I invested in premium replacements, which are made of jade, green jasper and blood-red agate, all carved from mythical gemstones by a master jeweler. Several sculptures represent the traps that must be arranged on the board, including a heart-shaped maze of thorns, a secluded hideaway guarded by a phoenix that spews fire, a boudoir full of handcuffs, and a cavernous vagina in the shape of a satyr's penis. The game's main piece is a figurine of Minerva, the Roman goddess of civilization, strategy, poetry, the crafts and twenty or so other subjects, whose bejeweled crown and rich robes represent wisdom and power. Minerva's finely carved, white-faced beauty is backed by a silver shield and a shining gold spear.
I place my player pieces on the board. My avatar, an elf queen, wears a metallic lace dress and stands on a mountaintop. Her elaborately braided hair hangs down past her hips, trailing in the wind like a golden mantle. She's surrounded by a court of warrior princesses, dwarves, a charioteer, a cat-headed lady who's carrying a pomegranate, and a few stags who sport crowns of oak leaves.
In the solo version, the player decides between fighting to protect their civilization and starting a war of extermination against their enemies, which are controlled by Automa decks. In the multiplayer version, each player must keep taking sips of poisoned wine and wear a mask made of human skin. The masks get glued to their faces, so if they tear them off, they'll expose the skulls underneath. In the solo game, any player who reveals all of the opponents' cards triumphs, but in the multiplayer game, if even one player removes their mask, that's the end of civilization.
I have played this board game a couple hundred times, and I've developed a simple, if obtuse strategy for victory: I try not to lose. I play the same strategy for life, and it's worked out pretty well so far.
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Author's note: shout-out to the YouTube channel named Nemo's Dreamscapes due to videos like this one, that allow me to remain sane during the many, many hours that takes me to produce any of these chapters. I must also thank the anonymous sentient creatures that upload hours of genuine storm and rain sounds, which I use to shut out the outside world during my train rides and in bed as I'm trying to sleep. I have no clue what I'd do without you.
I've also been on a Jackson C. Frank binge recently. I came across this recording from back in 1968, when he hosted a BBC Radio program. He plays fantastic live versions of beloved songs, and even speaks to the audience. I wish that cursed bastard had gotten to do more with his life.
