Tuesday, April 19, 2011

March 3rd, 2626


I took Lucy to the ice-rink today. My new metal bones were wanting for exercise. Ice-skating is my favorite activity of all time, I think. Honestly, of all time. Over sex, even, and I really used to love having sex. I forget sex. But the rush I get when the cold, icy air splits in front of me as I glide across that crystal block is something I can't ever forget. It's peaceful.

It was her first time on the ice. She did great. I don't want to love this kid but I feel myself starting to. I don't want to feel vulnerable. I don't want to feel like something I love is just going to poof! out of existence. Lucy is different, though. Her laugh reaches into the depths of me and pulls my laughter out, too. Her tears become my pain. Her life is inexplicably tied to mine. She isn't even my child. She's not my Domenica. She's Lucy, though, and while I love her differently, she reminds me how in love I was with my daughter. Not how horrible I feel that my daughter no longer is. That I never knew how she died. Or when.

I kept my eyes on Lucy's black curls as she began to get the hang of the right way to glide. She got the hang of it so fast and I felt such pride. I looked around at the ice rink, down over the rails at the green field below, and thought to myself how proud I was of the rest of the world, for getting the hang of it. We fixed so many things, together. I feel such pride about our campaigns. The Under Grounder Movement, that was the one I was thinking of today. We've got everything figured out, it seems. I just can't figure out what happened to Domenica. It will never stop haunting me. Lucy reminds me of her, so very much.

So long as Domenica haunts me is so long as I'll wait it out here to find her. I never stop funding that search. But just like 200 years ago, just like 400 years ago, just like almost 600 years ago, all they know is that Domenica disappeared.


Monday, April 18, 2011

December 3rd, 2036


Here it comes. The fuse on this 9 month stick of TNT has finally been lit. The little monster's coming now. I'm leaving to go to the hospital and I thought to write quickly before I'm tortured by birthing out some screaming little ball of rapid cell division. Dijon's picking me up. My water broke. I feel disgusting. I'm in pain. She'll be here any minute and I'm packing up my stuff to go to the hospital. Which is really just this book, a dog-tag to squeeze through the pain, and a pillow with a shirt tucked in it.

I'll write as soon as this whole giving birth thing is over.

I love you, Eros. I'm scared and I'm all alone. But I'm alone only for a couple more hours. Til the big fucking kaboom! And when this thing blows I'll never be alone again.


July 20th, 2454


If it weren't for Bali, I'd forget the world. I feel my memories slipping out of my grasp every day. And when I remember, it shocks me. It scares me. The life I remember makes me fear not for myself, but of myself.

Dr. Twinn thinks I should read my journals. To jar my memory. The monitor's show my brain is fully functioning. It shows that all of my memories are there, the only problem is turning them back on. He says it looks like a "gray fog" has blanketed that area of my brain, that the fog is sharing the space where my memories are. He says he's never seen a thing quite like it. He says my prefrontal area (whatever the hell that means) is completely enshrouded by a gray fog. He says that the fog shows on the monitors but doesn't exist in any of the scans they print or samples they take and that when they laser through to my brain, there is no fog there. It just vanishes, he says. I wonder if it's my soul, protecting me. From myself.

Today I remembered the day Domenica was born. I remember how lonely it was. No Liam. No Bali. Just Frank and a ghost hand. And almost directly afterwards I remember the day she disappeared. The same day my soul disappeared. I screamed. I cried and cried. I remember not allowing myself to have that memory. It hurts to bad to think about. But I looked down at Bali and remembered and I couldn't stop the onslaught. It was a horrible memory. I never found her. And I remembered Frank's face. I remember the news. I remember how angry he looked at me. There was nothing I could do. And then I remembered Liam's pain. His fear. And I remembered when he forgot. How jealous I was, that I couldn't forget. That we couldn't die together.

