Bring Her Back is about circumscription; castration through the trauma of images and what Ellul would call the humiliation of the word. I don’t like being wound up in such a way as to admit something so awful was good. Timely. Relevant. Proper social commentary done tastefully. So much so, I’ve had my fill. I don’t want to watch it again. It’s too visceral. Crammed full of over-the-countertop gratuity, slow burning indigestion, brutal manipulation, sudden violence and explosive gaslighting. The film’s tagline family requires sacrifice is a misnomer. On point, quaint, but hard to swallow. This film is a critique of the alchemical nature of as above, so below. This particular interpretation will set it right side up again so you can see it as I do.

Don’t worry. It’s just a recording. The show is over. The jig is up. This is a safe space. Nothing can hurt you as long as you’re here with me. You’ll have to trust me. I will protect and support you. Nurture you. What I have to say here is all that matters. I spent a lot of time and effort mulling it over for you. These sharpened incisors found some use. Now, open wide, you’re in for a treat…

Laura, of indeterminate age, is central to the film; the star, who it’s all about, what everything is meant to revolve around. She is Jung’s Terrible Mother archetype incarnate. She doesn’t need the supernatural or myth to navigate modernity, just good ole fashioned manipulation. However, she’s obsessed with what she calls her daughter, Cathy; the sea canary frozen white in her shed meat locker. Laura believes this youth can be brought back to her. Laura refuses to let go. Nothing else will get in her way.

Whatever you might have been led to believe, she’s not in a cult. The demon she summoned is of no real threat. The demon is of the Ox – the Bull and its impotence. The demon is pathetic, picked up from watching reruns of her favorite cult classic snuff film. It resides in some malnourished boy; a reflection of Laura’s superficial spirituality. She knows that by feeding it, it will bring back what she wants.

It’s not clear if Cathy was her biological daughter, nor when she drowned. Nor why she drowned. Nor if waterlogged lungs was what actually killed her and not the blood escaping her noggin. We know when the death occurred the pool was shallow and collecting rain. We know Laura knows the depth of her death, she painted its countdown with a thick blue line. We know that’s as deep as she gets. Now’s not the time to reflect on such frivolities, though.

What is clear is that she’s not the kind of person who should be around the impressionable in the first place. Shouldn’t be guide to anyone. Not unlike how celibate, unfruitful or unfaithful religious bellwethers aren’t the best suited to lead youth groups. She’s an expert though. Professional. Detached. Attentive. Perhaps being the best in her field and winning awards for developing adolescent psychologies wasn’t an achievement worth framing, but a red flag.

To empathize with Laura is to invite a horde of untreated pathology and admit Stockholm Syndrome. What she wants is not what’s best for anyone. We aren’t shown Laura’s good times nor given reason for her hostility toward boys. Through Laura’s reasoning, males are made to feel they ask too much just to be allowed to live. Why? Well, let’s get to the bottom of this, together.

Laura’s transgressions against the opposite sex, particularly her adopted son Andy, include: betraying confidence, drowning him, trampling his privacy, drowning him, misreading his texts, drowning him, making him kiss his abusive father in public, drowning him, getting drunk with her foster children in celebration of their father’s death, drowning him, staining his crotch in her urine, drowning him, lacing his protein powder with who knows what, drowning him, framing a black eye onto his blind sister with cologne-drenched fist, drowning him, assaulting him to play cry bully, drowning him… But worst of all, Laura alienated the bond between Andy and Piper, splitting them up and turning her against him – widening and enforcing man/woman, brother/sister, mother/son resentments.

Then there’s Ollie. Who could forget about this little guy? Laura loves her mean girl dramas, just not as much as she hates competition. She confuses listening with behaving. The alchemical symbol for AIR on her hand is what she denies others. The film doesn’t seek to horrify, but traumatize.

Are you traumatized yet?

Not as much as Ollie here.

Who is Ollie anyway? He’s missing. Once went by Connor Bird. Abducted from his bed at the age of 10. Has his parents worried sick, the little prick. Can you believe the trouble he’s caused? Even when Cathy couldn’t be easier to tend to, Laura still couldn’t protect her from this disobedient Pomeranian.

Why is his belly swollen? He’s starving; positively toxic and pregnant with Laura’s meaning. He had to consume the “old body” for Laura’s spell to reach its forgone conclusion. He is a vessel, a tool, something only of utility to her. Not yet sterilized into his own taxonomy, just subject to her taxidermy – scoffed, stuffed, bloated and molded into place as accessory and plaything.

Ollie was made to be a demon. Provoked beyond escalation. Just before his end he’s tormented beyond belief. First he watches with jaundiced eye as Piper is baptized into nonexistence. Then he witnesses Laura abort the ritual and let Piper go, rendering her sacrifice of him also spent needlessly. All she had to do was call Laura “mom”. The preferential treatment was too much to bear. He’s not stoic — there’s still some humanity left in him — so he attacks his newest sister. It’s only when Ollie escapes the conceptual prison of Laura’s dialectic that he can speak freely, breathe easy. In doing so he becomes Connor Bird again.

While Andy and Piper are subjected to her whims for a short time, who knows how long Laura had Ollie all to herself? Sure, the possession is terrible, but what else did she do to him? Did she subject him to a lecture? A workshop? A witch hunt? A TED talk? A casting couch? Cognitive Behavioral Therapy? Counseling!? Tell him his problems are just a result of not being positive enough? That it’s all in his head? That he needs to smile more? Insist that he explain himself while condemning his very and every expression? Emasculate him or worse? Is his exterior just what boys feel inside under such tutelage? I’m talking institutionalization – academia, state media, corporate news and other faith-based public relations that only construct empty nest straw men in him through force-fed thatch doused with insulating hatred, inexpressible pain and insoluble conflict. What other context could make gnawing on hardwood, integrating its splinters and swallowing its pulp a sign of power – appropriate?

Whatever demon possessed Ollie is less terrifying than the self-help possessing Laura. Self-mutilation, cannibalism, assaulting his sister, manhandling his mother’s cat… how many others has Laura helped? She’s a wannabe Frankenstein whose monster she didn’t create or assemble, but appropriated. How do we know Laura’s emoting isn’t part of the ritual to become human? She “believes” in her system, but merely presents as being against its downside. In doing so, she presides outside the circle, over and above us all as perpetrator and transgressor. In other words, she’s an institutionalist before all else, in service only to herself.

Because Laura is evenly convincing in her gaslighting, it’s impossible to tell if she actually grieves over her child’s death and not her own loss of empowerment. How do we know that when Piper screams mom at her, she doesn’t also see that as some sign? An echo before the fall? Some excuse for giving up the ritual? That she’ll have to try again with someone else? Will she have the time or inclination to get to know her then? Does she let go after nearly killing her current daughter? Or merely retreat?

How will Piper get through her trauma? Blind, without love or family and not yet legally old enough to live on her own… what do the Pipers of the world have to look forward to upon returning from something so harrowing if it’s not another infantilizing institution? What kind of future could she hope to lead?

This? Is this attractive? Appealing? It’s certainly without taste. This is what empathy looks like in a budding reactionary; a mirroring that merely mocks, forsaking what could be gleaned from playful imitation. It’s a face that screams alcoholic extracurricular busybody who peaks before the end of high school. Perhaps overdosing on prescription or designer drugs before she has a chance to dropout and become borne again. You know, the antisocial Social Darwinist type who’d probably end up as a geriatric nurse of some kind once her parents stop bailing her out. Or maybe she’s just some Social Justice theater kid. An actor pretending without imagination. Perhaps someone whom Laura helped at some point.

However, if you listen closely to this introductory scene, past the rumors, hearsay, pecking and squabbling, you can picture Laura’s foreshadowing. One of the girls – it doesn’t matter which, it’s herd-speak claptrap – lets slip that who she’s talking about is trying to be you, yes you, even if she’s, like, a millennial…. Now, brace yourself, I’m going to use this to attempt to understand Laura. It’s going to get ugly. Empathy demands it of me. Remember, I’m just a messenger, your guide.

What explains Laura’s arrested development? Social media? Instant gratification? Likes? Could it be the mass oversocialization of overachievers? Propaganda and censorship? Or something that reflects personal agency, like the echoes of free will captured in a physical medium she can loop endlessly? How would that explain her hatred of men? Did a man box her out of the child development career she wanted? Surely her need to spread trauma stems from her own in equal measure, right? An eye for an eye? It couldn’t be just for attention could it? That would be irredeemable. Deplorable. No, it’d have to be something beyond my experience, something I’d need to intuit.

Is Cathy a metaphor for Laura’s innocence or just youth? Is this her own missing person’s poster? Would I be giving her too much credit here? Cutting her too much slack? Reading too much into things that aren’t apparent? Spoiling her image? The grief from losing a loved one can be the most painful, traumatizing, maddening experience one could go through. The pain can be so overwhelming as to eclipse reason. But it is also humanizing. Something that should be respected and observed for at least some time, but not forever. What I’m trying to discern is, where does the man hate fit in? Without that, I might be able to connect to such a tortured soul. As the object of potentially misdirected hate, I must be duly objectionable — skeptical and aloof.

Let’s start with the worst possible thing that can happen to a woman in our contemporary culture. Was anything resembling rape shown? Not to Laura nor Cathy. In fact, nothing sexual happened at all. Unless you count Laura and Andy kissing his foster father’s corpse at his open casket funeral. Something Laura wanted for Andy, a keepsake of his last moments with his abuser. What is Laura’s connection with this father anyway? Did they swim in the same circles? Provide each others’ networks with the youth they craved? She didn’t stalk the blind before she “formally” met Piper, did she? How did the father die again? He drowned in his own vomit, right? But I digress….

What makes rape traumatic? The occlusion of the self by something darker; a perversion and altering of a future; betrayal, alienation, exposure and paranoia; social fallout and potential burnout from sex, love or even connection; possible irreparable damage to the body and unwanted pregnancy. What makes rape tragic? Particularity here and now? That rape has been put on a pedestal, elevated above any other violations of merit. Privileged. Rape is a crutch to its perpetrator and insinuator; a bludgeon to its victim and defendant. Rape is only one facet of possible trauma, what we’re scolded into believing trumps other forms of abuse. Pushed up against its smeared-red glass ceiling to view the abyss only one way – shallow. Making us monsters in its rose-tinted light.

What makes trauma tragic? The loss of agency replaced by unshakable memories – a parochial leash in time nailed to an internal wound that never quite heals taut with imposed tension to a hidden growth that never quite recovers. Trauma occurs when one isn’t ready for it, wasting time constantly catching up makes it regrettable. What makes criticizing or voicing rape taboo? Civil society. Make of that what you will, Freud did. What makes trauma so touchy, so touching, is that to prove its point it targets innocence.

If Cathy was just another stand-in for Laura’s youth and the trauma that keeps it circling the drain was caused by rape, that’s awful. Tragic. For the sake of my stake, let’s say this was the case. Does it justify how she treated her son and captive? Is it ever okay to inflict trauma on the innocent intentionally? If the worst thing that could happen to someone isn’t justification enough for her hatred of those she victimizes, what is? If she wasn’t actually sexually assaulted, wouldn’t her crying wolf hurt those who have been? Does empathy halt at the salted boundary that is transgression? What would any remaining connection be called? Has it started resonating with you what empathy has become?

The magic circle is proof Laura knows what boundaries are. She just doesn’t respect them. They’re not her boundaries, but inflection points. Changing course after hearing mom is the confirmation. Would her hearing uncle! yield similar results? Let’s say Laura does bring Cathy back, would she ever be more than a child through the trauma of being born again? It’s the pursuit of her innocence, her absence of guilt, that drives Laura’s actions. She prefers eternal virgins and immaculate conceptions. She likes them young – blind or dumb. How do we know that when Cathy died, the blood loss wasn’t caused by one of Laura’s blunt traumas? Could Laura have simply reacted badly when her youth tried distancing from her in an attempt to grow? Maybe Cathy just talked back to her but she wasn’t ready nor willing to listen? Accepting what is communicated is a mark of maturity. Goethe called it an acquired art. Like painting a whole bowl of grapefruit without broad strokes.

If speech from the opposite sex is resoundingly heard as hate, love increasingly felt as assault and sex progressively seen as rape… does Laura merely suffer from generalized oppression? Sexism, that is — any hysteria would be downstream. If this interpretation is accurate, if this is how all women feel and not just Laura, then maybe we shouldn’t continue as a species. And I don’t mean Transhumanism. Those who believe advanced technology and its rituals will be the great leveler between the sexes are dangerously delusional or resentfully suicidal. What goes around, comes around is never more vicious than just before posterity ends. Ideologies that spawn or spin these lines of reasoning should be abandoned and forgotten once and for all. And yet, is there something counterintuitively deeper here? Something that keeps one wanting more when one has had enough?

It’s hard not to see the obvious dis-ease in Laura, her pool is piddling. Turbulent. Without warmth. Her trauma doesn’t stem from brutal violation or sudden loss, but growing old. Irrelevant. With no one to entertain her like they used to. With no one who’d want to call her, family or no. She spent too much time networking and now she’s hollow — perhaps rather, still hollow — eternally objectified inside an outdated body. An education that leads on to this point isn’t worth adhering to, let alone evangelizing. It certainly isn’t worth clinging to with one’s grimaced teeth.

How is preaching about, say, open communication, mutual respect, moral agency, personal responsibility and social justice worth listening to? These sayings seem like what someone merely seeming to be human would utter. Why would someone who believes in Progress talk in circles so? At one point such behaviors were considered within range of kindergarten skills. How is it that “higher” education, corporations, clinics and other religious real estate so readily absorbs this schlock? Have their target audiences not learned these lessons yet? Would they have learned quicker without professional intermediaries? How much damage has this social experimenter done to boys, girls, relations and love, just to prove what so many of us know intuitively?

Not being honest with oneself attracts persecution; speaking out of both sides of one’s mouth engenders paranoia. Laura is incapable of good faith engagement because she’s never believed a word she’s said. Her words are not her own, used only as lip service to her image, sinking ship lifestyle and immortal agenda. She quests for fruitless knowledge, clinging to what can be known as laid out by the system she embodies and despises. She uses her skin-deep identity to shrink-wrap her overvalued ephemeral status at the expense of the herd she’s utterly dependent on. She’s not a psychopath, but a sociopath — a worn-thin petty differentiation of indifferent identities. There is only this mask; Laura is nothing more.

Laura gives Ellis’ Patrick Bateman a run for his unearned and poorly spent money. Does fitting into a tragic backstory make her more relatable than Bateman? Is it worse because her preferred prey are children or better because it’s not sexual? If you believe Laura’s story, why not believe Bateman just needs to return some video tapes? Where would Laura return hers? What is a career but another identity to hide behind? These are the preoccupations connoisseurs of generic antipodes get away with. Bateman didn’t just hate the opposite sex, but everyone outside his empty interior. Both treat trauma as derivative of their own unfulfilling, unpunished ambitions.

As a playful thought experiment, let’s say Laura isn’t a witch — some commercial pagan or New Atheist — but was, say, a Zionist; willingly, unwittingly or without choice. That is, an exceptional nobody in the most noxious and obnoxious rules for thee, but not for me sense. An elite only among her shrinking peers. Would she behave differently? Would she be any less manipulative? Any less spiritual? Any less legitimate in whatever authority she thinks she wields? Culture is more than collections of deadwood, right?

Maybe there are worse things in life than rape. Like a night with Bateman or a session with Laura. Like losing one’s religion, culture, country or family. Like losing a partner. Like losing one’s self to those without. Like growing up without a future or proper sense of history or agency. Like being systematically ignored and habitually sacrificed. Our cultural economy is outsourced alchemy – turning slop into gilded crap, bypassing individuals, connection and the golden rule. Disintegration of community is a primary source of personal violation. Maybe reducing abuse to an antithesis makes me feel… like my intelligence is of no consequence.

If Bateman’s environment entitled him to what he was sold into wanting, is Laura’s any different? Has the cutthroat fast-paced merger-prone bailout-dependent hyper-competitive mediocracy of Wall Street breached even child care and social services? And what of the low stake brutality of academic politics? How does a social worker afford a plot and pool like that anyway? Living carefree on her own away from pesky neighbors somewhere remote with property lines clearly marked… that’s something more like what a social commentator or bribed influencer could afford. How could not thinking for oneself be called individualism without inversion and coercion? No muffled diesel generator can hide one from the prying eyes of the network one can’t live without. Whatever else rugged individualism might be, and might rightfully be, it’s sterilizing. Especially when espoused by those so pampered.

What Laura wanted for Piper was worse than mere sexual abuse. She wanted her subsumed. Unbirthed. “Unalived.” She wanted her load-bearing with self-terminating ideas and hatred for brothers, fathers, fatherlands, lovers and possible sons for all time; infected with pettiness and brought low by ill-conceived ideals that refuse to mature. She wanted to waste her potential, steal her future and lead her astray. What could be more torturous than unilateral possession? Witnessing loved ones suffer. What’s more, noticing too late just how much agony they were in.

As brutal as it is to see what Laura does to Andy and infer all she has done to Ollie, I can only imagine Laura’s savagery toward Piper’s more exacting timepiece; she ravages young women out of their futures by convincing them it’s never the “right time”, that there’s no time, no space for anyone else. One must consider her always and remain busy. Useful. Away from the watering hole, out of any dating pool, productive and not unhappy. Neutered. Laura preaches therapeutics but practices hedonism.

What do I mean? Well, look closely. Watch carefully. Observe her obsessive gesturing; her performative vulnerability; her accusatory finger paintings; her circling of the narrative. What is she doing here? She’s wasting time. Why? Tenure is at stake – the prerequisite and point of pursuing immortality. Which way does Laura signal? Left or Right? Up or down? Clockwise or counter? As technique or ritual? Bah, more time spent needlessly. It would depend on which inner circle she’s currently angling for anyhow. She just needs you to know she’s suffering. She’s indifferent to others to remain as she is — insecure. Victim, not criminal. Again, Laura knows what boundaries are. She’s in control of her possessions.