And when I remembered again that I never found her, I called in Dr. Twinn, told him I was in too much pain, and took drugs to sleep through my day. My dreams were awful. I dreamt of when I was a small child, memories I have forgotten for so very very long. It was almost like a flashback. It was the day I woke up from my coma. I flashed back to when my eyes began to flicker open. In real life I remember seeing Frank's face above mine. I remember feeling fear because he seemed so evil in that moment, but I recognized it was just my own fear to wake up. In the drug-dream today, Frank was evil. It was Frank and I knew it, but there he stood over me while my eyes flicked awake with the head of a wolf, howling into the open moonlit sky. Howling out the name "Domenica". And I never woke up from that coma. I just watched him howl her name, in this dream.

Its closer to midnight now and I'm waiting for new drugs to kick in so I can sleep away these memories. I specifically asked for ones that would turn off my brain's ability to dream. I don't want to dream like that again. I told Twinn I felt less rested having had those nightmares and that I felt almost like the nightmares were replacing the actual memories. My brain, I hope, will forget the memories and the nightmares by the time I was up. For good. I hope this fog infects my prefrontal area and purges me from everything.


June 13th, 2030


I should be feeling alot more awful than I do. We had our very first fight last night. Numero Uno. I thought I'd feel alot worse about it. But the fact that we got through it without a shout, a curse, or someone feeling hurt makes me feel like this thing I have is the most special thing in the world. Our ability to communicate is remarkable. The fact that now it's afterwords and neither of us feels the slightest bit perturbed is even more remarkable.

It was my fault, Eros. I'm a dumb idiot. I'm the most obliviously blonde woman I've ever known. I just don't seem to get things, sometimes. We were in the bar. I'd been off to the side of the bar in a booth talking with my cousin Ryan who came into town for the weekend. Liam met us after work and approached us with a smile. We did some brief introductions before Liam left and made his way into the mass of people dancing around the bar. I didn't follow him. I lost Liam in the crowd for about an hour, losing myself as well in a catch-up conversation about my crazy family with Ryan. The two of us laughed alot, drank alot, and enjoyed our small reunion to the best of our ability. I assumed Liam was giving us family time and himself socializing. I didn't feel uncomfortable about the distance in the bar, figuring it didn't really matter if we were doing our own seperate thing. I was mildly curious why I didn't see his face for something over an hour, but I wasn't nervous or bothered by it. When he resurfaced, his face popping out in the thinning crowd, I noticed he was sitting at the bar alone. And I didn't go sit with him, assuming he was still doing his own thing. About twenty minutes later Ryan began to say his goodbyes and I was a little bit sad he hadn't had the opportunity to get to know Liam. I dragged him to the bar, hoping Liam would at least attempt to converse with him for a minute or so. But instead he said "It was nice to meet ya, man. See you around" and he got up and walked away. This irritated me and Ryan together and I failed to explain that this wasn't Liam's normal character. When I went back inside, Liam was gone.

I searched for him for closer to an hour. I walked around outside the bar. I checked the surrounding blocks. I called him. I checked the bathrooms, even. Then I went home. Sitting on my doorstep, apparently having skateboarded to my house, was Liam. He was angry at me because he had asked me if Ryan and I wanted to talk. Neither Ryan or myself realized he'd asked the question meaning did we want to talk with Liam, at the bar, and neither of us realized he expected our company and expected we pursue him through the crowd. And so we just sat and continued what we'd been doing. Talking. Liam thought we were ignoring him. That I was unwanting of him and his company. That I'd purposefully wanted him to go away. He was nervous because he thought I was ashamed in front of my family. He thought I cared whether Ryan would approve.

I feel happy this happened. I had the chance to assure him of me. Of how PROUD I am of him. Of my intentions. My dispositions. Ultimately, I had the chance to assure myself that we can calmly handle whatever misunderstanding may come our way. So I don't feel awful. I feel thrilled. I'm so fucking lucky. We didn't shout. No curses. No hard feelings afterwards. The only thing that was left when the dust from this little skirmish settled was two people looking at one another with alot of love in their eyes. Recognizing luck. And joy. And a reason to make doubly sure that nothing can ever come between us. A reason to follow a person to the ends of the Earth.


April 4th, 2030


I know once in a lifetime when I see it. I'm feeling almost sick about it. I'm not this lucky. I've never been. My life self-destructs far more often than it works out in my favor.