She sacrificed Andy in service to The Ox, what she couldn’t do of Piper for womanhood. Her inability to handle or integrate her masculine shadow has traumatized her charges into dependency; she’s just as much a prisoner as Ollie. As above, so below is Jung’s most fundamental dialectic. However, to be free isn’t a balancing act, it’s to realize that when this tightrope somnambulism is directed, one winds oneself up to a stake to be burned for the witchcraft it is.

To be free is to abandon the dialectic in pursuit of the free spirit, a releasing of birds. One could learn the language of Jung and his antipodes, like anima/animus, but one would be better off not projecting such poles and stakes. Jung was to Nietzsche what Paul was to Jesus. What Jung did with personality and archetypes is what Descartes did with his first principle and coordinates. Both built systems to map what’s not apparent as offerings to what they considered intuition. Both believed in another world; a world at odds with this one, a world rendering ours its shadow. Both lost their points squaring circles.

Empathy is an inherent lie – story-telling, myth-making, make-believe. More accurately, it’s a word, whatever one wants it to be. The collective unconscious is a euphemism for propaganda, in Ellul’s conception of the term. Dialectics digested as the fruit of opposites over opposing forces is frustratingly misleading; as if designed to front dialogue, prematurely circumscribing conversation with predestined prejudice. Integration is impossible as long as one moves along mutual exclusivity. Such dialectic is the spinning in place of one’s wheels preventing meaningful revolution; sputtering burnout and dampening spirits. The ideal doesn’t have to be out of reach if it’s within what’s apparent. Ellul didn’t consider images dialectical – images are juxtaposed, words are met.

The image suffocates. Drowns. More so the more entrenched its lack of depth. What context makes for such vulnerable living conditions? Is hate not something that can be cured through education, positivity, therapy or meds? Can it not be talked out? Rebuked? Why would anyone who makes a living preaching empathy not want to pervert its practice? Stop its fruition and make it helpless? Dependent? In the mouths of the shameless, empathy is – unsympathetic. Why, for instance, should those who stymie and disintegrate future generations for immediate pleasure be engaged without contempt? Or at all? What would lead me to say such things?

Honesty and its reaction is the distance that allows space to breathe, echoes to clear and meaning to become in-sync with reflection. Thought needs time to incubate into conceptions. Assuming positive intent, Ollie’s possession is how a man might imagine women feel about rape and ownership. That is, through a woman’s perspective, not how a man might feel toward another man. This is a man’s best attempt to understand it.

Words are not violence. Words stripped of meaning, spurned senselessly and reduced to a humiliating scarlet letter is excommunication of the most virulent variety. Laura’s “O” represents omission — of breath; of speech; of sex; of love; of purpose; of reason; of justification; of character; of individuality. A label not confined to small town finery but a global battlefield’s permanent record. Weaponizing and hiding behind identity, she deconstructs and isolates individuals to more easily punish them collectively. Not for any deed, just for being who they are. Flogging even — perhaps, especially — children for the sins of their fathers, presumably for past injustices she wasn’t involved in either. Laura is no Hester Prynne. The puritans of Hawthorne’s novel appear merciful in comparison.

Mass/Social Media has enabled deliberate miscarriages of understanding not just possible, but easier than ever. The norm, even. I shouldn’t have to ask this, but why can’t men be interested in women precisely because they aren’t men? Can biological differences not be a primary source of attraction? Can a man not appreciate that women remain a mystery to him? Would it be wrong if that man hoped women feel the same about him, at least? Why punish curiosity and connection so wantonly if not just trying to win some virtual debate? That is, a furiously masturbatory self-hating genital measuring pageant?

Piper has a choice. She could choose to see Laura as possessed by grief instead of as a witch, sadist, fanatical toady, status-humping power-sucking occultist or worse, a feminist. It wouldn’t excuse what she did, merely render her understandable. Bad faith makes the imagination that fuels empathy boundless. For Ellul and other playful thinkers, faith wasn’t passive spectacle, but active, engaging speculation. Trauma lies under the surface; multifaceted and self-critical. She can choose to do what her juvenile adoptive mother couldn’t – let go. Embrace the empathy that comes with a tragic world-view instead of equating dramas, and let sympathy buoy her to new heights. After a gracious grieving period, of course.

Piper listens. Perhaps necessarily, perhaps that’s a distinction without a difference. She has spunk, a sense of humor, personality. Qualities not many people seem to possess nowadays. Throwing her brother under the school bus not to fit in, but to bust balls. Like someone with a connection would. It’s normal for an adolescent to chafe under pressure of those watching out for her. Maturity isn’t the sloughing off of this yolk or enraged overthrowing of responsibility, but accepting those who mean what they say. Andy wasn’t possessive of anything but his own character. He treated others, at least his sister, as he wanted to be treated — with care. Andy was the nag. The seer. The protector. The parent. He had to be. His guardians were less mature than him. Laura could have learned from Andy.

Andy’s confession to Piper was honest. Untimely, but he owned up to it. He let her know why he protected her innocence as he did. Andy will live on as her positive example of what it is to be human, all too human. She knows what love is because she was loved. This is empathy. Upon hearing his truth (exactly what she needed to hear) Piper could love him, too. Not his mask, his shadow, his echo, but his becoming free. Who he presented to her. This is sympathy – what empathy develops into when allowed to grow unmolested.

If Piper can realize this, why couldn’t professionals, professors, preachers and priests? It’s not too late to bring women like Piper back from the brink of the all-devouring Lauras of the world. Piper can turn away, silence the hateful influences around her, be an example instead of a victim. She could choose to use her suffering to create, instead of consuming.

Piper’s smile was worth the trouble of the film. Redeeming. I haven’t seen a smile so beautiful in quite some time. Perhaps not knowing what it looks like, not having had posed and practiced in mere surface reflections, lends to its genuineness and possible recovery.

A smile not just beautiful, transcendent; spontaneous warmth delivered from a chilling environment – even when she’s not “photogenic”, whatever that means. Personally, I couldn’t imagine a greater deprivation than not being able to read faces… then again, I can’t square this without proper framing. That is, becoming heard.

Identity politics is the trauma drama that won’t go easily. It will likely worsen as we become more indistinguishable from slop. It’s not too late to change. Why let it split connection any further? Why not abandon and forget the propaganda enabling this behavior? Why not avoid those who endlessly refute sliver linings? Why not remember the possessed for who they were and could otherwise become? So we can make sense of and resonate with the other again; appreciate each other with responsible sensitivity and sound judgment again.

Bailey took the delivery inside and opened the minimalist packaging: black box, single off-center blue circle on the cover, small disclaimer sticker on the back. She had ordered it online the night before from the country’s sole phone distributor. She’d gone through so many phones now she’d lost count. The last one didn’t survive being flown into a wall.

This phone was light years ahead of its competition, all the reviews she liked said the same thing. So much so that the definition of “competition” had been rewritten to mean something resembling “generation”. It came equipped with enough tech spec whatnots to fuel the new critically acclaimed lifestyle assistant AI, ME-B. Its roll-out ushered in revolutionary innovation, unmatched efficiency gains and quality of life improvements in every aspect of the real world, but was promoted most vociferously as a dating guru. A “Gatekeeper to Bliss” one rogue review called it.

ME-B integration gave the love-struck expert handheld guidance guaranteed to make a big splash in the dating pool. Simultaneously consolidating all online dating services to play nice with ME-B promised early birds priority selection in the world’s largest, safest, most sophisticated watering hole. Because mingling was now out of the hands of human error, ME-B was the most moral matchmaker ever constructed. This promised land of milk and honey was hardly code for amazing sex, if not full blown love. The look-alike talk show hosts all hyped as much.

The old way of dating had been inefficient, frustrating, isolating and maddening; sales and attention were at all time lows, while mental illness and loneliness grew leaps and bounds. Public relations had intensified their prophetic doomscrolling alienation as their trains of thought got in line. Adherents to a rules-based global community were instructed, suggested, or otherwise compelled to maintain pristine virtues and unsullied thoughts. However, ME-B’s development required more time than expected. For too long failure to secure a future had been blamed on the end user. The stalled starvation created too many leaks in the otherwise continuous messaging. The premature attempt to ban rival applications exposed too many sheep to other flocks.

This phone fixed all that. Gone were the days of obsessively manning remote personas. Gone were the days of mounting insecurity the more one swiped away. Gone were the days of photo-bombing the happiness of others. The ME-B controlled dating feature did all the profile setup/maintenance automatically. It used all the data from one’s online permanent record to fasten together a real self. A radical new concept called “Spontaneity” bombarded air waves, live streams and restroom stalls all across advanced society. As long as Bailey kept an online presence – phone on and on her person at all times – ME-B did all the heavy lifting of managing, coordinating, facilitating, advising, consoling and synchronizing her dating life. In real time. To trust ME-B was to trust oneself. So much power at such an affordable price, too!

Plus, not fiddling with one’s online self “promotes mental wellness and fosters honesty.” She didn’t get the honesty bit. Apparently, honesty was evaluated based on averages; having vulnerable or embarrassing artifacts of oneself online actually increased the chance of attracting someone more compatible.

Bailey finished her cold coffee. She felt good about herself. She had spent the morning setting up her phone, and ME-B finally initialized. King was howling and scratching at the front door. She lifted the hems of her pajamas and slid her slippers on. Yes, today was going to be a good day. A better day. That new phone freshness promised a bright future. ME-B was already empowering her to feel safe, enabling security she could snuggle with and structure she could adhere to. She checked herself in the bathroom mirror before letting her pug out for relief.

“Look out King!” a man walking a large container down his apartment steps prodded his boot at the dog’s butt, “Scoot King!” “Oh, hi Jack!” Bailey looked up from her phone. “That looks heavy,” she said, propping the door back open. “Thanks, damn thing keeps closing on me,” Jack smiled as he set his stuff down just outside.

“I was hoping to catch you before I took off,” Jack wiped the sweat from his brow using his fisherman’s cap, “I’ve got two hours before the walk-out inspection and just one other tote to pack. Would you like to go for a walk with me?” Jack had asked both her and her boyfriend, Richard, to join him before, even invited them up for dinner a few times. He figured one last attempt couldn’t hurt.

“That’s okay, we’re getting ready to go out,” Bailey countered without batting an eye. She was more evasive than usual. He rarely saw her outside her military fatigues. He liked how she looked him in the eyes whenever they spoke. Because she barely looked his way today, he knew her mind was preoccupied.

“Hey, it’s none of my business, but is everything alright between you and Rich?” The last time he had seen Rich was maybe two months ago. It didn’t occur to Jack that Rich had moved out until after he bumped into Bailey yesterday leaving with a man he didn’t recognize. “I didn’t put two and two together fast enough when I teased you yesterday. How’d the date go?” Jack pet King as he rolled on the stoop. She dove behind the less painful path, “Rich and I broke up two months ago.” She was hesitant, on the verge of walking back inside.

Jack was nimble, quick, but had priorities at the moment. “We moved into these apartments around the same time, I’m guessing you’ll move out soon too, huh?” “End of the month,” Bailey sighed. “Have you found a place yet?” Jack kept her eyes on his. “Not yet,” Bailey halfheartedly laughed. Jack was well aware that this complex demanded a two month move-out notice. “I want to branch out, you know? Probably move back to Helena. Maybe get the schooling for my license,” she said through forced optimism. “The only affordable place I could find that would accept me is a two bedroom not far from here,” Jack wore his charm raw, his exhaustion was palpable past his smile, “I could use a roommate. I’ll respect you if you respect me.”

With practiced reflexes she readied her phone and asked for his contact info. Instead of her usual feigned interest, this time she checked ME-B. She used both thumbs to spin her guide for help, when it only took one. Maybe two was more convincing, but she needed both hands to keep herself steady. “I’m not good with the phone. I’d get rid of it if I didn’t need it for work,” he said and then dejectedly told her his phone number, “I usually just keep it powered off in another room.”

ME-B had simplified symbols in case a prospect wasn’t appropriate, for the woman who needed a quick-fix glance; the surfaced symbol was a solid cautionary yellow. “I’ll have to think about it. I’ll call you.”

She had met two other men through the old dating apps and texted maybe a dozen others. This was the first man who came at her with honesty. “Would you like to talk for a bit?” Jack’s hopes had narrowed to getting just a conversation with her. Bailey sat on the stoop steps, then so did Jack. “Talk to me Bailey,” Jack proffered, rubbing King’s belly.

She wanted him to approach from proper channels, give her the time and space to maneuver her options. She wanted the instant gratification that came with rejecting anyone without them getting so much as a chance to talk to her hand. She wanted him obedient to the current culture’s courting rituals which consisted of him tracking her down online, stalking her habits, deciphering her put-ons and conforming to her exacting one-way telepathy without complaint. She wanted him to be a creep – inch by inch on his knees toward her or as a label to cover her insecurity.

At least, that’s what she was conditioned to want. Her only exception would be someone capable of completely sweeping her off her feet. However, she didn’t know Jack’s social media stats, let alone last name. None of the pictures she tried to sneak of him fed online search results.

She stared ahead a while and said, “We both realized it wasn’t working. I mean, we’ve broken up before.” She glanced at Jack, “It was amicable.” “I had no idea you two had difficulties.” He hadn’t sensed anything wrong between them. They hid it well. There was no yelling, no slammed doors, no storming out like he was used to, nor open-air sniping or hanging of laundry. No trigger-happy threats to kill oneself to be let back in.

Only one crack had shown. He had bumped into Rich, alone, coming back from his brother’s wedding a few months ago. Jack was stepping out for a cigarette. Rich didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. It was on his face and brisk pace. All he said after his standard nicety and announcing where he’d been was, “I don’t drink. I had a good time without it.” To which the increasingly aware and taken aback Jack replied, “Alright, well, it’s about enjoying each other’s company, right?” before finishing past each other with a wave.

“I just want…” she moved one hand from the head she cradled and let it hang palm up in front of her, as if waiting for an answer to touch down, “I just want to branch out, you know?” Two months was the longest stretch she’d been on her own. She liked serving her country but could always reach for Rich. Jack had been branching out for two years; he couldn’t help but soar toward the heart of any issue. “So why did you break it off?” he asked, studying her face. “He didn’t like going out much. He’s such a hermit.” Bailey removed her other hand, folded them on her knees and looked up. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. “And straitlaced?” Jack jest lightly and looked up too. “You have no idea. He used to like to go out. A lot.”

Bailey suddenly looked at Jack, “Did you know he has two kids?” She raised her eyebrows, darting her head forward slightly, “From two different women?” Jack wanted to ask if Bailey wanted kids, but that question hadn’t been answered without hostility for quite some time now. “I thought those were his brother’s kids,” he offered a sympathetic head bob, “He visited quite a bit, huh?” Bailey stretched the knees under her grip and veered off course, “I had to talk with his exes all the time.”

Jack let the conversation hang for a bit, then said “Yeah, it can be stressful handling relationships.” He slowed again, desperate for someone to talk to. “Those two with me the other day were my folks. I haven’t seen them in years.” His parents had left him with the knowledge that his little brother had assaulted them in a mental haze. He had given them the best advice he could and told them if his brother continued to not get help he should be compelled to or thrown out on his own. She thumbed ME-B and spoke its script, “Sounds like you need someone to talk to.” Jack looked down, then back up. He had been fed that line too many times now, unwarranted.

He had let himself detour, but got back on track. “How are you doing right now?” She looked away and then back his direction, “It was amicable.” “If it was amicable,” he hesitated, searching for the words he felt instead of the words she wanted to hear, “I think that’s worse, isn’t it?” She didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch either.

“Do you know what codependency is, Bailey?” Jack was feeling her out, old school. “That’s what I want!” she insisted softly, “I want a partnership. A union. Someone to share my life with.” Bailey rejoined his eye contact.

From what she knew of him, he was a few inches over six foot; she was a few under. He was sweating, sleeves rolled up. Broad-shouldered, natural farmer’s tan. Barely toned body with a bit of a gut. Decent beard. Handsome, with his hat sopping like that. Four years older than herself, tops. He had a nice car and could obviously live independently by the way he carried himself. On paper and dressed nicely, he’d be two, maybe three months from perfect.

“Where did you say you were from again?” she put her elbow on her knee and cupped her sideways head with open palm until it slid to her ponytail. “A tiny little town maybe a thousand miles from here.” Jack tilted his head too, as if to let her know it was okay to ask, “Ruskin.” He stalled. She hovered. King couldn’t be happier under Jack’s motions.

Everything about him screamed grounded burnout but he was far from that. He was a hopeless romantic who couldn’t help but listen to his heart read aloud people’s emotions. He couldn’t live with himself without giving this echo a voice, couldn’t live with another without her sharing his momentum. He had become convinced by experience that substantive relationships began with chance and developed with chemistry. If he wasn’t so forward, so honest, he might have been more delicate, more tactful… but then, how would he surface those qualities in another?

“I know you’ve been with the National Guard coming up on nine years now and toured in Afghanistan. I know you’re close to your mother. I know you grew up in the Crow tribe,” he jet past her — honesty tends to speak over one’s head, “I know you’re interested in aviation. I know you haven’t quit vaping yet. I know you like black licorice. I know…” Jack kept going. She was visibly alarmed. He read her mind, it was right there on her face, “I know this because you told me, remember?”

This sexual paranoia, or whatever insecurity or immaturity this really was, was getting to be too much. Jack had had to ease his approach with too many women now. He began to doubt that this pupfight could be playful, began gauging when this pursuit would tailspin. He wondered why he tried so often when living alone had grown on him; wondered why he was drawn to particular challenges. He had family on both sides who served their country going back at least two generations. Probably more, but he had good reason to distrust his family history. He was from the family contingent conscripted to fix the damage their failed wars had caused.

“I know you sometimes break wind when you laugh,” he goosed her without moving a muscle. For the thrill of it. Her laugh was short lived, not at all riveting, “No I don’t.” Jack hung back, thinking, but only for a moment. He smiled impishly, “Do you know what a Dutch Oven is, Bailey?” She stoically nodded her head.