I feel like I'm gonna lose him. You know? Eros, we finish one another's sentences. We're on the same plane. At least thats how it seems. But I've been a sucker before.

I'm just waiting, now. For the bomb to go off.


Tuesday, April 5, 2011

November 20th, 2036


I really love Dijon. That woman is such an inspiration to me. I haven't thought much about naming a Godmother for this kid, but I'm going to ask her. Today, Frank got called in by a hospital two towns over. They needed all hands on deck because there was a bombing in the Brightside Commons mall. Apparently there are hundreds injured (huge mall) and the whole thing blew apart so Frank had to go be an actual doctor to people who actually need him. Dijon, upon finding out I'd be alone at my birthing practice today (which led to her finding out that I'd be alone in the birthing minus Frank whose actually delivering the kid) volunteered to be my birthing partner. Maybe its all these extra cocksucker horomones that course through my damned veins, but whatever, it made me cry. I was so touched. I was considering not going to the practice, but with only two weeks left before this kid comes, it doesn't really matter how much pain I'm in, I've gotta be prepared. Frank says I'm fine anyway, and that I don't need to be resting so much anymore. My boobs don't really hurt hurt, anyway, they just ache. And my back feels a great deal better. Dijon is saving me by coming, though, because that fucking practice is normally dreadfully boring. And she's saving this kid. And Frank. And my life. I can't thank her enough, really, for being there. For knowing me during this time of my life.

While we were in the gym, me on my back on my little purple yoga mat resting my head in Dijon's lap, we whispered over the "soothing Earth sounds" to one another, cracking jokes about our flamboyantly gay birthing instructor. I mean, the flamboyant gay thing is fine. In this day and age, gay and flamboyant is just as normal as happily married and Catholic. But the fact that a flamboyant gay man is trying to teach me how to shoot a fetus out of my uterus with a spandex shirt and poncho pants on, well thats fucking funny. Then we started cracking jokes about the couple next to us, two of the most wildly obese mongoloids I've ever seen in my life. We felt horrible making fun of them so much, but I mean come on. The woman farted. And throughout the room her fresh ass odor permeated and infested all of our noses and Dijon and I, at that point, lost our shit and just couldn't stop laughing. Those poor people. It was one of the most soothing of all the sessions I've ever gone to simply because I soothed all the pent up douchebagginess I've been harboring in my soul. Without Liam to joke with, I've felt so pent up. Frank can't joke so much with me. He's so serious all the time, about my health and my sanity and about the little monster, that he forgets that I'm his friend. Dijon gave me such relief today. If for that alone, I'm eternally grateful.

After the practice ended I asked if she'd allow me to take her to lunch. We went to C'est La Vie, this little bar on the outskirts of Santa Fe that I discovered the other night during one of my moonlight walks. Of course I'm not drinking, but I went in for an apple juice because I needed the atmosphere. It is much cooler of a place in the daytime. I led her to a booth in the corner and we talked over the gentle sounds, actually soothing sounds, of a little mexi man playing a bitty guitar. I swear, Spanish guitar does to me what nothing else in the world can do. Santa Fe has taught me one thing, at least. I love the guitar. We got some virgin cocktails (I know, how gay?) and I listened to Dijon tell me the most inspirational of stories. She comes from San Diego. When she was three years old she moved there from Connecticut with her drug addict mother who was fleeing from her abusive father. She's never met him. Once in San Diego, her mom found that the escape she had wanted, from the drugs and the abuse, was only doubly bad on the West Coast. Drugs are harder there, easier to come by, and everyone who lives there is trying to escape from something. So they're all crazy. They're all on drugs. They're all struggling and poor. Of course her mother got mixed up in the wrong crowd, almost right away, until she was freebasing two or three heroin pills every couple of hours. Dijon was left on her own most of the day while her mom was busy being high. And then her mom met Wiley. Wiley the fucking coyote. Thats what he called himself. Wiley Coyote. His real name was Wiley Marlou, but that fucker thought himself Wiley Coyote and thats how Dijon remembers him. He supported Dijon and her mom, they all moved into an apartment together, and while Wiley and Marjorie (the mom) got high and banged one another in the bathroom, Dijon grew up largely fending for herself. She remembers a lot of loneliness from those days, she says. Anyway, Dijon was eight the first time Wiley raped her. He raped her a hundred more times, she said, than she can remember. Those were her words. "Over and over, he'd rape me. While my mom was out scoring drugs, he'd tie me down and mouth rape me. Or he'd hold me against the wall and stick his dirty cock in my vagina". Her anger about the whole thing is so obvious in her words, and rightfully so. A year went by before he'd started to do things that would mark her. He'd sometimes hit her, or pinch her, and finally he ass raped her. And for two days she couldn't walk or move. The toilet water was bloody and so Marjorie freaked out and thought Dijon was starting her period. Bought her pads and tampons and all the like. Little did she know, the stupid cunt. Wiley fucking Coyote.