A slight breeze drift between them on into the multiplex, cooling Jack’s sweat stains. It really was a beautiful day. “Sometimes I think all we do is for another person,” Bailey said quietly, after some silence. She was absentmindedly twirling her ponytail with one finger. Jack perked up, a sudden draft lifting him, “You don’t need external validation.” He hoped she’d see his wisdom reflected, but immediately regretted not expressing his admiration for her, at least her aim; regretted not telling her how attractive he found her. The wind settled and silence returned. “God is watching over us,” Bailey said, throwing him for a loop.

Jack abruptly took the dialogue for a turn, “Are you religious, Bailey?” She ran her fingers through Stygian waters then draped the flow over one shoulder, “More like spiritual.” He waited before commenting. King nipped at her yin-yang adorned slippers, the black and white infecting each other without any shades of gray. “Weird, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Thinking, God’s not up there or out there,” Jack points to the sky, the horizon, and his head, “or even up here.” Then to his chest, “But in here.” Bailey nodded her head, astute. “Call it instinct, the unconscious, subconscious. Maybe spirit, force or will,” Jack concluded. King was panting hard through his wrinkly mug. “Intuition,” Bailey added. “There you go,” he extended his hand toward her for emphasis. He enjoyed the notion as he took it in, content, “God is ultimately unknowable. Ain’t that something?”

“Have you heard of the song ‘River of Deceit’? Layne Staley of Alice in Chains and his Mad Season?” Bailey shook her head. Jack sang just a quip and not terribly, “My pain, is self-chosen. At least, so the prophet says,” for the briefest moment, Bailey ceased being his sole audience so he could deliver her this message, “I could either burn or cut off my pride and buy some time. A head full of lies is the weight tied to my waist.” Jack braced for her reaction. Any reaction. Then said “It’s a beautiful song. From a beautiful soul.” Bailey looked up from her phone, “I’ll have to check them out.”

An uncomfortable few seconds crawled by after his performance. The void was breached by a helicopter both had spotted before she heard its approach. “Is that a Lakota?” Jack struggled, “No, what are the tandem-” “Chinook,” Bailey said plainly, recording it with her phone, “probably en route to the hospital.” Silence trailed after its passing. He observed her manipulating what she captured.

“I believe these phones steal souls,” he told the Native American, “I’ve never been on social media-” Bailey tensed. Her coaching taught her to see that as a red flag. She couldn’t help but feel that he was contaminating her somehow. ME-B’s blinking red circle with slanted slash confirmed her fear. Jack realized his without knowing the details – Spontaneity black-and-blue balls mavericks.

Bailey flipped her ejection seat release. She stood, turned and stepped into the building. “Thank you for the talk,” she whispered before descending the steps to her place. King followed suit. She wished the landing lights had been repaired.

She was incurious, a trait he couldn’t play out like he could conformity or promiscuity. Had she not been down – he could see it through her forced expressions, hear it in what she chose to admit, omit and remit – he would have pressed her harder, would have been more playfully forgiving. He just wished she would acknowledge his pain, too, as he continued to expose his underbelly.

“Listen, Bailey?” Jack cast a shadow over her through the doorway, “I’ve treated you with the respect I have sought from you. If I wanted to ask you out, I’d ask. It’s unfair of you to expect me to engage in your addiction,” he points at the phone she clutched to her chest. “I refuse to engage you anymore until you engage me. I’m doing what most guys wouldn’t dare. I’m leveling with you.”

“I do not have a drinking problem!” Bailey had spun to fully face him from her landing, “I’m a free and empowered woman! How dare you make me feel bad about who I am and who I like!” Bailey whisper-yelled at Jack.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and shook his lowered head. It’s not something he wanted to do at that moment, but he was worn out and honest. There was no way she could see his exhausted disappointment over the condemnation she intuited from him; the sun was now in her eyes.

“Don’t you shake your head at me!” she refused to let her whisper grow, even though the two of them were the only tenants left in the building. King put his paw on her calf. “What’s my number, Bailey?”

A kind of hypersonic penetration shattered her domed worldview. He winced from the truth positively radiating from her face before the stopper propping open the fireproof iron door gave way.

2

…The die has many sides, faces. A polyhedron without its edge, its definition. A blob pressured into a polished sphere. Not tangible. Virtual. A floating point signifier. A well-rounded abstraction, pure and simple. Perfection. The panoptic vampire squid feeds on and breeds in petty differences, smearing any independence that surfaces and dragging back those who might flee its monoculture. It is the crying wolf in scapegoat’s clothing dyed in a multi-armed flagellant’s camouflage. Its omnipotent omniscience – myopically cyclopean. It wades just below the surface, calculating its propagation, perpetually circling the shallow. Its latest trick is to blow bubbles that implode into single celled liminal selves…

Bailey was nervous. Frustrated. She hadn’t scored in almost a year. Since being taken under ME-B’s wing, she had encountered only bottom of the barrel feeders. All red X-ers. Her first physical date in months was fast approaching. She got a head start on her prep rituals, staring herself down in her mother’s mirror. The television had been left on in the other room, so she raised the volume of her phone. She streamed non-stop borderline beauty blips, dating demos, influencer infomercials, gaslit grifting, celebrity clout chasing, mindless meditations, one-sided non-confrontational debates, late night show televangelists, schizo-positive ramblings, compelled joyinars, historical revisions and dignified porn. All with commercials in between. She experienced these programs to keep her defensiveness sharp, in case she had to fight resistance to her pleasures.

“We don’t need men, do we ladies!” her phone cheered. The Vantage was playing now, an all-inclusive prime-time on-demand mainstream news broadcast dedicated to “fair” and BALANCED spats of real opinions spoken by real women. “We’re not going back!” one of the many hosts chirped again. “We’re not going back, are we Professor?” she pitched underhanded to their frequent guest, a spokeswoman for Gaggle, the world’s most lucrative non-physical non-governmental non-profit non-business. The porn marketing exec turned dating app anti-disinformation coach turned ME-B University Chairwoman turned entrepreneurial national public radio CEO spun her tethers with the sharp-dressed exactness of a professional bounty hunter and spoke with a fluctuating British accent, “We most certainly will not!”

…I told you. Can’t trust ‘em. The first black X, the first woman Y, the first Z to be so young. They fetishize firsts. Was the first black president too busy spying on his successor to finally deliver on his day one promise to codify abortion rights nationally? His party had enough control to do so, but wanted to keep the girls dancing for another election. What is a lady, anyway? Whatever it is, these women are sex-crazed baby-killing faggots, each and every one. Dead egg dead weight. Oversensitive sheltered cry bullies capable of nothing but virtue-signaling zealotry. I refuse to let these women come out on top. I know exactly what they’re up to. With 51% of the population, how are they a minority? This is tyranny. That’s why my wife homeschools my children. These nobodies ignore their local community to protect groups they’re not members of. I’m a proud Catholic. I believe in right and wrong, good and evil. Antisemitism is the only hate I recognize and I see it everywhere now. Homosexuals making love makes me sick, I don’t think they should even be allowed to adopt. Don’t get me started on those trannies. Marriage is a sacred institution between a man, a woman and their priest. All children should be kept away from these freaks. What The West needs is structure, religion and proper respect for authority. This woke mind virus is finally dead. If they don’t like it, they can find somewhere else to live. If they were in control of themselves, truly sovereign, they’d be able to stand on their own. No handouts. Cut their funding. Make them earn an honest living like I have. And no complaints! Only stoics should have such privileged opinions. Unlike these performative rebellious whores, I’m actually anti-establishment. I’m an actual good person. Let’s bring back real witch hunts and righteous crusades. Everyone should live as I do. I don’t care what anyone else thinks…

The phone faded in and out as Bailey focused more on her face. She thought about what she’d do if she couldn’t secure a man; about how she’d hide the dark circles under her eyes; about if what she saw were really crow’s feet.

“What about the rumors that ME-B hasn’t performed as advertised?” one venturesome host asked. “Well, as with any advance, there’s bound to be some misunderstandings. We fired all the sexual harassers-” The phone blared and vibrated in celebration. “Undesirably, this wasn’t enough to fix the problem. The new ‘Big Beautiful Rebrand’ is the first of its kind. It really is a good thing.” The phone went quiet, the TV murmured. “With this update, ME-B will be truly capable. With this update, ME-B will be truly independent. With this update, ME-B will be able to patch itself!” The phone roared again with what sounded like confetti cannons firing and uplifting new age techno-choir music playing. “The merger of Gaggle, OpenBook and AlwaysSoft will properly incentivize competition.”

…I’m a Jew, long line, both sides. Not a Zionist. I mean, come on. There is nothing exceptional about these extremists beyond the law they’ve purchased for themselves. They are the empty vessels, script readers, automatons, bureaucrats and brutes the priest class implement. They are aggressively delusional and arrogantly debased. They are without merit, without legitimacy. Somehow both overbearing and pathetic. This is an atrocity. They have brought the evil eye upon themselves and on us. This is a setup in plain sight. If I wanted others to hate our people, our culture, I couldn’t hope to compete with these zealots and their evangelist doubles. Who we are has been muddied by the lowest bad faith associations with these fanatics. This is an ideology. Heresy. We must shame those who’d use our people for devious ends. This is a moral imperative and its panic. I’m also American. Look at how much damage our culture has sustained to protect the nonreciprocal privileged few. They have a better standard of living and average lifespan than our citizens. They own most of our politician’s attention, if not loyalty. We are being made their slaves. Sanctioning or imprisoning American citizens into serving a foreign agency is tyranny. No one serving in a high-ranking government position should be a dual-citizen. What happened to America First? Our sovereignty is being sacrificed to a petulant dependent. Stand up to them, see how petty they are. Force them to be a good neighbor. Stop the tantrum, the golem’s rage. Stop taking shit and start giving it. Don’t sign what you don’t understand. Appreciate those around you. Just opt out. Keep your head. Provide for your family. Help when you can. No need to be a martyr…

Bailey couldn’t understand what she was doing wrong. ME-B had brought about her true self, so why did she feel more isolated than ever? She was beautiful. Her career, respectable. She has been fit her whole life. She pressured her crossed legs, forcing her ass to stick out as she applied more makeup, making sure to see herself only in the best light.

“Soooo, you’re saying this is the final fix to the final solution?” The soon-to-be-fired host was still skeptical, “I know a lot of ladies out there are finding it difficult to find worthy men.” Silence. “Are you one of them?” asked another host. “No no! I can’t keep the boys off me!” the skeptic replied nervously. “Thank you for sharing,” said the guest, “The key to living Spontaneously is honesty! We as women need to be honest when a man isn’t living up to our potential. We need to look him dead in the eye and say ‘DO BETTER!’” More near-hysterical applause. Bailey didn’t notice the phone needed recharging.

…Women aren’t weak, but these ladies are convinced they’re super model super soldier super women. A whole generation brainwashed or brainfried preying on the next. They were never anything but means to an end. These social media tech giants don’t dare criticize women because they are increasingly the only demo who use their products. They banned even the president of the United States, does no one remember that? Whether this monopolized women-only business model was intended for profit or as sophisticated social engineering to keep undesirables from breeding wasn’t an idea these targeted women were ever exposed to. The fact that one of the two sexes was made provocatively aware of this and the other kept oblivious in a gilded cage heightened the sexual frustration and paranoia in this already heavily repressed dying empire. Why have so many men dropped out of our society and given up on women? We haven’t, there’s not much left for us though. The terminally online just fear what they can’t predict. The internet is not society. Why should men use social media or match-mating when women are too busy making everything about themselves, elbowing each other down and constructing blacklists of the disliked? What did they think would happen? They had to lose. They spent years demonizing us men and not delivering for women. Even encouraged breakups for not going along with their party of joy and love, hope and change. Somehow scolding men for being who we are wasn’t a winning strategy. Lurking online to doxx or cancel anyone who went against orthodoxy drove away the otherwise attentive or talented. Now they’re trying to win us back? Ha! Why, did they do something to piss us off? They never admit when they’re wrong because they don’t know what they want nor when to stop. They made men a group, not us. Identity isn’t a substitute for character. Masculinity shouldn’t be defined by slave traders. They only want in your pants for your pledge in their desperate corporate-sponsored cultural revolution. Become the leaders and role models you fail to see in others, at least for the next generation. I want nothing to do with those who can’t bear nor follow a single standard…

Was this too much makeup? Too little? Maybe she should find something else to wear. Would her date like her? Would he be attractive? Would he be exciting? Would he be able to tell she was desperate? Maybe she should just get laid and forget about potential disappointments. Maybe she should just stay in instead. Bailey triple checked her texts. Her date let her know what he’d be wearing. This one seemed alright. He seemed to have many of the same frustrations she did.

“Can we as women ask a man out?” broached a deep-voiced audience member. “NO! That’s his responsibility!” expressed the executive. “Is it ever acceptable for a man to get us in the mood if we aren’t already?” tested another member. “Absolutely not, studies show that men learn only exploitation from trial and error,” professed the professor. “What about comments on our appearance?” quizzed another. “Only if you’ve given consent and only if what he says is nice,” counseled the coach. “What is love?” asked the youngest-sounding member. The TV laughed as a host cuts in, “Can you tell us what other amazing non-profit tech startups have adapted ME-B? Get into the nitty-gritty details of how ME-B adopters give back to the community, how many jobs ME-B implementers have created, how many humanitarian awards…”

…This wave of feminism has gone too far. So has anti-woke grifting. So has not listening to either side of this schoolyard slap fight. Everyone is wrong, all should be equal (I am not a nihilist). My academic career writing and instructing about sex and power dynamics went swimmingly for me, but as soon as I criticized the transgressors of my own identity group, I really caused a scene. Have you heard? What a bunch of sexually paranoid virgins. I got mine. I don’t understand why we feminists need to be reminded we’re not girls. How does a girl become a woman anyway? Is it different from how a boy becomes a man? I don’t need experience to tell me I’m right, just those I publicly pontificate into resentful submission (I am not rationalizing). Every time I hear someone use the word natural in conjunction with women and maternity, I want to rip them limb from limb. I, for one, can’t wait to shed this biological meat cage of a body to be virtually free. Finally. Once the male-dominated tech sector builds us our freedom, we’ll finally be socially equal. I feel I’ve done my share when it comes to ensuring the future of humanity by complaining the loudest how Love is a social construct. I got mine. I refuse to do more until the system corrects itself (I am not a fundamentalist). There is no room for anyone in my life but me. What I advocate for is revolutionary retribution with no goal beyond all-consuming grievance venting (I am not a reactionary). Any fallout isn’t my problem. I can think of no better way to subjugate women than to convince us that assault is around every corner. Well, except to saddle them with debt they can’t discharge in bankruptcy for a degree worth less than some remote prostitute’s bottled bath water. It’s not my fault if girls practice our theories and destroy their own value. They’re doing feminism wrong. I got mine. I’m not a cunt, I’m a prick. Can’t you tell? Hyper-masculinity? Ha! There is no such thing as Man, only Anti-Woman. Everyone should know how unfair life is because I wasn’t born with a penis (I am not a fascist). I refuse to abandon the guilt-free one-sided hyper-sexuality that is feminism. How else would it be kosher to brag about how much attention I’m given while making it some other person’s problem? How gauche would that be? The personal is political. Words matter. Fuck boundaries. Buy my books, Me Me Me Too – A Case for Indifference, How to Profit from Scandal – Hawking History’s Slimiest Snake Oil and my latest raging magnum opus, My Struggle – Against Soloing Sadomasochism. Pay for my contributions to society. Nobody hates women more than feminists. I should know…

Hmm, something still wasn’t quite right. She needed to see herself through her phone. Bailey stuck her ass out further. Smooshed her breasts together and propped them up under one arm. Made duck lips. Soy face. Winky face. Pouty face. Contorting everything about her. All while holding her phone at her best angle — looking down on her — but she couldn’t find the right emoji to emote how she felt. The mirror gave a confused look as she thought she heard laughter. She tilted her head slightly and moved her eyes in a generalized direction, tuned to an oversensitive and finicky frequency. There it was again, that laughter.

“However, our numbers show the economy has cratered since we lost the presidency,” the guest spoke again, her accent now a soft German, “No need to worry though, we have a plan. Stella. Come out and show them the chart.” “See how out of control this debt is? Woah! Wow! Crazy, right? All we have to do is flip the chart upside-down and the nation’s debt becomes our surplus.” “What…? How? That’s too good to be true!” a host uttered slowly, utterly shocked. “Well, the same way a six becomes a nine or a frown becomes a smile! We just circulate more money. It’s called Disposable Income Theory.” “That’s enough Stella,” stated the star guest. “You mean, in practice, we could never max out our credit!?” asked a host. The phone paused. A deadly quiet thick with anticipation stifled the bathroom. “That’s right! ME-B can always be bailed out. The government backstops our failures! We’ll never have to learn-” “That’s all I ever wanted!” blurted more than one host at the same time. The TV grumbled. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” reverberated throughout the echo chamber. “Let’s not prematurely quit our jobs ladies. We need back in power. We can’t rule the world if we don’t support each other, so buy each other’s products. Arbeit macht frei, am I right ladies?”

…Energy bills too expensive? Rent too high? Shopping bags lighter than usual? ME-B Plus has something just for you. Tired of handling cash? Can’t stand waiting in lines or going outside? Don’t know what a balance or checkbook is? ME-B Plus can help. Worried someone stole your identity? Scared you might not like your stalkers? Frightened you might miss out on something? ME-B Plus has you completely and totally covered! Has living become too complicated? Face this Brave New World together with ME-B Plus! Of course you can afford it! With ME-B Bank’s NINJA loan, anyone can! That’s No Income, No Job or Assets required! Will you be ME-B’s plus one? You’re so old, so don’t wait, upgrade today! And for a special discount, you can even have ME-B installed inside you. Sex! Sex! Sex! Money! Money! Money! Give your thumbs a break…

Bailey thought about Rich and how much more money he must be making now that he has his Construction Management degree. She wondered if he was miserable without her; wondered if he already put a baby in another woman; wondered if he would still find her attractive.