The situation came to a head when Dijon killed him. I'm not joking. She stabbed him to death. One day when Dijon was twelve years old, Marjorie (who was now a working drug addict instead of just a drug addict) was gone for the evening and Wiley started his, what Dijon calls "new sadistic rape ritual". He would tie up her arms and tie up her legs so that she hung from the kitchen ceiling in a U shape. And he'd rape her in the butt while she hung like that. So sickening. And he left the kitchen to take a shit. Thinking Dijon was tied up tightly, that fucking asshole. But as he stopped supporting her weight the knots in the ropes slackened instead of tightened up. Dijon recalls the moment lucidly, describing how the unraveling of the ropes was almost magical, almost like she was willing it so, until she had her hands freed. She says the hardest thing in the world was trying to stay bent in that U shape with no support, untying her feet. But she got herself free. She didn't describe her killing him in detail, for which I'm grateful. I'd surely have had a panic attack. Anxiety. But she told me that she calmly walked to the drawer, took out the sharpest and biggest knife she could find and attacked him while he sat there, vulnerable and shitting. After that she went directly to the police, obvious evidence of the rape on her rope-burned hands and with all his genetics on the places he'd touched her. She sued her mother for negligent parenting by the time she was sixteen. She was put into the custody of her Godmother after her mother's swift arrest and placement in county. And she has never spoken with her mother since. Marjorie is dead, now, but before she died she would send Dijon a letter every single day. I don't think that Dijon ever read a single one. She says she just put them into a box and left them untouched.

I have never been more sure of a person in my entire life. I haven't wanted a Godmother for my kid. But if there is one person in this whole world I trust with my little monster's life, its her. I've got so much respect for her I feel like I'm overflowing with it. And I think when we left the bar she knew that. So tomorrow I'm gonna take her to dinner, I think, and ask her if she'd do me the honor. I hope that Frank is not offended that I don't ask him to be the Godfather. I love Frank, he's my best friend, but something tells me he wouldn't be up for the job. Anyway, I'll write again tomorrow with details of whether I go through with it. For now, I'm exhausted. Love you, Eros. Sorry I've been so aloof lately. I'm just...hurting more than normal.


Thursday, March 31, 2011

November 26th, 2015

Hey Eros,

So I guess that Dr. McCord thought that my brain was damaged and thats why they kept me all of those days in that hospital but finally some tests came back or something and they say that my brain is okay. I was really happy when I found out this news because who really wants to have a bad brain? But my brain is okay, they say, besides that I have some really bad "anxiety disorders" and now instead they want to take me into the hospital for another lot of days so that they can test my heart. They think that because my brain isn't bad my heart is bad. So now I have to go and sit in that boring hospital all over again and I found out and started to cry because I can't go to school then and thats not fair. I know, right? What kid wants to go to school so bad they cry? Maybe I'm just so afraid of the hospital and doctors that I don't want to go but I don't know and I don't care I just really wish this weren't happening to me at all. Watch I go and stay there all those days and it turns out there isn't anything wrong with my heart at all and instead they think now there is something wrong with my stomach. So they keep me in the hospital forever. Its all a plot to try and keep me in a hospital that they disguise as a hospital but really its just a place to stick all the crazy kids like me to keep them away from all the normal kids like Chelsea. I wish so bad I were normal. They'll give me all that medicine that made me feel funny again and I don't like that because I have bad dreams when that happens.