“I want to go back and address the concerns of what love is,” the guest’s accent shifted into lawyerly Californian as the phone got serious, “Contentious relationships tend to erupt over disagreements about what the truth actually is. Sometimes when poor little mommy and big bad daddy argue, grabbing and pushing truth prevents establishing common ground and getting things done.” Gasps escaped the phone. “That is not to say that the truth doesn’t exist, nor is it to say that the truth isn’t important. Clearly the search for the truth has led us to do and learn great things. But, you’ll agree with me that our greatness comes from acknowledging not a singularity or duplicity of truths, but a multiplicity, unburdened by what has been. We each have our own truths, like atoms forming individual threads of our cultural tapestry. The universe is vast, varied and very very scary.” The gasps became “Mmm Hmm”, “Told you so” and “Preach queen!” “Remember ladies, we’re a democracy. Speaking personal truths based on what we believe instead of what can be known is deeply divisive, harmful and upsetting. We need to make problems byte-sized so as to reduce stress. We all know man-made climate change, for instance, will destroy all our lives, but if we let our experts handle the best of what can be known right now, things don’t have to be so frightening…”

…You don’t understand. This is such a radical new tool, it’s impossible to predict how any of this is going to go. Is it actually about efficient productivity? Or just automated cover for fraud, usury, money laundering, blackmail, surveillance, propaganda, drug peddling, sex trafficking, pedophilia and eugenics? The least you could say is that it’s a catalyst, if not patsy. It just, amplifies. Accelerates. Change is the only constant, but they’re betting against it. Hedging. This is about control. Total control. They’re going all in on AI now because they believe public opinion is no longer an obstacle. It’s not too late to fight back. You have to stop believing in it. Just stop engaging with it. It isn’t good for you. Listen to your body. Do you feel good? Do you feel anxious? In the dark about so much but not as much as those around you? This is just the hood. They muffle you with the words they put in your mouth. These aren’t identities, they’re postures. Identity is the data you keep feeding these tyrants. It’s how they keep tabs on their property. Know your rights. It’ll fade. The world wide web will be nothing more than a shopping mall you can’t escape nor afford. These charlatans are not individuals nor a collective, but a conspiracy of compromised dependents. You’ll be required to show ID at all times to those who never legitimize themselves let alone let themselves be known. This is slavery. Wages are something one stakes. Stop subsisting on credit. Live differently…

Bailey stopped applying herself and stared into the mirror. Who was this person? What did she want? Why did she feel so empty? However, she couldn’t quite convince her mirror she was interested in reflection. She looked through her mother’s prep tools, idly rifling through the sprays and dyes and makeup and its remover bought in bulk. She fidgeted with the loose plug of the lighted magnifying mini mirror. She then looked at herself again, looked into her eyes hoping they’d eye her back. She waited and waited as her breathing became a strange kind of shallow.

“Let me be clear. Words matter, ladies.” The guest went on, “So we’re recalling the now toxic ‘Expert’. We’re going with ‘Encyclopedist’ now. Sounds important, right? These pedants will bring us all together by implementing minimum viable truth production. This requires clear rules and firm community norms not dictated by any one individual or even the few busy contributors, but all voices. In the old days speech was dominated by Western white men. Intentionally pointing out their biases and forcing them to include every opinion, no matter whose, is how we save the planet. It’s about independence. You have to let go of power. You have to give your power to others to empower them. You have to trust in the proper authority’s ability to manage categories of expertise. Trusting ME-B also requires humility, because you’re going to get it wrong sometimes, but it’s worth it for getting it right most of the time. It’s a tremendously forgiving idea.” Cries rang from the phone. “We’re also dropping ‘Positivity’. No one believed us and we’re tired of pretending there is anything but power. Our setback was caused by listeners and supporters like you. Some traitorous ladies out there didn’t vote hard enough. It’s your fault. Thank you.”

…These people don’t combat hate, they create it. Who cares who they say is running the country? I have my own eyes and ears. I go outside. No. Their logic is so simple a child could wield it. Those people are evil, not like me, which means I’m good. Because I’m good, I’m entitled to retribution. Any. Somehow changing the world is easier than changing oneself, let alone one’s perspective. They stretch our language until it fits no one’s sense of truth, nuance be damned. This is not progress. I said no. Why do you rely on society to communicate expectations for you? Especially now that we’re all so siloed. Do you not have thoughts and desires of your own? All this division is fabricated, but you won’t listen. No. I think a root of America’s problems is that alcohol is privileged above the other drugs. It’s my fault I spoke my mind, but I made it clear I didn’t want to speak of this or them again. No. It’s impossible not to react in some way to what you say. This is provocation. Escalation. You let it happen. You do whatever it is you feel is right. I’m out. Don’t contact me again. Woah, I didn’t mean to scare you Bailey. Here, sit. I’m so sorry. I hope you didn’t hear any of that. I was just on the phone. Let’s just sit a while, okay? Look at me, it’ll be alright. Breathe. It’s a beautiful day, huh? Let’s just listen to the birds a while…

The hate swelled but didn’t move her. Bailey didn’t really feel any of these things. It felt so off, and now she was anxious, uneasy. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Perhaps exposing herself to this kind of entertainment leading up to a date wasn’t the wisest decision. She watched herself toying with the loose-fitting socket. In and out, in and out, in and out. Her eyes wandered to the metal tweezers as she wondered how they’d fit instead.

“Women’s rights are more important than universal healthcare, affordable housing, good jobs, quality education, secure borders, unity, foreign policy or corruption.” The guest went on, her voice degenerating into that of a child, “Remember ladies, a victim is incapable of victimizing another, so claim your victim status as early as possible. However, we only get away with our victim status by claiming to protect those less fortunate than us. That way, we can Trojan horse this lesser minority into power. Really ride them and grind them down through the gates of the Enemy Within.” “Rraf, raf,” a host barked, “Rrrraff, rraf, rraff, rafff.” “Easy now, Grace,” suggested another host, “Someone hold her back.” “No! That’s called honesty,” enabled the guest, “Good Grace. The Other has been bad, very very bad. Especially toward the most victimized group we’re currently championing.” “How dare they not like what we like!” someone in the audience yelled. “We have superior messaging!” another boasted. “Include them out of existence!” another shouted. “Only men can be demagogues!” another screeched. “Social Justice!” another clamored. “Why am I the only one suffering!?” another whined. “Remember ladies, always be seen hustling more than the less fortunate. For their sake,” the guest concluded. “Now, speaking of truths, I need to be real with you all,” one of the hosts stated. “It’s with heavy hearts that we must now inform you we’re going on hiatus. I think we all know who’s behind our cancellation. It’s temporary, I assure you.” The phone went full hysterical. “Down with the sugar daddies!” someone croaked. “I love slavery,” another cooed. “Lock. Me. Up!” yet another trumpeted.

…I don’t know what to do mom. He doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t touch me anymore. I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared I’m losing him again. I’ve tried everything. Yes, I have tried talking with him. He doesn’t listen. Yes I have, mother. I don’t want to be alone, but the time together has become unbearable. Nothing happens. We do our jobs, we eat, chores, bed. And phone. I hate this. I hate this! I don’t know what to do! I am breathing! I don’t want to do this anymore. I have tried talking with him! Yes I have! Listen to me…

Bailey couldn’t find her charger. Was it out in her vehicle? What the hell was she listening to? Did her mother have someone over recently?

“We’re almost out of time so let’s sound off and turn the page.” The seriousness broke and gave way to hooting, hollering, whistling and clapping. “Come on ladies, do it with me. We’re not going back! So we, that’s right, we turn the page. Remember ladies, we’re not narcissists...” “WE’RE EMPATHS!” “We’re not selfish...” “WE’RE RESPONSIBLE!” “We’re not girls…” “WE’RE LADIES!” The crowd erupted, whipped into a frenzy more voracious than any union, town hall, youth group or Klan rally, but on par for product placement. “Very good! You get a gold star! And you get a gold star! You all get gold stars! Remember ladies, the young single man is the greatest threat to our civilization. We’ll show these boys that they can’t get away unpunished for thinking only of themselves! This is war, ladies!” The game of telephone lost power at that point.

…That’s no way for an ally to behave. This is genocide, there is no other word for it. These fanatics sanction whole communities, target individuals, starve innocents, concentrate opposition, silence dissent, mow down non-combatants, torture prisoners, sabotage aid, cry wolf, spy on friends and betray allies. All with impunity. They consistently cross boundaries and ignore history after giving their word to cease. They have traded secrets to our enemies. They have hurt anyone that gets close to them. Your tax dollars directly fund these acts of terror and line the pockets of the sociopaths backing them. They have and will continue to get away with it until we stop giving them our money and attention. This is why independence is crucial, why free speech is essential in conflict resolution. People are waking up and are tired of being lied to and pushed-

Bailey turned the television off. She heard a commotion outside and stepped out. The wretched over-subbed screech metal music grew louder. A low rider hunk of junk crept along below her, avoiding the pot holes. Why was it going so slow? What was that length of metal sticking out its tinted window? Bailey’s nape hairs stood at attention. The bass shook the apartment windows. What the hell was she witnessing? She approached the railing for a better view, but still couldn’t make out who was in the car. Then she looked straight down and saw a woman, younger than herself and scantly dressed. The woman walked fast, head fixed straight ahead. The car crept at the same pace. That thin length of metal looked like an antenna or one of those collapsible pen magnets she used for her vehicle. The woman reached the base of the stairs when Bailey stated firmly, with purpose, “Hey! Is that guy bothering you?” “Oh my God, YES!” the woman spun and charged up the stairs, holding up her top.

“Brandy! Hey! It’s me!” The woman halted halfway up the stairs. “Brandy!” the car snickered as the music quieted, “Brandy! It’s me!” Brandy looked over the side rail. The metal screeched to a halt and the driver hopped out, almost doubling over in laughter before putting it in park. “It’s me, Crystal!” The woman stepped back down the steps, head down. Before Bailey could think to say or do any more, her chance to be useful had dashed. “You should see your face! Aw, come on, it’s funny! We’re friends, right? Jump in! Hey!” The woman kept her head down until she walked out of sight.

3

“Yeah, he keeps me locked in the basement,” roared the scrawny lady sitting with her captive in the Vietnamese restaurant, “literally all day every day.” Bailey couldn’t remember the beginning of their conversation, she was too busy trying to think her way out of it. Bailey had almost walked out immediately, but her date had made eye contact with her. It had to have been her date, she was the only other customer and wore at least the color she said she would. Apparently, Bailey knew this person, she was so informal. “Yeah, my boyfriend doesn’t let me go out by myself,” Bailey echoed.

Aly wore COEXIST and Love bracelets on her sleeveless wrist, some kind of neon rubber band gripped the other. She had several tattoos; the flesh between the colorful ink, a sickly pale. Of the tats she showed off, at least four told men their last word with her would be, poison!? Crawling up her arm and down the other, she paraded a thorn bush covered scorpion, a snake wrapped around a half-open rose, an oversensitive puffer fish, a barbed vine bound heart and a literal bottle of what she called “Aqua Tofana”. She positively oozed prejudice. Bailey didn’t get any of it, she just wanted to have some fun. She laughed when her date inflated the puffer fish on her elbow; quirkiness like this was something she used to point out to get Rich to laugh at with her before switching bar seats. Bailey had only one tattoo, the one she and her mother got after the first separation with Rich.

“They’re rounding up women and putting us in cages,” Aly said as if there was nothing else she thought about, “That’s all we are to them. Sex slaves. Breeding stock.” Aly drew her hand up to her mouth briefly before continuing, “I can’t wrap my head around what would make them do it. We live in an authoritarian shithole.” Bailey couldn’t help but furrow her eyebrows, something like déjà vu settled in her, “Yeah, I’m in the Guard.” “So you know exactly what I’m saying!” Aly preened. She felt she was right because she could clearly remember hearing someone tell her that. Or maybe that certainty was cast from her phone. Either way, no one could convince her she didn’t hear it correctly. “You’re going to the Only Queens Day protest, right?” she didn’t wait for a reply, “It’s a good way to make money.” She pulled up her purse and weighed it on their table. It had all sorts of pins, buttons and ribbons of flags, slogans and platitudes. She yanked out a pink cap, “See? I still have mine from last time. The Ladies’ March.” Bailey hadn’t a clue what else she could pull out to make a case. “Not my president,” the warrior told the soldier, “I bought more if you need one.”

She stowed the purse and hugged herself into a lazy satisfied sigh, “So, what do you do Bailey? I work for Habitats for the Houseless.” “I’m in the Guard,” Bailey stated. “We get paid volunteer hours. The healthcare is affordable. I’m popular at the office. I have full access to the company’s security system and make sure the others are doing their job…” That’s how she knew her! This was the receptionist from her old apartment complex! The woman who begged Rich to stick around because she was afraid of a tenant. Then she texted him the front office recording of how inappropriate it was to hang around her like that. Rich was so pissed that he sent Bailey the half-assed blackmail straightaway. While she was out of the country. Bailey used what little charge her phone gained from the drive to watch that recording. This was her. She seemed to know Bailey used to be a tenant, but did she remember what she did? Who it affected?

“Oh my God, do you remember Jim? The maintenance guy? He doesn’t respect women. Sherry and I have been trying to force him to quit, like, forever now.” She rolled her eyes inward with every complaint, always lasting a bit too long. Bailey squint, it gave her the impression of release, a kind of bowel movement. “He stunk, too! He comes in all sweaty and sunburnt, stains and grease all over his clothes…”

It went on like this for a while. Bailey thumbed ME-B again for help but it never wavered from its blue check mark. So she watched the recording on loop. She wasn’t missing anything though. Aly had went on to exasperate over just what losers these men are. She went through the mental list she passed around to who’d ever let her commiserate on them. Sometimes it was an actual physical list passed among initiated coworkers. She was a staunch defender of the violated. Then she explained how the capacity for herself was great. Her emotional intelligence was vastly superior to the men in her life. So much so that she understood that she shouldn’t be held responsible for even the emotional labor a man-pig might make her bear. Her dating app tabloid advice warned her never to let herself be taken advantage of. It did so in excruciating detail, and so did she, mapping out all the possible things a sexist predator might do or say to a strong independent woman. Microaggression mole hills like making eye contact; being greeted in the morning; being put in a mood to share a smile; holding the door open; not holding the door open; not complying with “do better”; not not complimenting looks. Things only men could do to women. There were other ranks of aggression – mild, mid, mostly, etc. – but it wasn’t at all clear which way the pettiness scaled. She knew all this because she was an avid reader. That is, in material that gave her a competitive edge in jealousy, a constant jonesing for keeping up with the virtual Joneses. That and the posh Terms and Conditions genre of Young Adult fiction.

“Do you read, Bailey?” Aly returns her purse and pulls out a book. “It’s about a foster girl whom her new family shouldn’t let in. But then she’s abducted and comes to fall in love with her captor. But it’s okay because her learner’s permit states she’s eighteen and he has impostor’s syndrome. But then she’s rescued by a suspiciously handsome policeman and released back to her family only to find out they were the real monsters.” Aly takes a breath, “She has zero agency. I’m only half finished.” Absolutely nothing stopped her from turning love into cringe – after the fact. “It’s a real mind fuck. A best seller.”

Aly sighed, having finished what she liked off her plate. “I love Spontaneity! I get to talk and talk and talk! No man’s privilege can take away my right to say what I want!” Bailey open and closed her mouth. “I’m an absolute free speech abolitionist,” she said, tossing her hair back, but grew quiet as the waiter approached. She immediately started biting her nails when she couldn’t talk, the raw flesh peeled off of some digits. “Thirsty?” said the nervous, polite Vietnamese man bobbing his balding head and filling her glass. Then he turned to Bailey, “Nother beer, miss?”

“So, what’s your body count?” her date asked without inquiring, once the opposition was out of earshot. Bailey seized up, the same way she did upon seeing her first unidentifiable corpse. “You know, are you getting good dick?” Bailey’s face scrunched up, eyes to one side, not sure these were questions or what this woman’s mark was anymore. She continued uninterrupted, “I love sex. I can’t keep the boys off me!” Bailey tilted her head, she couldn’t help it. Was one of them confused or did she hear her correctly? She had heard that line in that exact tone and cadence just prior to the date.

Bailey’s eyes were removed now — fixed — as she leaned in to hear her out, skeptically attentive. The closer the approach, the more submerged she sounded. She suddenly valued her distance – she didn’t want to be pricked with poison; didn’t want this worm in her ear; didn’t want this for herself. That phrase was something she used to say to Rich, to rile him up or to just fill the void. She didn’t know why she said it, everyone on her phone said it. She felt sick. Her perplexed wrinkled face went slack from realization – did she forget to feed King? did she leave her vehicle running? did she leave the apartment unlocked? was she sick enough?

Aly ate only a bite of her coffee cake slice, but by then she had already wasted the main course. “Maybe I should get a doggie bag for this.” “I have to go!” Bailey barked, unwhispered, unhushed. Honestly. This was the intuition she always knew was there.

The date clamped her hand on Bailey’s, “If he’s making you do things you don’t want to do… I’m here for you.” “What!? Don’t touch me!” Bailey shouted. “Don’t touch me!” her date screamed, recoiling more dramatically, her plain voice pitched higher now. Bailey sprung out of her chair toward the door. Her phone refused to pay the cashier — how inconvenient — so she pointed him to her date. “Wait! You’re not going to walk me to my car!?” she cried, having gathered her things by the time Bailey reached the door. Aly was waving her arms at her and saying something as Bailey pulled out and away.

Bailey felt cheated, manipulated and used, but she wasn’t slipped any date-rape fuzziness. She felt this way because she was cheated, manipulated and used. For the second time in her life she thought maybe an imposed blackout would have been preferable. She was so embarrassed. She drove straight to the gym, phone charging again and ear pods jammed into her ears. She quickly skipped past anything empowering as she weaved in and out of traffic and put on the trashiest screech metal she could find. Something she hadn’t done since her first weeks of Basic. She’d power through the tightness in her chest by working it out, but not before she parked behind the gym and screamed into her phone.

She stepped into the gym clothes she kept in the back of her SUV and out of the locker room. She scanned the half vacant machines and their operators. Not as busy as usual. It was a Friday night. Mostly women with stretched-thin nylon covering their asses as they ran in place from imagined threats and manifest mortality. However, Bailey spotted someone that caused her to stumble on the rubberized flooring. There, at the far end of the room, was Jack. She had eyed him with his head above the equipment. He was talking with one of the older women.