I wonder if Dr. McCord will even be my doctor this time? Maybe some other weird old man will be? I hope it's Dr. McCord.


September 27th, 2100


Today I found out that there is no hope. My hands have got to get chopped off. I've been putting it off, the inevitable, but they've gotta go. No more skin grafts. No more botox to make them look younger. My ashy hands need to be removed. They are too old to survive eternity with me.

I think that these are the hardest things for me to give up. How many hours have I spent with a pen between these fingers, writing to you? These hands were the ones that held Liam's, before he died. And Domenica's. They are me. I've begged and begged to put this off. Doctors, so pretentious. They know everything.

They don't know how much these hands mean to me.

Shit, take my right hand. Who am I kidding? Lying to you, Eros, is lying to myself. I don't give a damn about my hands. I don't. I don't give a damn about any of these body parts. Take them all, Father Time! I don't want them.

My ring finger, though. That is not yours to take. It'll be a bitter fight, Mr. Time, if you try to take that fucking finger from me.

I've tried to reason this one out, Eros. I knew it was coming at some point. The day they'd say, hey Lynn you gotta get rid of those hands. I knew it would happen. All the limbs will go eventually. All the organs will get switched out. All the skin will be regrown. My hair, my face, everything I was born with will be reborn from the donations of someone dead or the happy gifts of science. But none of them will be my own. I CANNOT give up my ring finger though. I don't know what to do about it, but this finger is my truth. Its that bond. I made that bond with a man and I don't intend to break it. Ever. Marriage is a sanctum and I will not defy it. Never. I can't let them cut me off from that tattoo. My faded black feather. I've never gotten it touched up for a reason. Its timeless. But I can't live with a dead finger on my hand. It would wither and crumble to bits. I'm not stupid. I know it has to go. But what the fuck can I do to keep it? Besides die with it?


Tuesday, March 29, 2011

November 17th, 2036


Recovery. I'm throbby. My body is throbbing. I just came out of an extensive surgery. I should feel throbby. I'm calm, though, and not feeling that much pain. Its numb pain, if that makes any sense at all. Medication is my friend. A good friend. It feels so comforting to know that I am in recovery. No more stress about the impending surgery, for starts. And no more hatred at myself, or self-consciousness. More importantly, there is no more fear. Bless you, surgery, for delivering me from that fear.

If he came here, now, I'd still hide. This lump in my stomach, a kicking reminder of why I'm still detached from the man I love, keeps me from thinking that I could ever face him. But with new breasts, better breasts, in fact, I feel as if it isn't a total impossibility to look at him face to face, one more time. I'll never try to find him, but if he found me (after this little thing is born) I wouldn't run away. I'd talk to him, and explain, and maybe try to reason it out for myself.

Cancer free. Fresh boobs. A kid whose less than a month from existing. Recovery. One more trial until I can recover for good, pick up the pieces, and start somewhere new. Because Lord fucking knows that I need to be free from Santa Fe. I love this city. My friends are wonderful. I'll miss Dijon and Rolando especially. Those little fuckers have been so nice to me. Frank and I are thinking to keep West for a new home. I'm particularly fond of the idea of Portland, but Frank is desperately trying to convince me that Alaska would suit us well. He thinks that teaching this new kid some resilience would be great for it.