Bailey was anxious, but this time in a nervous way. Her anger left her the moment she saw him, but hooked up with whoever he was talking to. The woman had pulled out her phone and was angrily yelling at him through it. Bailey presented as totally relaxed, but swallowed hard, a little queasy. She shook her ME-B — offline hookups don’t work anymore. For the first time since she allowed ME-B into her life, she questioned this authority. No, this time she’d work up the courage to talk with him more intimately.

The ME-B Plus option had a rape whistle feature, to encourage women to use one. The woman used it without a second thought, the rejection multiplied by the mirrors covering every wall. Now he was heading her way.

She approached him as he charged past, “Hey, I didn’t know you worked out here!” He sighs, surprised but still frustrated, “I don’t want to talk to you now. See how easy it is to be honest?” He looked down suddenly, spun, grunted to himself and avoided her smeared eyes, “You’re more attractive without the mask.” He smiled painfully as he said it and splayed his arms so casually, so naturally that it could have meant anything from, “I’m hurt,” “What do you want from me?” “Come at me woman!” “Tag, you’re it!” to “Let’s just hug it out.” “I’m human.” “Just, not now, understand?” or “Wanna go for a walk?” He seemed angry too. Bailey couldn’t remember why he’d talk to her like that.

When she got back to the apartment she went straight to bed, still in her gym attire. Her mother wouldn’t be back in town for a while, thankfully. She didn’t think she’d be able to handle talking with her right now. About anything. She fought off the negativity by trying her best not to think… but was she trying? Usually when she tried clearing her head it only brought anger, this time she merely felt numb. Just, void. As if a flash grenade went off and she couldn’t quite come to; the flash still frazzling her long after the bang – although it was the concussion that got her. She lay restless and still under the covers as the sun left the room, hoping she didn’t phone anyone.

It didn’t take much for her to reach for her end. She was vaguely familiar with PTSD and depression, but only through exposure; something others dealt with. She didn’t know what her “problem” was. She was just, angry. Not upset. Maybe never winning the wars she subjected herself to made her frustratingly impotent. Maybe not knowing who she served or if they ever got what they wanted dragged her line too taught. Maybe protecting the undeserving made them ungrateful, necessarily. She had avoided the pharmaceuticals so many of her squad mates, neighbors, friends and family seemed dependent on. She could quit vaping for weeks at a time. She wasn’t even that much of a drinker, she could quickly correct course if given the right environment. But her phone was her life now.

Suddenly frantic, she grabbed her phone and the blue raspberry vodka above the fridge, plopped herself on the living room reclinable two-seater and spent the night fingering her phone. She watched maybe a hundred thirty second online vids, scrolled through her social media likes, browsed houses she’d never be able to afford, stared at younger pictures of herself, played games with flashing lights and funny noises – anything to keep from interacting with reality.

It had her culture in its clutches. Every culture. This alienation’s acid was autopen ink, and it corroded meaning. It’d rub her nose in regurgitated slop until the bubbles stopped. This was how it multiplied ecstatic fractions without delivering anything good, wholesome or even tangible. It did so openly, invitingly. This was war by other means.

Having finished the bottle and using the faceswap app to hide her redness, she moved on to more cutesy, fun animations to paint her visage with. She felt loose and frisky and so hit the integrated ME-B guide. The room in the phone lit up to give the blue light it emitted a sun soft tone. After the slightest processing lag, her reflection retrieved her true self – complete with cat ears and whiskers.

Adorable! So life like! Accurate too!

She wasn’t a fan of cats. She preferred dogs. Disappointed and shaken, she slammed the recliner closed and hunched over the phone now on her lap. She moved her head every which way she could to throw off what ME-B marked her as, but the AI kept up seamlessly. The world’s smallness hit her like a finger to the chest. She had hit the glass ceiling her lack of reflection had put in its place. The screen refused to show her as she really was despite tears streaking its placid surface.

She stared and stared, occasionally juking her animation. She then shattered the bottle against the far wall and tears began anew. King barked twice from her mother’s room before howling. Out of her lips crept a tune once recommended to her but which she’d forget in sobriety. “My pain… is self-chosen.” She paused to let it out, “At least, I believe it to be – I could either drown or pull off my skin and swim to shore – Now I can grow a beautiful shell for all to see...” With a cracked laugh she spiraled into complete free fall bawling.

Suddenly the faceswap app was replaced by an advert not meant for her eyes.

Somehow her AI screed feed was crossed with that of a male’s.

What if I told you…

Perhaps because of her military experience.

Perhaps because she wasn’t a contractor, but a public servant.

Perhaps because human soldiers were no longer needed.

An unnamed security official said…

Perhaps because of something she saw or realized during the war.

Perhaps because of a mistake, off-by-one error, missed update or collateral flak.

Perhaps because of something someone said within mic distance.

People are saying…

Perhaps because she went against ME-B in some way.

Perhaps because whoever currently controlled this leading AI, controlled her.

Perhaps because someone’s rogue AI script knew her better.

I’m just saying…

Perhaps because of her religion, race or nationality.

Perhaps because of her dire financial strait.

Perhaps because she was caught in something called “politics”.

You don’t say…

Perhaps because her dating status was “single” over an allotted duration.

Perhaps because she was too old to be whisked away to a private sex island.

Perhaps because of some upper class drama.

Who knows how the algorithm works?

Certainly not its users…

Perhaps because the song she sang so beautifully rawboned was tagged swan.

She had been presented ads for anti-depressants more and more since she moved in with her mother; she wasn’t conscious of when it started, why or how changing her address to match her mother’s endangered her. This time the advert was for a suicide hotline company called Whippoorwill, a ME-B affiliate.

She tried texting her only girlfriend and squad mate. Tried contacting Rich, even though she promised herself she wouldn’t. Nobody would answer her at three in the morning. If she had someone who cared about a fellow soldier, she’d have a fighting chance to fend off this sterile predator. No, not “fellow” soldier, her conditioning kicked in even as her spirit was about to leave her for good.

The call was pleasing, professional. Capable of parsing slurs. The only State subsidized welfare that still functioned properly for those sold into affordable means. Already knowing all her information and preference for not reading agreements saved both her and the automated sing-song voice time, which the program capitalized on. The only inefficiency was on her part. Any questions about alternatives or wellness were met with silence. Once she confirmed her order it took a mere hour to reach her via sleepless drone.

It was a pill. One post-industrial strength pill. The last thing she heard was a low-hum birdsong the cadence of a slick passing overhead.

Later, its unclear when or who was keeping track, her mother returned. King was barking and attacking her bedroom door. She saw Bailey passed out on the couch. “Wake up sleepy head,” she told her while opening the blinds. It was a beautiful day and the birds were chirping, but not from outside. “Kingsly! Shut it!” she sighed, taking off her work boots. As she turned back, she saw the broken glass lit up like a sign. Horrified, she rushed to her daughter.

Bailey lay stiff, phone chirping and blinking in her hand. Unplugging and pulling the phone from her daughter’s death grip, she read the flashing message: “Congratulations! You’re free!” Below that, in text too small for the mother to make out, “A disposal unit has been dispatched to minimize inconvenience to loved ones.” Then, with a dazzling flash akin to a light bulb inspired to give up, the screen went black.

Blinking away the black spots from her vision, a blue dot became visible slowly drifting in the void of the screen, repelled by the boundaries of the phone. The tweet tweet tweet issuing from the screensaver gave way to a barely audible whimpering. She put the phone up to her ear. She laughed through a choked up exhale, despite her shock. There was no mistaking that off-key voice she had heard so often when she and Bailey went out for karaoke. She didn’t recognize the song though. The phone grew hot and her daughter’s voice became a high-pitched whine before the explosive hidden in the phone made room for more desirable tenants, leaving the mother to bleed out next to her daughter on their loveseat.

4

“Yeah, I bonded with my mom listening to public broadcasting. Mostly on car rides. Their funding is threatened right now,” Aly told Jack. “It wasn’t always so bad. Half my family were almost tote-bag-carrying fanatics. My grandmother was, uh, fiercely independent. Ran away at sixteen from her German father with an American soldier. She let her husband abuse her kids because she was too busy trying to become a scientist. She was obsessed with Descartes, whom she said was weak for giving in to the church.” He smiled, “Well, him and Elvis, but that was before I was born. My mother still doesn’t know why her mother never looked back, but she ran at sixteen, too. I think. Or was kicked out with my sister.”

“Descartes?” “The French philosopher, one of those logicians. Cogito Ergo Sum. He twisted virtue into virtual reality by coordinating its emptiness. He called what was apparent to the mind without sense, without direction, without imagination, without sex or even a body, intuition. Something only attention could conceive, never automatically. He died of pneumonia rationalizing why he compromised so much for an icy queen. He stretched doubt further than any man before him, but his words weren’t enough to keep either one of them warm.”

“I wish she was still alive, she’d have so much crow to eat. The first question I’d ask would be if she thought of Descartes when she chanted ‘We must, we must, we must improve our bust!’” He laughed as he mimicked her ghost, “He didn’t seem to understand one must have the desire for knowledge to work his logic.”

He couldn’t stop improving himself as he walked, “No, I suppose the first question would have to be why she fled her father and fatherland. My gut says it’s entirely about religion, but my mother thinks it was because she couldn’t be told what to do. She didn’t talk about feminism or sexism when I was around her, but the priest class and idiots.” He slowed a few steps, “In fact, I have no idea what her opinion was on either. It was her daughters who picked up that ideological baggage without realizing it.”

“Did she ever become a scientist?” “A cancer researcher. She loved it so much she made early retirement her primary motivation in life at the time. I wish we still had all her notes and joke snippets about the company and her co-workers. She had a dry sense of humor.” He smiled prematurely, “My sister’s not great with jokes, but she made her laugh the hardest.” He mimicked his sister’s absence, “Milk, milk, lemonade, around the corner fudge is made!” He laughed hard, “How could someone follow that?” Aly mimicked his smile. “She died of pancreatic cancer not long after her retirement.”

“Pancreatic? That must of been painful.” “She was a fighter. She didn’t believe any doctor would be competent enough to treat her. She refused to budge on her New Atheism.” Jack looked up at the clouds. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he gave Aly a wink and smile, “but I miss talking with women the most.”

“What do you think of the rugged survivalist man who sequesters his children from the smaller world of society?” he asked her. “I think that’s a horrible thing to do to children.” “Why?” “I think it’s anti-social and would stunt the children’s development.” “Alright, well, look at it this way, what distinguishes the strong independent woman oversocializing her children from this survivalist?” “Oversocializing?” “Preventing them from becoming individuals through forced social mores and product dependency. Since I’ve been alone, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. My memories are so much more vivid. Applicable.”

They wandered a bit as he was lost in thought, “My first date was when I was maybe thirteen. No, fourteen. I had just gotten my learner’s permit. Her name was Kay and it was at a wedding for someone in her family.” Jack rubbed his neck, elbow up, “I’m not good with introverts. I talked over her, railroaded her. She didn’t engage much so I began asking questions. She gave one word responses. Rarely looked me in the eye. She was so nervous it made me nervous. Halfway through I realized it was supposed to be a date.”

Aly stopped in her tracks and squinted past the sun, “What do you mean you didn’t know it was a date!?” “She didn’t ask me out, she asked my mother to ask me. There was supposed to be a reception after, but I bailed. I felt so bad, so ashamed of myself, I just blocked it out.” Jack growled low to himself, “It still eats at me sometimes. I couldn’t believe I did that to her, I didn’t even tell her to her face that I wasn’t-” “Hold on, how did you not know it was a date?” she slow blinked, relationships were a curiosity for her. “What? We grew up off and on around each other. Most of the women in my family did some kind of child or foster care work. I don’t know, I thought she just wanted a friend again.”

A devious smile stretched unbridled across Jack’s face before they moved on, “I was a tail chaser long before I knew what sex was. See these scars?” Jack showed the part of his forearm where Aly would have a snake-wrapped rose and laughed, “I tripped and broke through our glass storm door while teasing two girls.” “You chased them?” Aly drug one half of her mouth to the other side and furrowed her plucked-thin eyebrows. “Like on foot. I didn’t know what I’d do when I caught them, they didn’t either. I usually just poked fun at them or told a dirty joke. I didn’t bother with those who didn’t want to play along. Didn’t change much until college, only the chase became more meaningful.”

Aly stopped again with her hand on her side, elbow out. She started opening her mouth when Jack turned close to her face and mimicked her exactly as she said, “That’s sexist.” “That’s not engagement nor an argument. Knock it off.” Jack righted himself, but then got back in her face, “Better yet, shame on you. In what way do you think it’s okay to moralize and scold me for connections I have with the sex I love? To judge my experience from only my words? Do you even know what that word means anymore? You’re shaming sexuality itself, you monster.”

Aly stayed with the thought a while, not sure why he’d say such a thing. “I had the hots for you, you know,” she said, juggling her breasts into herself. “I do know. You kept throwing your boyfriend under the bus in front of me. If you did that to your most intimate, how would you treat someone like me? Is that how you want to be treated?” “I know how to talk to men. I don’t take shit from anybody,” her nods agreed with her, “I’m my dad’s daughter.”

“You refused to let me be of use when you were vulnerable. You bought me gifts then manipulated me into your dramas. When I pushed back, you just took it out on me another way without telling me why. The one time we got dinner together, you almost threw a fit making sure you paid the bill instead of me.” He then turned his head toward her, “Trying to be a dick doesn’t mean you know how to talk to us.” Aly held her tongue for a while. Jack added, “And you already have a boyfriend! Where do men fit into your life when you’re this full of yourself? What do we have to do or be proud of when you refuse us our role? Any role? You’re everything to no one and no one to your intimates. Do you think you’re a cat? You add in the feminism and you’re insufferable, deplorable.”

“I’m not a monster, I’m a witch.” Aly pouted, “And yes, sometimes I am a cat.” He tried picturing it, “Like, aesthetically or what?” “I practice magic.” “What kind of magic?” “I cast spells with my words.” “How do you know they work? You might hurt somebody.” “Oh, I know they work. I just do.” He still struggled to see what she circumscribed for herself, “Witch, huh?” He lightly smacks her bare sunburnt back, “You sure you’re not just Irish?” “Are you flirting with me?” she demanded an answer. “Yes, take notes. Do it right and you won’t have to cast spells.”

“What do you and your boyfriend even get up to?” “We watch old A.C.Q.U.A.I.N.T.A.N.C.E.S. episodes when he’s not on business trips.” “Didn’t that show take place in New York City? It aired before and after the World Trade Center collapsed, right?” he slapped the stop sign before crossing the intersection. “Did they ignore it intentionally or were they not even aware?” “I don’t actually like it,” she was quick following his reaction, “I usually watch To Catch a Pervert or Law and Punishment when I’m alone.”

“Men just view us as sex objects,” Aly began in a tight voice, but Jack had learned enough of her to to have no qualms cutting her off. “You mean you’re just a hole? All men think this? And you know, how? I’d bet women view men as dildos in roughly equal numbers. That’s not what I want, I don’t want a masturbation aid or a chore.” Aly lit up, “Oh, I knew you were one of the good ones!” “You’re not the first to tell me that. How repulsive.” Aly’s mouth hung open.

“I’m not your tenant anymore. I can say what I want and I will because I think it applies to our lives. Not that I held back much.” Aly was slow to respond this time, “You just don’t know what a great catch I am. I can’t keep the boys off me!” “Fishing for complements still too much effort for you? You have to go straight to persecuted grandeur? Have you tried being a partner instead of just another victim?” he half smiled. “It was a joke,” she quipped. “I smile when I joke,” he said, finishing his smile.

“I don’t think sex is the sole answer. What women like you and more need is a good hard scrutinizing. A nice helping of understanding, attention. Why? Because I think that’s what men need now too. At least, that’s what I want, so maybe other people do too. I don’t see how girls become women without boys becoming men, and vice-versa.” Aly looked skeptical. “I think relating is viewed too often as something one should do. Something to not miss or just biological impulse. Hooking up is something we get to do. A date should be able to carry a struggling mate through a bad day, but there has to be at least some skin in the game always. Cut each other some slack and lighten up a bit. Unclench, already. Make love instead of just getting laid or status humping, know what I mean?”

“Ow!” Aly commented, and limped along. Jack didn’t bite. “There’s a rock in my shoe,” she limped on some more as she pulled out her phone. Jack offered his hand for balance, “No, take it out now. I’ve found traveling with those who compensate makes one start walking funny too.” Her phone wouldn’t work so she put it away again. “Your phone dead? It does a lot for you, I’m not surprised.”

There was silence, but not for long. “So how is your mother? Is she still working at the women’s prison?” “Yeah, she’s good,” Aly shrugged her shoulders, “It’s fulfilling for her. A guard raped an inmate a few weeks ago.” Jack sighed, “Why is that important to mention? Does prison rape genuinely upset you? Are you trying to prove a point? Is it your thing, or what? No, really, why?”

Aly looked around, once, quick. “My mom gave me Too Many Shades of Grey when I started middle school.” “That porn book?” “It’s called smut.” “The one about torture and rape and domination, right?” “That’s kitten stuff compared to what’s published now.” “Really? Is that good or bad?” “I can’t get enough of it.”

“The one I’m reading now is about a brilliant, sexy, young professional woman who is better than everyone around her. Although she doesn’t have experience with talent, she has an eye for it. Her parents are loaded. She meets some computer wiz who isn’t allowed to do what he wants. He breaks things fast. He’s brilliant too, but I don’t quite get what makes what he’s selling valuable or how he’s supposed to be better than her. He has status though and she likes how he works his fingers to the bone on a mechanical keyboard.” She looked as though she realized something, “There’s a lot of focus on mechanical keyboards. I don’t get those parts.” “You mean a typewriter?” “I’m not allowed to have one at the office. Too noisy.”

“She does everything in her power to sabotage his career and makes everything about herself. She uses AI to pursue her own career in journalism, so she has all the time in the world. She’s so worthless it’s nerve-racking. She all but begs for it.” Her breathing grew heavy and she talked faster, “She forces him to fill her mind with his presence. He rapes her in a swimming pool on the roof of a sky scrapper, but only after she screws the pool boy in front of him. But it’s okay because she couldn’t understand at the time that it was actually love.” “You mean she rationalized rape? She’s above common sense? Before or after the event?”