I wonder if it'll be a boy or a girl. My gut tells me its a girl. I fucking hate little girls. But I love this little monster inside of me, regardless of whether its a boy or a girl or really an actual monster. I hope it never knows that its father hated it. I'm so so sure he'd hate it. If it were ever made known to him. But I'll run forever to spare him ever knowing. I hope he isn't drinking too much. I'm sure he is. Maybe at this point he's over it. I hope so. It's been so long. Eight months. I never thought I could make it this long without him. I should have taken a picture with me. It would help me in this recovery, I think, to know his face again. I can't bring myself to go onto the internet because I know I'll see his face. I've eliminated all evidence of him from my phone and I've blocked myself from his number, his mailbox, and his Facebook. I'm certain he hasn't tried to find me. I know, though, that he's been keeping tabs on my bank account. Every so often the almost impossible to drain amount of money I have in my account increases into an even less impossible amount to drain. You know how much I worried at first that the spending would put him on my trail. He hasn't been, though, which makes me feel relieved. I half wish he would try to find me, but logic reminds me that I don't actually wish for that at all. Maybe less logic and more fear. I dunno. I just wonder what his thought will be when he sees this price leave my account. The name of the facility is listed there, clearly, with Dr. Frank's name. I hate this law. Requiring me to give hints as to where I am. If he finds me from anything, it will be from this. Fuck you, government. You're gonna blow my spot and I'm gonna be PISSED. I wonder what he'll think I've been spending money on.

Shit, Eros, it feels so nice just to sit here and let my brain think. I've avoided thinking. It feels nice to be able to recover. To think it all out. The only thing that helped me was these new boobs. They are my savior. This little kid'll appreciate a mom with boobs. They feel nice, too. Well done, Frank, my friend. Well done. You've saved me.


Monday, March 28, 2011

August 14th, 2036


They're gone. My breasts have been removed. I'm flat-chested. I'm mannish. I'm incomplete.

An essential part of my being, the me I was born as and born to be, has been removed. I'm not a woman anymore. I can never see Liam again. Never. I always half hoped that I could maybe get rid of this kid and run home to Liam. Then I saw a mirror.

Frank came in, humble and supportive as ever, to ask me how I was feeling and if I'd like to learn to check the bandages. It's the first time I've seen him. He didn't have to say "Everything went well, Lynnie". Thats fucking obvious. Blatantly, boldly obvious that I am boobless. Anyway, I just kind of nodded and he began showing me what to do in a mirror and as we together unraveled me so I could learn how to care for the hole in my chest it became stunningly apparent how wrong my chest looks physically, let alone feels. I am a horror to behold. Liam could have never loved me if this is how I looked that day at the golf club.

I immediately started to cry. Huge, fat fucking tears came pouring out of me when I saw myself. It was the confirmation that leaving Liam was the right thing. Until now, it never felt like the right thing. I thought I could somehow find my way home. But nope. I'll likely never see Liam again. So I cry.

Three craters in my chest.

August 2nd, 2113


Dreaming is not a good thing. My dreams were riddled with things last night. I saw a city burn. I watched Liam love another woman. I was beaten until my vision was blurry. I remember feeling incredulous that in a dream, one's vision can blur. I remember crying. I cried and cried, standing on a balcony watching people jumping from burning buildings. I remember trying to kill myself, too, but being stopped over and over because Liam was there, holding me back. But then he'd beat me. He beat me and beat me and beat me and I remember how much that pain wracked my body. He nearly killed me. But then when I tried to die, he said no. And I just watched as this fire raged throughout the city and all the people jumped to their deaths and I knew I was trying to kill myself because when I died, they would all stop dying. The fire would stop blazing and everyone would be free. But Liam kept me there, alive, and I couldn't break free from his grasp. And he would beat me, then run away and touch heads with another woman, a fierce lion of a woman, and I hated everything. And in my pain I broke free and drowned myself in a pool of water.

I'm on medication, to help me sleep, after the surgery I just had. I needed some new phalanges. New fingers and maybe I can play the guitar! But, for some reason, this surgery has left me unable to sleep. Not for some reason. For a reason. New fingers. A reminder of the one piece of me I didn't burn. Who fucking taxidermies their own fucking finger? Me. So they gave me sleeping pills and pain killers and here I am, recovering, and I can't stop having this fucking dream.

I miss you, my Liam.

August 2nd, 2075


Liam died.


February 14th, 2626

Happy Valentines Day, Eros!

Its your day! I wish you were real and could celebrate with me. You know? That would be nice. To see you. You're so real to me. Maybe that makes me insane, that the invisible person I write to seems more real to me than most of the people that I encounter in a day. But you've been here so much longer than they have. I wish you could have a physical form, because I'd love to go out to dinner with someone tonight.