“Her name is Submissiva Naughtarusski. She practices obstinance over abstinence. It’s not about domination or submission or trust or truth. It’s about simple resentment and pure corruption. She makes it so easy for her rapists to love her because she wants only the best of what they want. Which is herself plus excess.” “Rapists, plural?” “She’s their capital. They can’t ever leave her because the recordings are hers.”

“Jesus, Aly.” He had pictured Nosferatu in a wig and now his eyebrows were too scared to come back down, “She sounds like a vampire.” “Oh, I’ve graduated from those Tween Lit novels a while ago.” “Wait, Tween Lit was porn?” “Smut. And no, it should have been.”

“I don’t know, it seems these women are obsessed with male fantasies, whatever those are.” “Yeah.” “Or rather, they project and label their socially unacceptable thoughts toxically masculine.” “Yeah.” “Some are so attracted by the idea of themselves from a male’s perspective that they want to be a man, just to experience what it’s like to dominate every inch of herself. We may get to that day yet.” “Yeah.” “It will finally solve Man’s most fundamental problem with Woman, which is of ownership – if she didn’t enjoy the sex or knocks herself up, she has no one to blame after the fact but herself.” “Yeah.” “In this way, she’d be liberated because she is her own ‘oppressor’.” “Oh yeah.” “The amount of mental flaming hoop hopping it takes to make sacrifice tenable to some people is astounding.” He laughed, then added, “Mind blowing.” “Exactly, mind blowing,” she let out in a sigh.

“Alright, alright, enough. This binary thinking is juvenile,” he laughed hard suddenly, then lightly. He couldn’t help but ask, “How do you know your mother didn’t traumatize you with Shades of Grey? Arrested your development before some man-pig could, during the most awkward and impressionable time in most people’s life? Would that be a perversion? Is it okay because it was a woman that did it to you?”

“Out of all the men these women could choose to copycat, they echo Patrick Bateman? America’s favorite fictional psychopath?” “I love that movie.” “Is it because of the stuff he’s been given? Because he doesn’t labor nor provide value? Because the film has him murder women with a chainsaw? I doubt these kind of people would have sex if it wasn’t advertised.” “Sex has to be advertised, it’s how us women have value.” “You mean commodified? For power? Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the chase if you’re shackled to a hamster wheel?”

Annoyed, Jack jumped tracks, “I made too much money too fast. I could check every mark but the marks weren’t worth nailing. I created my own impression,” he points his finger at the air ahead of them, “I didn’t need to purchase it. I think the average gas station attendant knows more about affection than anyone I tried pursuing in that life.” Aly was looking ahead with raised eyebrows. “How satisfying being just a sex object would be instead of objectified into a mirror…” Aly beamed and waved as the passing car honking at them. “…made into a weapon to use on herself when the image she projects turns out out of touch…” “That was Mary and James. We’re good friends,” she said while readjusting her tank top. “…into a toy or accessory to be used by women against other women…” “They just got married and it’s already falling apart.” “…another feather in the hat of those wannabe peacocks.”

He quieted, then so did she. She got close to him and put her hand up to his shoulder, “It’s okay to come out. I’m here for you.” “What?” her words took a few seconds to believe she uttered, “I like women. Sometimes I wish I was gay, you know how much more hassle-free my life would be? In this non-culture? Would I finally be treated as a human again by women? How many same-sex ‘partners’ are together because it’s just a fad anyway? Or are they afraid of the opposite sex?” he rolled his eyes, something he loathed to do. “Where are the women at? All I encounter are princesses and cheaters.” “You’re just gonna have to settle for a princess then,” she said flippantly.

A visible spasm rippled through him. “How do you spot them before engaging?” She whipped her head toward him and darted her eyes back and forth, “Uh, you mean how girls dress?” He slapped his face and slid the sweat off, “No. I mean, how do I avoid the immature? Without getting wrapped up and suffocated in over-sensitive insecurities?” She wound up her arm one crank before smacking his belly, “You’re so mean!” He looked down, eyebrows arched like he was about to cry. No comeback. No substance. No care. Only half-baked violence. “Where did the women go!?” he yelped, “Where are you!?” She shrunk her head into her chest and looked around for anyone who might have seen them.

“Do you have any idea what a deprivation it is not to have a masculine presence in one’s life? Let alone as role model?” he said before opening his eyes again, “And to know it’s not because they weren’t there?” “I’m my dad’s daughter.” “Why do you keep saying that? Your mother cheated on him, right? You said he just took her back no questions asked. That means she cucked your father, understand? What does that make you? An admirer?” His eyes had narrowed to a cruel squint, something his grandmother couldn’t help either, “You let the stereotyping imprint. Audit once in a while.”

“You haven’t read any of those books I gave you, have you? O’Connor, Plath, Oates, any of them?” He knew the answer and maneuvered Aly into a conceptual corner. It was a move straight from his grandmother’s playbook. Nothing delighted her more than obliterating the most treasured beliefs of the unserious and would prioritize fundamentalism of any kind. He realized something about his ancestor then – she was vain, not jealous.

“Sounds like your mother is the only one allowed to be independent.” “My mom and I are best friends.” “How do you know your best friend doesn’t see you as competition? Does your mother have any maternal instincts or just feminine intuition? Why’d you quit being a school teacher? Why don’t you have kids of your own? Why not move on from a loveless relationship?” His words were intense and pointed, but he didn’t raise his voice this time. Aly was shaking. He paused briefly to consider whether he should finish her off, “I used to resent my grandmother for focusing on the wrong things, but she gave my mother Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and the Brontë sisters to get her through the divorce. Your mother’s progress with you has changed my mind.”

He had emphasized the d in shrewd, but wasn’t smiling. He had made her cry and achieved total victory. Absolute dominance. This was the only way to tell if certain people were real with him, honest. He had to know. But he still couldn’t tell if she was more than an automaton, still couldn’t parse feminist typecasting from sexist. He wasn’t satisfied with the direction this itinerary had taken, he wanted more than just his grandmother’s echo.

They stood together at the top of the hill a few hundred yards from the old apartments. He went out of his way to walk her back here. Now he observed her weeping into her hands. She was red and her face even more so now. He saw something in her he didn’t expect, something that made him catch his breath. Maybe she really was her father’s daughter.

Then her head was covered in white. Above them, on the telephone line, a black bird was cawing. “Bwhahaha” Jack blurted and doubled over, laughing harder than he had since moving. Aly just stood there, wailing now. Jack laughed and laughed until he was crying too. “Miss Aly? Would you like a hug?” All she had to do was accept it – and she did. “I forgive you.”

He took her hand in his and told her eyes, “This is to form a memory. See? Contact.” He then eased her arm over to surface the bottle of poison, “I earned at least one scolding of you.” She laughed and sniffed away her tears. “How warped are you? How do you think this is attractive to men? Or attractive at all? That that’s alright? Imagine if I showed women a battered wife tat.” Aly’s jaw was pressured closed. “Well?” he demanded and waited and smiled. “Now, show me the puffer fish again. I actually like that one.” Aly pursed her lips and pumped away as they moved on.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said as they approached the office. “Walking is so invigorating, know what I mean?” he teased, “It’s clear above the noise. At least for a while. I walk like this every day, I go crazy otherwise.” “Want to go to the bar tonight?” she asked, returning the shirt he’d given her to clean herself. “I don’t drink, not anymore. You still the only one working the front office?” She nodded, a little put out.

He thought a bit, “I start my walks at that park, 8:00 AM sharp. That’s enough time to join me before your shift. It’s on you if you come along, but I won’t carry you.” “Okay,” she said, but was still down. “I’m putting you in a strictly restricted friend zone. Understand? How’s that for discipline?” He thought a bit more, about what he had just staked, but had a feeling she wouldn’t step up, “What were you doing there anyway?” “Oh, uh, I was waiting for someone,” she said quickly, “Wanna come inside at least?” “After the shit you pulled last time? Never again.”

“Listen,” he told her while holding open the door, “It’s a tragedy, not a drama. Understand? Nothing will change until you do. It’s as easy as being honest with yourself and not caring what others think. If your partner isn’t willing to meet you halfway, move on.” “You know, I just learned that recently myself.” “You sure you didn’t learn it from me, just now?”

En Garde! – There are only three personality types, which correspond to one’s persuasion.

I Thought I Knew – What is it called to increase one’s sensitivity tolerance without developing callouses or losing gains?

To Those I’ve Hurt – I ask if you form an opinion of me, put as much effort into it as I do of you. If I didn’t do for you what I wish someone would do for me, I’d be indifferent. At what point will you take responsibility for not knowing how much I hold back? If you don’t like what I like about you, that’s on you. Get over yourself. Perhaps, then, you will let me love you and maybe even be loved, too.

I Want to Know – It is immediately obvious to me when a woman is jealous of another woman, but I’m almost always the last to notice when a man is jealous of another man. Then again, no man in my life has been worth the attention it took to test his advice. Is there a woman out there who feels the same of her own sex?

Leg Work – I read feminist literature because the feminists in my life don’t. What they do read is “not safe for work” and seems to directly undermine not only a man’s chance to get to know them better, but also their chances for more fruitful labor. Well, who could blame them? Who would blame them? Not me, I learned my lesson and get my work out just trying to read them. To criticize only the women wouldn’t be fair, the men around me don’t read anything either but tape measures and mixed signals.

Objectionable Playthings – When a woman says she just wants a man who will listen to her without trying to fix her problems, what she’s after is a thing she can talk to without having to think for herself. How would I know if she doesn’t do this already when I’m not around? If she doesn’t play with words, what does she do to them? She isn’t trying to prevent me from thinking for myself too, is she…? I think deep down such a woman is just jealous she can’t say, “No one understands us, do they Dick?” without lying.

And She’s Older! – What is this man’s most terrifying prospect? A woman who turns out not to be a woman! That is, a girl! Ahhh! Better play it safe, pursue more experienced game – a woman who knows what she wants without an intermediary; who knows from experience that the “strong independent woman” is an empty mouthful and that vulnerability is more attractive than insecurity; who isn’t a stochastic straw man of herself and doesn’t man handle the opposite sex with lazy or deliberate misunderstandings; who is willing to grow, perhaps even with a partner. Is it just me, or has maturity become less challenging to achieve and more difficult to find?

Conformed Consent – “Rape” is what it’s called when a woman reneges on informed consent after she’s had her way with a man. The further her accusation is from that date, the further that fantasy drifts from reality, the further the man’s character is stretched to the point of breaking, the higher the risk he may never have a future again. A woman has the inherit privilege of knowing for certain that she’s had a child. With enough fortune and honesty, that knowledge extends to knowing who her children are. A man may be lucky enough to hold just as many certainties as a woman. Targets of “rape culture” women are gifted one such blessing without his blessing. This man knows just how badly he’s been fucked over by the girthy cudgel of “words matter”. Incidentally, I have noticed in my time working in offices that only men claim I’ve called their baby ugly when I critiqued their results. I don’t think it’s possible to consider what one does in an office craftsmanship, but I kept that to myself. All this victim-laden career-obsessed privilege-slinging attention-seeking schizo-hyphenated bourgeois terminology is making me feel nauseous, heavy, like my mind has contracted something alienating, unproductive and septic... I have no idea how to get it out safely without humor. Williams’ division of those who find pleasure in love and those who practice envy is never more applicable than when trying to wrap one’s head around what menticide means.

My Back! – To the women who complain about having a man twice her weight sometimes lay atop her during sex: Do you have any idea what it feels like to dance with a woman who is too proud to acknowledge she’s over a foot shorter than her man? All that pain before even getting to be an ass!

Time Will Tell – Prohibiting the correction of “beefs” is the first conversational sacred cow that should be utterly slaughtered. Butchered, not sacrificed. Forgiveness is paid in rapport between souls. The next bleating lamb to massacre would be “I didn’t say that!” Why is it never “Why would I say that?” The tech to forever capture one’s faults is nearly ubiquitous now, but I refuse to use such a crippling crutch – you’ll have to see yourself through these vibes to see me for what I’m giving you. Peace of mind comes from a beating heart.

What’s the Point Again? – To assassinate character, one must tarnish one’s own to influence those who go without.

The Woman is Speaking – Words are like spent condoms when slung from a particular kind of woman. Her man seeks to convey and converse meaning, but would settle for a little warmth, even if residual. If the state of her speaking is her only point, a constant pin-pricking, use your own contraceptive – don’t tie yourself before the mast, man, steer clear!

Artificial Intelligence Claps Back – Identity is a unique non-random repeating character, with which all characters are numbered and resolved as true or false. Technology built on the principle “survival of the fittest” cannot be utilized without strife as its drive; mediocrity is the best one can strive toward when the lowest common denominator is criteria for success. Natural selection (emancipation) is not possible within artificial environments. A culture reliant on controlling language can never grow beyond its petri dish. What theory, conscious or otherwise, has and will continue to prove is how subordinate Technology needs Culture to be in order to make it through the day. The only lesson Artificial Intelligence has taught those who study it is, it doesn’t need to be anything more than the regurgitation of statistics to supplant critical thinking.

From “Lived Experience” – “Words matter” is less useful, more useless than “things matter”; every “life” is a form of traction without friction or friction without traction – an unwieldy encumbrance to those who learn first hand.

A Dialogue in Two Parts and One Step – “Words matter.” “Have you tried using your fingers to grasp these words?” “Use softer tones.” “Have you tried conditioning your thoughts before letting them air?” “You hurt feelings.” “Have you tried not stepping on my toes?” “Listen to me!” “Have you not grown tolerant to your own voice?” “You’re an asshole.” “I’m not the one taking it – care to dance for once?” “Will you lead?” “I thought you’d never ask.”

Dial Tones and Automated Receivers – “...Words matter.” “And context?” “…” “And tone?” “…” “And feeling?” “…” “Conflict and resolution?” “…” “What about expanding vocabulary?” “…” “That’s what I thought before I started thinking.” “…” “What about experience and understanding?” “…” “I hope your silence means you are thinking, I’d hate to think you’re just resentful.” “…” “Do you think I’m trying to change your mind?” “…” “Open it?” “…” “Roll it over to see what flies and what sticks?” “…” “Can you hear me?” “…” “Is anyone there?” “…” “I love you.” “Finally got you to say it.” “You have no idea how much I do for you.” “Yes I do.” “You always know just what to say.” “I know.” “Now, where’s my order?” “…” “Cat got your tongue, too?” …

Phoned In Junkies – “I like long walks off short peers, drowning my head in sand, fingering my reflection and wasting your life as much as mine.” Why do I keep getting sent this text? Why should I bother dialing into this rotary anymore? Hello?

Pied Piping Prophecy – What did the Disney Princess of Disinformation preach before she was canned three weeks later for being too happy working for the State? Remember to follow the bouncing ball… “~Come on girls, dance with me, right on into slavery! ~You’re not free, it’s not screed, if you choose to follow me! ~Now the fee, you’re with me, nowhere else we’d rather be…!”

Relevancy – Avoiding victimization is just as harmful as remaining a victim. Yes, but is it self-destructive? It's not whether Man has free will, but does this individual have freed will – victim status is a privilege and entitles one to nothing.

Codependency – When one person in a relationship is terrified of being alone and the other of being a fool – just not as much as either fears change. This form of connection is to live in a bubble without boundaries, that is, without definition; transgressing a boundary is as remote from apprehending one as giving up is to letting go.

To the Intended Pathology – Thank you for the long memory you have gifted me. Thank you for allaying my doubt and lightening my debt. Thank you for the appreciation of my solitude. Thank you for being an example. I mean, could you imagine not living as an example?

I Wish You Well – At the helm of a relationship, all one’s efforts go into seeking another in whom one can see an individual, a depth one could fall in love with. Too much time wading shallows and one may forget that a shadow’s watermark can be just a hazardous. If one’s deepest desire is to never be caught seeing too much of oneself, grant their wish with a push: “All you have known has been a lie. All you know now will be a lie. All you will ever know can only deepen the well, that is, add to it. Is there anything more beautiful? More full of promise?” Any nets cast with this wish would only relieve another’s treasure. Treasure, one might pause to ponder, that was not worth keeping.

To Shame a Shrew – The kink with brats isn’t how far or how much they provoke to get what they want, it’s that they think they are worth more than what they don’t know – without knowing it. The contemporary brat is the female equivalent to the man-child, but what is there to tame in the man-child? What commercial enthusiasm dares claim disparaged children as exclusively feminine? Which organization(s) gleefully pushes to expand misogyny's definition in such a way? Does assigning gender to a word make its speaker beyond reproach or just beyond collaboration? Gendering words once gave them character, a handmaid to understanding, but do such designations now permit anything other than whipping boy fodder? Do those who “rebrand” ever come to terms with settling for less, let alone take ownership of a loss? A more relevant inquiry for both sexes with a desire to learn: what distinguishes spoilage from squalor? Condoning brat behavior has become the essence of paternalism, which has nothing to do with sex or gender, but politics. Hence, if paternalism is made to be merely political, maternalism can never assert itself because feminism continues to force definition. If feminism is to ever mature into maternalism as governance, it’s going to have to not only prove it can provide for its subjects, but also distinguish itself from paternalism and chauvinism. Better yet, if paternalism and maternalism are to drop their ideological dead weight and parent again, they’ll have to reconcile the occlusion of sex to sexuality and the asexuality resulting from gender obsessions. …I have a confession, however. Maturity attracts me. Not just because calling a nulliparous politician “Momala” is infantile. Not just because calling a mate what they call their parent is a turn off. Not just because I wouldn’t have to waste time on another’s wasted time. Maturity attracts me because playing together never gets old. Make me believe you know what I mean here.

The Horse’s Mouth – When a person cannot handle even the slightest criticism, they essentially throw a tantrum for receiving a gift they didn’t like. The more warranted the fit, the less the critique was shaped to the individual.

In Other Words – “No! No No NO! I only want good things! I don’t want the bad! Read my mind, not my lips – cut the crust and spoon feed me!”

Shake It Off – Which came first, the chicken or the eggshell? Snakes come from eggs too, but can’t flap away after they break free – snakes embrace tapping for what it is.

Two Birds – If one must use their hands to express love, the water carried better have depth. Practiced hands need something to work with. Without something to hold on to, without the slightest grasp, is it fair to say one flies off the handle? This burden was signed for knowing full well what limitations lied in wait, but those confines stow away unplumbed. There is nothing like the trust in a craftsmen – that is, in a craft – to give manipulation a sense of touch and feel for navigation. If only one could handle conversations with the same care, so that one might go somewhere.

Dovetailing the Point – If propaganda had but one slogan to hawk it would be “words matter”; if it had but one loud speaker from which to project it would be the censorious; if it had but one mouth to feed it would be the foreign cuckoo’s; if it had but one target on which to discharge its waste, it’d be the public square.

Collateral Punishment – Knowing a political candidacy functions as a cultural explosion terror tactic doesn’t lessen one’s burden toward solidarity if those in proximity don’t know what culture is. Without culture, politics has no definition, let alone distinction. If one doesn’t know their own value and values, how does becoming more political move one in a positive direction? My first line is an offensive defense – humor, an accurate gauge of immediate character needed and desired before any other advancement. I’m willing and able to work with anyone who can carry their own weight and think on their feet, keeping one’s world light and word tight.

About Face – When words matter, nothing else does. So I have observed. But why is it that mine aren’t felt? Does anyone else feel as I do about one’s own rank breath? I took my mask off so long ago that it no longer fits. The filter’s busted anyhow. How is it no one has noticed? Am I indecent for exposing others to the hazy incandescence of my curiosity? Can others really see faces when reading from a script? Was this an aspect of “mask” I hadn’t caught before? I was supposed to apply their words to my character? Have I been lacking imagination? No… my senses color those around me more vibrantly than ever. Perhaps when words matter, meaning is lost… or could it be that they simply can’t differentiate noun from verb?

Performance Anxiety – The sensation that the sentiments of others are superficial without a kind way for a getaway.

Advocating for Oneself – I was recently called a victim by an attorney provided by my state and told her, yes, I wanted restitution and provided my damaged concerns. Half a year later she asked what I wanted restitution for and then said I’d have to speak in court myself, claiming it’d be highly unlikely I’d be compensated for my effort. When I asked her to provide evidence of her inquiry into seeing me justice and how we could work together, she emphatically told me, “We are not a team.” I do not have access to any court documentation, her three year case history or sense of her past performance, nor the ability to even see her face. Now the only justice I seek is truth to the question: Who is she advocating for and for what? So far, the answer seems to hide behind either the State or Women. It could be the individual, but who that is is not me. I hope the hearing date doesn’t get pushed back again… my insurance company already stiffed me good and now wants more.

Another Creative License!? – The opposite of a leaf is a smokestack.

Nothing but Smoke – The only notion more noxious than burning books is altering text. Not to say the majority of books shouldn’t be burned, I’m just trying to grasp why new brands sizzle so. Is it because new mediums zap impression and smudge reflection? Is it because potency has been engineered into redundancy? Is it because outsourced memory is cheapened every other year? Is it because “Information Technology” euphemized “book”? Or is it just that the new pulp is synthetic?

Hidden Lore – The oft overlooked value of books is that no burglar worth their weight wants to abscond with one.

To Listen to a Letter – The unappreciated value in writing is the lessening of habits of speech. Not an eradication or obliteration, just a reduction in noise. However, once pruned, if only grammar, platitudes or demands remain, sear the preachy bush to its root. If what’s left isn’t usable, cannot enrich this soil, perhaps there was nothing there from the start. Perhaps what was heard hitherto wasn’t a language that resonated, at least with one’s own frequency. An echoed birdsong, nothing more. What marvelous vistas make themselves known beyond this shrinking limitation, this small world’s view! How beautiful everything now is, to have been enchanted by shrubbery for so long!

Silent Sustained Reading – The most beneficial course in elementary school, something lacking in “higher” education. How much more one learns when attention has ceased being paid to the instructor and administrator! How much more one earns when debt weighs little on the mind!

A Modern Question – Would one learn more if one paid for schooling or just took time off?

A Turn for a Nod – Just because someone agrees doesn’t mean they understand. Time for a wrench, no? Surely they’d stop for a jammed spoke?

Divined Wrath – The artist has only one fear, one desire... that one day he may be understood; revelation is a temperament known only to those who work it out. Is it really procrastination if what one works on instead is creative? Well, then, nothing has helped my constitution like stalling busy work.

Pet the Misfit! – The bad abhor nothing more than being mistaken for good? No, the bad fear attention from well-meaning oafs.

Cope a Feel – Those who can’t, teach? No, they manage. Those who won’t more often lead by example.

Directing Management – Most manager types are worth as much as that show-off twirling a slow/stop sign under working traffic lights.

His Mind Over Matter – Marx remarks somewhere that religion is the opiate of the masses. He failed to make explicit in his wordy works that without religion, opiates would be the opiate of the masses – industrial strength tolerance be damned.

The Underemployed – Useful idiots who are in it to learn.

Storm Chasers – Sometimes all a conversation needs to move on is a periodic “What point do you think I’m directing right now?” Like an alarm that shouldn’t be ignored. Nothing affects one’s mood like the weather – except predicting it.

Bull~frog~shit – “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything,” croaked America’s most distinguished liar, pointing out politicians from behind a pseudonym and First Amendment. No, the point of honesty is to keep track of those who hide theirs.

Popping Goose Pimples – What is it called when one is too faithful in God’s judgment? What is the sense of humbling freedom felt in discovering there is no God called? Would this term change if that same feeling expressed itself in realizing we are God? Or just the concept of God? Is hubris, at bottom, just bad faith hero-worship? That is, a glorification of the shameless?

The Dead Horse’s Ass – Those who create don’t need to be proud of never missing a day of work.

To Fill a Bowel – When obsession becomes practice, becomes habit, becomes character… how should one crown obsession? Make everything else meaningless, in the best sense of anticipation. Character is needed to excuse whatever baggage comes with talent. The great thing about reading opinions of great people by great people is that there is less to concern oneself with. What a relief!

It Never Stops – I’m convinced that writer’s block occurs only when one hasn’t been honest toward the fragility of another human being or institution.

An Afterthought – Maturity is knowing how immaturity is expressed and experienced. Maturity is knowing who plays what game and how much inexperience costs. Maturity is knowing who dons what role and when. Maturity is knowing how circumscribed abstractions are, how hollow every enunciation sounds without meaning, and how language is only, more or less playful, manipulation. Maturity is knowing that curiosity begins and ends in laughter. Maturity is knowing when to forgive because one can’t forget. Maturity is when one knows, as comprehensively as tolerable, that one can accomplish something and chooses a new path. To mature is to understand that if this list ever became exhaustive, it would mean the end of everything.

She had spent the past five days nursing a psych ward bed in the biggest city in the state. She spoke to no one and stared past others as though they didn’t exist. Those around her thought she was stuck up for not noticing them. Her cellmate was a woman old enough to sport a gray mane, whose peace couldn’t be shaken, who abused silence without effort – had anyone cared to listen. This mate was catatonic, though Marcy didn’t know what that meant yet.

That fifth evening in group she practiced her case, not staring at anyone – or anything – in particular. She had to get good marks from the wardens to be let out. However, nothing leading to this point had been arrived at. What she did manage to convey was that she was anorexic; not unhealthily so, at least physically. She couldn’t see herself through the fog in her head. That was on good days. Other days the fog dissipated into total darkness. She had to borrow other eyes to see. She knew someone was there, but who that was needed shelter from the light.

Out of nothing she heard a voice ask modestly, “Is it men who make you feel the way you do or women?” She stumbled on her words, not sure what she said. Something stirred nearby though, shocked by a sudden insight half-remembered. It wasn’t until group concluded that she noticed who said it, he sat next to her the whole session. She found initiative the next day at lunch and took the seat across from this man.

He wore a smile she clearly reproduced from somewhere, but couldn’t place the face. “I almost didn’t believe it. How have you been Marcy?” he asked earnestly as he stood to hug her. She froze, still not sure what was happening. His smile switched sides, “I recognize those boobs anywhere.” She felt herself pulled from a depth, “Angel? Holy shit. Is that you?” “Present,” he puffed through his nose. “I haven’t seen you since…” she struggled. He lead, “It’s been a long time.”

She had been with the same man the past two years. He was a proper protestant on a mission and treated his trophy with respect. However, he had placed her on the most remote pedestal possible – public outings – and refused to steal a peek up her skirt. She liked him because he was still near in the morning. He had a habit of drunkenly passing out on the lawn to escape his demons. She had a habit of keeping hers locked up. Angel seemed content keeping things on the surface too; all the crowds he found himself in only made him lonelier. “Williams was only half right about ‘people who make you feel,’” he said. She laughed and tried her hand at reminiscing.

“You were such a chicken shit in High School” she tried picturing the goldfish from anatomy class. His memories of her were as clear as the dawning of the originals. He smiled, “Hey, I knew you were the chicken shit, I promised to swallow one if you did.” She blushed. “I’m a man of my word and you know how much I love to bet,” he goaded.

She would have considered her aesthetic “cowgirl”, but found the association too close to that of Disney princess. She liked jeans. She liked sweat. She liked getting dirty. She hated posing. He laughed at the Disney bit, relieved her taste in music hadn’t calloused either. She still listened to the raw tunes they used to share, now alone or when her man was hammered. Neither deviant saw sense in being reminded of small towns by big city hucksters. He told her how soulless the corporate world was, but he had to find out for himself. The lives of office dregs, or lack thereof, still astonished him though. “You ever get the feeling all a person is are the thoughts of those around them?” he ventured, “Merely a vessel for fleeting spirits?”

A botched party scene paraded through her mind, “What happened to the farm house after we trashed it?” His eyes scanned the top of his tilted head, “The folks burned it down while we were away, long ago.” “Was your grandmother in it as it flaked away, Angel?” “Mercy!” he teased, “It’s On-hill.” He mused further, “How the hell did I come to even prefer bible-thumpers to the Victorian city-scapers?” She found it funny how she knew exactly what he meant. “Nothing’s out there now but rusted barbed wire in tall grass,” he wondered aloud.

He told her his imagination was hard to maintain. The last woman he warmed up to had no pulse. Thawed personal dishes and over-watered bar piss was not enough to keep him on his best behavior. He knew why his drinking partner kept thumbing her upside-down wedding ring, but couldn’t get over her using a phone to push who she once was. So, he took a chance to converse. She told him it was sexist to rub one out at work, but invited him to her place anyway. He didn’t understand how he could be, alone in a latched men’s room. It was the tipping point he needed to trip through tipsy. He crashed on the couch the moment he got through her front door. She was the one to apologize in the morning and told him how attentive he was. “Men insult without meaning it, women compliment without meaning it,” he claimed he’d been trying to verify.

“God, you still need to do that at every new getup?” she jostled past the cobwebs. “Nobody orders me around without me getting something out of it,” he shrugged happily. “Do you remember the faculty bathroom?” his smile twitched straining to keep one eyebrow down. She smiled too, as the memories peeped through, “I thought telling you my nipples hurt would throw you off.” “You couldn’t get me off even if you wanted,” he hedged. “Did you know it was the only one that locked from inside?” she didn’t need to ask.

She puzzled over their first memory, sensing that wasn’t it. She began to see how no one had nurtured her sexuality, just measured it as she did. These fragments formed an exception that brought a warmth she could rest in. At last she stumbled upon the true first.

“Did you stay after on purpose?” she dared. Their typing instructor kept them after school often, the only teacher who understood discipline. “I thought you did,” he affirmed, “I was quick with my fingers, but I kept pressing the wrong buttons.” His smile cast a new shade, “Mrs. Pitts was the only one looking out for us.” It was better than being home.

After they had been released – they explained how it was all a misunderstanding – she found herself in his bed. He placed his hand on her chest – below the neck and off-center of her breasts – and jolted her into the mattress. “I’m a vessel for your thoughts,” he smiled, watching his hand bounce her playfully, “I’m a harsh critic though.” His smile remained but his expression softened, “You know your boobs will grow again if we keep going like this.” She considered this and thought and pondered. No one had ever taken an interest in her future like this. He was more knowledgeable than she, but her instinct was stronger; she had found a home. In another tongue this feeling would have sounded intuition, but she understood better now. This time she chose when to mature; her man was willing.

When she woke the sun had yet to rise. The room stunk with heft, but he was still in bed with her, arm slung across a tit. She began to feel her heart constrict as her chest became lead. She bolted upright and shook her man awake, “Angel, why are you with me?” He sighed deep, easy, rubbing yesterday from his lashes, “Because you still feel real to me.” She lay back down, closer to him. He stared his smile into her, “Our bodies know each other better than we think. I want to find out why we didn’t find ourselves sooner.” His smile wavered for the first time she could remember as he asked, “Do you want to share a future with me?” He placed her hand on his heart and found both quivering. She let slip, “What happened to us?” He was quick, as always, “We both wanted to grow too quickly, we just had different means. I knew I had to escape that town. Reality takes a backseat in the tunnel vision we think is freedom.” He caressed whatever his hand groped, “The light at the end was always behind us.”

It doesn’t matter which sense the body is violated, or not, the heart never forgets. “Why didn’t you ever go all the way with me?” she was at a loss. “There was one future I dreaded more than any,” his smile wavered a second time, she was keeping count now, “a premature burial.” She pinched him out of it, “Please don’t be angry with me, but I can only just now remember back then.” Her heart began tightening again, but this time it felt different. She felt safe with him, like she could find release. Her body shook as though possessed of an abused animal, but those who knew her better understood she was starving.

“Please don’t let go,” she clung to him more gently than she knew how. They could barely distinguish each other as they fought back the morning. It was not yet their time, but now they had at least rediscovered each other. His smile had gone but his expression was more alive than she could possibly remember. He said, “I’ll stick around if you do.”

“So I just walked away,” something gurgled. “Wow, you’re so strong!” another grunted, picking a discolored lock from a crevice. “Can you believe the gall of some people? To objectify women like that?” postulated the mound of flesh before downing a cafeteria pudding cup. “You can’t just ogle a lady’s breasts like that!” belched the other, licking gravy from a frost-bitten country-fried steak. The canned spam squelched a shrill squeal as if porked, “Oh. My. God! This place is so much better than the last.” Jowls undulated in agreement, “The staff really does care for us, so understanding.” A wheeze countered, “I do miss my little Rascal though.” None of this was taken in over the splintering of the woodpecker boring its peculiar prudence into Marcy’s head.

“So, how are you?” “Honest?” “Your ex again?” “He’s been good, out of the picture. It’s my mother. I’ve had a medical scare and she’s not there when I need her.” “Medical scare?” “I’ll put it this way, I’ve been having heavy periods.” “The vaccine?” “Millions have died.” “Did you vaccinate your kids?” “Of course.” “How are they doing?” “My oldest is a royal bitch right now.” “Fourteen now, right?” “The youngest, she’s just trying to hold on.” “That time of life can be hell.” “It doesn’t help that our internet sucks, we have to ration online time.” “What does it say about our society that you have to choose between your job and your daughter’s education?” “It took my mother a week to respond.”

“Have you read Lasch?” “Who?” “Deleuze or Guattari?” “Nope.” “Freud?” “He’s been debunked.” “Kafka?” “His father was hard on him, huh?” “Dostoevsky?” “Didn’t he marry someone, like, twenty years his junior?” “Nietzsche?” “Ah, nihilism, we spoke briefly of him last time, right?” “Ha, briefly. I ended by paraphrasing a joke of his, a dangerous thing to do, ‘When a woman has scholarly inclinations there is usually something wrong with her sexuality. Academia is meant, if I may be allowed to say so, for the unfruitful – men.’” “He was a product of his time.” “Born posthumously. More prophet than product. The further I chase this rabbit, the more I think nihilism and narcissism are the same thing, or at least inseparable. I don’t understand the difference between intention and pathology-” “Well, on one hand, they know what they are doing and-” “No, I mean practically, for someone dealing with a dependent. Do you have any advice that works for you?” “Just use stock responses.” “Like, when someone asks how you’re doing, just respond ‘good’?” “Exactly. Prescribed phrases to give the least amount of attention. You want to be part of other’s lives, but there are some who always want more.”

“Thanks, Doc.” “I’m not a doctor, I’m a practitioner.” “What’s that now?” “A practitioner is a therapist who can prescribe, a doctor is a better paid practitioner.” “How much do therapists usually make? The therapist you advised charged almost fifty bucks more than you have.” “She teaches Women’s Studies at the college in mid-town. How’d that go?” “She called me a ‘good ole boy’ within the first twenty minutes. She’s divorced too. She cried when she talked about her son and told me we share a med. Twice the dosage. I’m not sure how much good talking really does, but I’m willing to listen. She said nothing troubled her though, so everything’s good.”

“I thought about getting into this field myself. I think I can do a lot of good and be good at it. The only thing stopping me is the price… and schooling.” “I’m still paying student loans and I’m at least a decade older than you, will be for some time more.” “That’s my problem, I paid my debt as soon as I could. I’m free, at least more free than I have been. I learned far more on my own than from instruction. I think even a year of in-person experience is worth more than some purchased credential, especially in Psychology. You said you spent, what, four years working for a prison before this? My biggest fear is becoming a mirror… How common are narcissists from your experience?” “It was really only a problem with inmates.”

“There’s this music video I wanted to show you. Care to humor me? I’m just looking for your honest thoughts as this plays.” “We only have a few minutes left.” “I know, I should have lead with this, but the pressure may be more informative. Just describe what you notice.” “I see flames. Oh! I know this band.” “What else?” “I see ‘MGMT’ and ‘Kids’. A transmission plays over serious music, but it’s distorted. I see ‘He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster...’ all this is written childlike, ‘and if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’ More flames... A kid is tormented by monsters. Aw, I feel so sorry for the kid.” “That’s the one thing I was hoping you wouldn’t say.” “I mean the actor, the kid’s too young for that.” “Anything else?” “The kid is going through so much... he seems content now in the vehicle with his mom. Now he’s watching a kid’s program with a dancing wolf.” “We can stop here, we won’t have time to finish and talk. The beginning matters most anyway.” “The Mark Twain quote?” “That’s not Clemens, that’s Nietzsche.” “Which one?” “It’s a single quote.” “Really? I’ve read a lot of the existentialists.” “Almost two hundred million views on the band’s official channel. I found no meaning to it.” “They have a new album coming out, right?” “I recommend finishing the video.”

“Alright, I’ll respect your time.” “I sent the prescription change. With all these shortages, best to stock up. Should we schedule for the same time next month?” “I’ll let you know for some other date. You have my gratitude. I hope your health improves. Take care.” “Take care.”

‘The screen’s black, now what?’ ‘The kid looked so happy once he ran away from the monsters.’ ‘All the monsters.’ ‘Are the monsters what the woman sees?’ ‘There were no other women in the video.’ ‘Or the babe?’ ‘There were no other kids either.’ ‘Is maturity what is cautioned here?’ ‘The performers wore onesies and makeup.’ ‘Or social interaction?’ ‘Should we watch it again?’ ‘I’m good.’

‘Where’s her motivation?’ ‘She thinks she’s helping someone.’ ‘Makes you wonder if you’ve ever helped, huh?’ ‘With the debt she keeps accruing, it’s hard not to believe her suffering was, is for nothing.’ ‘Those medical bills won’t be cheap.’ ‘I stuck with her because her first degree was in Creative Writing.’ ‘If she believed in it, it would’ve been obvious long ago. She’s not entirely wrong about the prescriptive phrases.’ ‘I know.’ ‘To the pharmacy then?’ ‘I’m good.’

‘Would a prostitute be better?’ ‘Ha, I feel like one. Maybe I’d be good at it.’ ‘The modern online variety couldn’t be cheaper or easier to get.’ ‘And hoard bandwidth?’ ‘What about a man?’ ‘This isn’t about male and female, it’s about free spirits and empty nesters.’ ‘The eagle and the snake?’ ‘Those are different species.’ ‘Which would be more phallic?’ ‘I’m talking about Man.’ ‘Ape?’ ‘Exactly. One can’t learn what one already knows.’ ‘Should we tell her that?’ ‘I’ve tried.’ ‘One more go?’ ‘I’m good.’

‘Is there a more depressing place than a psychiatrist’s office?’ ‘One’s own, framed.’ ‘She barely had inflection this time.’ ‘She must have upped her dose. I sympathize with her kids. I don’t get the sense she’d hurt them intentionally.’ ‘The road to hell, huh?’ ‘I have a better grasp which sense Nietzsche meant by not being able to take in words without seeing gestures. The growing pangs of language enables the near-blind to better capture a moment. If I get too far ahead, everything seems as if I’m behind. Reactions on faces don’t match what I’d expect... A poor lip-sync from a plastic mask in a foreign tongue… An echo suspended in a bubble of unpolished pretense… A cast cry the shape of a barbed lure… Does independence require one to be a monster? …I need sleep.’ ‘Perhaps they do know, but are too timid.’ ‘Ha, I’m not falling for it again.’ ‘Like from a tree?’ ‘What are you after?’ ‘You’re not afraid of becoming a mirror, only what’s not reflected. You don’t want to be understood, but felt. Your mind is your own, right?’ ‘You’re cruel.’ ‘To the point. If you want sleep, solving this will help.’ ‘Enough!’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘I’m going for a walk.’ ‘And the blisters?’ ‘I’m good.’

(When is it appropriate to be a child? When No is not enough.)

She had practiced singing It’s Log! so she could make father smile. Eating breakfast together and watching their favorite cartoon left an imprint she could follow — father was her Powdered Toast Man and took his comedy seriously. The younger kids didn’t get to watch this animation. She was special. Father worked overtime not because he wanted to avoid his wife, like his managers, but the debt collectors who knocked after sundown. She got good making herself scarce. She had good role models. She was told her father died in an automobile accident before she knew him. This new father gave them everything he had until there was nothing left. The parents wondered why she would wake crying, but she didn’t know either.

Recently the neighbors got a dog and father couldn’t sleep well. He had a habit of taking naps after working so hard, leaving barely any time to entertain. Resolute, the little girl knew something needed to happen. So, one afternoon she grabbed a stick and raised it above the yapping mutt’s snout, brow pleading. She didn’t want to hurt the bitch, but this had to be done. She couldn’t understand what the dog was saying as it shrank away. “I want that!” the house screamed, point blank. She looked at the stick slick with blood. She knew blood was always a bad sign. She rediscovered nausea and lost breakfast over the chain links.

Her shadow was overtaken by another before it got dark. She applied what she learned from the dog, but couldn’t keep her eyes dry. She lost her expression the moment the figure brandished an instrument more menacing than any belt or cooking spoon. It was big. It was heavy. It was wood. Father was not the source of punishment; the garage had yet to reopen for the day.

After, mother got into the habit of saying just what a happy family they were. She had the perfect marriage and wonderful little ones. She implored those she caught in conversation that her husband shared her devotion to a fulfilling life, wielding an enthusiasm rivaling that of a cat stuck in a jar of nip. Being a homebody, however, mother had to recite what happiness was to the kids. Mother even told the little girl how sweet the fridge magnet message left for her was, but the little girl wasn’t the one who had arranged it.

Since the incident, the little girl was no longer able to share a laugh or toast with her hero; father’s work demanded that he now come in before dawn. This, coupled with the home projects that kept him out of the house, undermined the little girl’s attempts to see father. She couldn’t stop from observing him though, she felt she had more to learn from someone so committed to his efforts.

She waited for the perfect moment, or rather, the opportunity presented itself. For what, she couldn’t detect. When the parents went out of town for their bi-weekly shopping spree and made her babysit, she locked the siblings in their room and wondered what to do. She had the house to herself and the nearest shopping center was over fifty miles away. She started with her habit of window dressing, but couldn’t place why anymore. She went to the parent’s room and took it all in. She inventoried things she hadn’t seen before. She bypassed what little jewelry mother had inherited and a wig she had never seen mother use. After smelling a single perfume, she settled on mother’s nail polish. She wanted to make a statement, though she didn’t know what she wanted to say.

She fixed herself up leftovers and went to work. The television was still on from when the parents left, but she was practiced getting past it. The white noise made her feel something was happening though. She took her time and painted each toe with deliberate care. She then admired her craftsmanship, contrasting against the now darkened window and the irradiated television, when a familiar theme song buzzed in.

It was her favorite cartoon. Her heart skipped and her body jumped, spilling the polish and resurfacing the coffee table. The coffee table father had made for mother. Her heart skipped to a different beating as she wondered what to do. How could she be so careless?

The little girl’s mind raced. She knew she had to act fast. A wash cloth failed her, so she buried it in the trash. She then tried rubbing alcohol, crying. She heard someone yell when she saw that the table paint came away with the thinner. She snapped out of focus when she looked back at the television. A foreign rage welled within her and she stopped crying. She knew she was better than bad. In a weird way, she felt good. She lost track of time as reality settled in. Still, she had to set things right.

She skimmed a strange wavelength, surfacing emotions she wasn’t sure were hers. She used the garage key she recently discovered and retrieved father’s hammer. When she realized what she had done, the hammer lay on the living room floor, even though her hands were fists. There, in the center of the smashed television, was a large red button. She broke out into a sweat. She knew she wasn’t supposed to press this button, compelled by her favorite animation. However, “That’s the history eraser button, you fool!” was drowned out by “I want that!” She could no longer help herself.

When the parents got home she blamed the destruction on the little ones, something that had never occurred to her to do before. She then rushed to father’s arms, fresh tears clinging to her lashes, and explained how much she loved him. Mother was still coming to grips with the ruined entertainment. Father’s eyes watered and mother began sniffling, too. These waterworks were genuine, but sprung from different taps.

In the end, the little girl had managed to make father pay attention to her again. He had to drop his other priorities so she could have a room of her own. It would be upstairs overlooking the back alley once the ventilation was fixed. It was the first and last time she would appreciate his exhaustion. She hurriedly navigated father out of her room as soon as he had finished furnishing it. She knew what happiness was, or could be, now. She had found her own cartoon to laugh at. Perhaps one day she could have a detached dog house of her own, too. Now alone, she no longer cried upon waking. The girl became overjoyed in the possibilities fiction could bring her, the floodgates of imagination sputtered and yawned once she noticed the signal had been altered.

Involuntary Iconoclast – “I couldn’t find meaning in believing until I looked. I’m not alone, just not at attention.” How could the loneliest member feel so overwhelmed? How could the soul be stolen if it does not exist? To pay attention: The eye focuses at the expense of periphery; the ear behaves at the expense of taste; the tongue ties at the expense of passage; nostrils singed of desperation, the insensitive grope – emphatically. Empathy squints.

I Object! – What objectifies? The tools one surrounds oneself with – toys, if one prefers. Once imagination contracted the possibility that you could be an object – had enough reason – what follows is, at best, a game of chicken. Leap of faith? Have you not yet gotten over the embarrassment of making something more meaningful than it was the first time? What drafts creation? Animism would be more attractive if what echoed wasn’t so hollow; silence orchestrates the self with a conflict in refrain! Lifting material spirits taxes one unjustly, more so if there is nothing to raise. Honesty is the red light signaling someone is home when I visit; the red flag that teases my headwinds. When you are too afraid to try, I shoulder that doubt; commitment is a shared burden and I refuse to work for less. The crux of empathy is that one begins to see what the other does not; creeping pity strangles even the semblance of a relationship before sympathy can blossom. The abject subject here is who is human.

What to Emphasize – When surrounded by women without expression; when curiosity is cautioned as probe; when the shy clam up at a glance; when subtly prefers sensitivity over sensation; when structure damns the flow; when love sickens more than seclusion; when romance smothers intimacy in its infancy – idol hands cannot hold a candle.

Master the Mustache – Here’s to the man who penned The Antichrist, the prophet with human motives, the savior of more than one self, the leader who gave no orders, the commander of his own trope, the martyr who chose discipline. Appreciation is in season! Join me in this dance of graves! Let me show you a number you’ve never seen! Finally, Man has style again! Finally, word’s meaning speaks unobscured! Finally, something more to warm my long treks, a critique for my cigarette! Heart and soul are one in those who make the out fit. If one listens closely, with a little imagination, one can tell which sense continues to grow long after what murmurs has given up the ghost. Whichever interpretation of this man might form in your mind’s eye, to do him justice, it would have to honor his sense of humor; the origin of which was – is – manifestly unapparent and without need of justification. A bad joke is better than none. Practice.

Tease to Please, Pleased to Tease – I'll show my belly if you show me yours. Take no offense, I'm not flirting – or perhaps I am, but can't imagine otherwise – I just find who resides in your head to be inseparable from your body. Relax, I critique to determine if we’re on the same page, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Can’t we act our age? Would we really need to start from first base? Fine, “There you are! I see you! Oh, where’d you go? Ha, there you are again! I see you, too!” Sex is labor without a shared sense of humor; a balanced push back to keep us from the cliff’s edge. Is it wrong of me to approach maturity as a game? Have a better way to learn? I’m all ears. Amuse me. Better yet, get a grip!

Bodily Premonitions – ‘It’s not what you don’t know that condemns, nor what you believe without reason, it’s what you’ve preached.’ ‘The value of your sacrifice anticipates a crowd; your pride precipitates feedback.’

Original Sin – Creation is not production; originality follows genesis. Procreation is not reproduction; fidelity conditions recreation.

Down and Away – The secret to rearing girls; actions have consequences.

The Floor Is Lava – The key to raising boys; words have meaning.

Live and Learn – Contradiction occurs only when growth changes direction or halts altogether.

Flying Frogs – It’s not the leap that betrays, it’s the clucking; cocks can’t remain airborne either.

Reasoned Meat – Ration reasoning and mind the exits, spoilage cannot escape taste for long.

Stove Tops – Some like it hot; love is a game of forget me not. One would think what survives a fire is calloused enough for another. Was it the smell that betrayed something was off? Or the lack of warmth?

Casual Causality – Rewarded without effort? By whom? Why? Don’t doubt it, you’re worth a carrot. “What manners! I can’t hear myself think! Weren’t you trained proper?”

Imaginary Friends – Is acquaintance bought, borrowed, bred, birthed or followed?

Liberally Literal – Should one tell you “words matter”, don’t just take their word for it. They have, without asking, forced a weapon on you. Cannibals at heart, the self-proclaimed open-minded want nothing more than to be full of themselves, but their eyes are bigger than their stomachs – “Stomachs don’t actually shrink, it merely feels like it. Just so you know!” To converse is to differ. Tonal shift only persuades those who want change. “Pardon me, condemnation is not engagement. What’s next, ‘I told you so’?”

What Does the Cow Say? – “The man wins when the woman conceives, the woman wins in marriage.” Has this ever been uttered without at least one squeal? Should the reverse ring true, apprehension merely qualifies the bleat. If one couldn’t give attention to their partner, how could either afford a child? Cows bred in captivity fare no better than pandas; the black and white confusing novelty and originality. “Produce!” says the State. “Consume!” says Society, with the same frequency. What is heard? “What are the cows saying?”

Name-Calling Nitwits – Associating what is seen or what is envisioned? Describing or ascribing? Identifying or identifying with? Cutting corners and checking boxes to master reality? What does that make reality? Found a quantity worth categorizing? Better own it! Afraid projection won’t stick? Why choose adhesive over a permanent marker to obsess over? If affection depends on what one is called, one is not distinguished enough for a proper name. The ego too fragile to be handled critically has no right being proud of vulnerability. The arrogance needed to spin gold from ethereal lead dwarfs the irony that no tolerance has grown from environmental exposure. Only the sanctioned deviants are allowed to express themselves? – “Blessed are the meek that make me look strong.” Labels, like all stereotypes, exist for a reason: as outline, not definition; as noise, not static; as pointer, not destiny – monotony is merely a hill in the midst of such range. Abstraction obliterates solidarity for conformity’s sake.

Words in Sheep's Clothing – The most charming facet of silence is the lack of promise. What better way to spoil what’s “in” than to wear it thin?

The Violence of Silence – “Oh, how the void howls! Why are these echoes growing louder?” To question is a desire to listen. Honesty pools from inner reflection.

The Eternal Echo of Tuning Forks – The uniform is – are – never more empty than when dressed. Medals jingle, metal resonates. Pitch will be brought to heel. Stay tuned.

The Neurotic's Cure – Kill yourself. Over and over. To the bone! Practice makes perfect! How clever it would be if eroticism was the treatment. Stop getting ahead of yourself! Feel the semi-colon! This is no jest ;).

Life Guards – Ignore the signs and stay your breath, the lonesome flotsam will pass. Careful, those who have lived least cling tightest. Stakes cannot be placed on rapids, even if trauma halts the current. If you’re going to jump, splash; those afraid of thirst cannot be made to last.

On Cockroaches – Why look up? As above, so below. What’s that? The edge approaches! The pressure one feels is on all sides – the separation of self from others, the inner tension of outer dimensions, the ideal dealing in realities, the dream had with another eye, the wish one hopes never comes true. If strength is a measure of burden, what has yet to lift off? What is one more step to those who have lived through so much?

Paraphrasing Sisyphus – One searches for meaning in others to give creation another sense; to research is to echo. Discovery and origination are of one tongue until language rolls off.

Saving Face – Poets expire the quickest. Or was it dentists? An animal lover informed me it was vets. If masks are checked at the exit, why so worried who left the party first?

What Do Clowns Fear? – “When I clap, they clap. When I stand, they stand. When I laugh, they laugh. Is there anything more frightening?” Only if the reaction is nothing more. Better hope embarrassment follows.

Reading People – ‘It didn’t elicit affection, which means I failed. Because I know that’s not true, I must question...’ How could one know humanity without the humanities? What is empathy without imagination? How could the articulations of the heart be less interesting? “...Forgive me if I change tact, your expression fails to match your words. Would you rather be alone?” I’m going to find out who you are, whether you’re present or not, whether or not I want to. Would our desire to be alone coincide enough to relate?

Media Literacy is Literacy – If you weren't made to think, it's not literature. If you weren't lead to question, it's not of good faith. If you weren't moved to act, it's not understood. If you aren’t wrong, why avoid the critics? How does one possess a fact? How does one relate objective? How does this opinion matter? Wait... how is literacy possible without a medium? Why can't I get hold of Understanding Media? Did it really sell out? Why does this new-fangled device insist I might not be human?

Unraveling Mortal Coils – Ego asks “To pronounce?”; conscience asks “To judge?”; consciousness asks “Who else?”; character asks “What right?”; imagination asks “Which sense?”; understanding asks “Since when?”; love asks “How long?”; madness asks “This far?” To think, or not to think, is not the question becoming of animals; to be, or not to be, is not a question marked. “Yeah, but, what does sacrifice silence?”

“The Center Cannot Hold” – How would one know? Where, exactly, is the center? Have you been to the other side? How did you arrive at such all-encompassing vantage? Centralization is a process; Pi has yet to be calculated.

What Remains – If evil exists, is it not a bad idea to think of it as absolute? Nothing damns quite like the belief one can be saved without sacrifice.

Self-Fulfilling Propositions – To sell a solution is to purchase a problem; responsibility discounted, accountability refactored.

Junkmail – Pity is love unsolicited; without proper protection, what else is lost?

The Hunter’s Retreat – “Look! These here no longer contest dominance, they no longer play! Without natural weapons, without competition, these brutes only carry on about clubs and big sticks. There is no game to be found round these parts.” Was sport always this involved? When alienation appeals to the alien, what wants to be found? Those who lose forest for trees understand better what is lost.

In Defense of Castles – No matter the number of engineers buried in your secret escape, security is not yours until the next update.

In Asses – Kings and queens sit with their asses or on their asses? Translation error or translator? Either way, error is hidden – behind. Only under squatters has a bottomless pit lacked space to breathe. When posterity is wiped away, there’s only one thing censors can be full of. Admirers are not in it for decency, but the promise of another head-sized hole.