I'm stuck babysitting. I hate children. They make me lonlier.

I'm so fucking lonely, Eros. Today, I am lonely. I want to love again. I have feelings still, but I can't love anymore.

Sadeem and Joelle wanted to go out to La Piedra Que Canta tonight and I'm a stupid idiot and decided to offer to watch Lucy. I like Joelle. She seems a good fit for Sadeem. I just can't imagine the pain he'll suffer when she passes. And Lucy. I mean, I can remember. I just can't imagine it again. Makes me shiver. Lucy's a cute kid, too. She's got Joelle's eyes, surprisingly. Big pretty green eyes, and long long curly locks of beautiful black hair. She'll land herself a very good looking man, someday. For now, she's content to hang with me, bake cookies, and play in the D.O.M.E. I love to do these things. But its making me remember things I shouldn't. And that makes me nervous. Because when I remember things I shouldn't, I do things I shouldn't. Dr. Gresh will not be happy if I continue to remember.

Ah, Eros, I wish it were you and I at La Piedra Que Canta, eating a romantic dinner together. Candle lit. Cozy. I wish you were here. I'm sad, Eros. I wish Liam never left me alone.


March 28th, 2499


I came across an old song today. I'd like to write down the lyrics.

Blackbird signing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly.
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see.
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free.
Blackbird, fly.
Blackbird, fly, into the light of a dark, black night.
Blackbird, fly.
Blackbird, fly, into the light of a dark, black night.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly.
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.


Thursday, March 24, 2011

April 16th, 3024


I've been thinking about it. Again.

I've also been thinking about the bubbles. Our cities. Our little bubble atmospheres. And the moon. I'd like to go again, before I really go. You know?

Since, I've been thinking about it. I know, Eros, I shouldn't. Life is precious and mine is particularly important. I know that. The world likes to see someone immortal. If only Jasper hadn't of offed himself, there'd be us two. I'm the only one, though. After Sadeem killed himself, I thought for sure Jasper'd make it through. I'm the only one of us left. I wonder, you know, when I meditate, whether their souls are still alive. I think mine died. Definitely. My soul. I'm not me. I'm just an organism existing unnaturally, against the will of some higher power. I know I'll be punished, if there is a heaven or a hell. Maybe my soul is already being punished in hell somewhere. Since it's not in me anymore. It was so long ago when I had a soul. I remember it, I think. It might once have been a pretty yellow soul. Maybe even gold. But its dead. The only part of me I couldn't ever capture in a little glass vial, to display on my shelf like a fucking trophy. So everyone can see how much of a fucking freak I am. A genuine freak of nature.

According to nature, I am not real.

I'm not real, anyway. I barely feel. I'm just a collection of coiled up data, being rewritten on repeat even as we speak. I'm a library of amino acids. Thats all. I forget my memories.

Eros. I'm thinking I'm going to kill myself, soon. Dead. D.E.A.D. Dead.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

July 2nd, 2579


I'm going to get an organic regenerative heart! Thats the best news I've gotten in a long time!

So, I've been speaking to alot of the other board members and we've all agreed that moving the Universal Library underground is a really wretched idea. Who knows how the humididy or pressure below the surface will effect the pages? Those are sacred. To risk damage in any way to those pages would be lunacy. They are the last.

I'm helping the urban designers tomorrow to plan out the New Worldwide Library system. We'll all have universal access. What a great thing! I predict that membership renewals will skyrocket. Annual fees may rise, but so will our member rates. We'll have reqruited the entire world as our members, soon enough. Its access to everything! At all times! In all places! Any book that has entered the stream will be available to anyone, anytime, anywhere, so long as they pay their dues. Its an incredible feat of political manuevering on the board's part.

Worldwide access. Equality in books. I suppose the rightful place for the first truly equal system worldwide should exist among books. The existence of intelligent thought wouldn't exist without them. I'm proud of this, Eros. I am. I feel good, I think.


October 3rd, 2070


Dr. Samsel told me that my new heart is beating slightly irregularly, but that in time, with exercise, it will pace itself. I suppose it's only fitting, that my new heart beats off key. Liam can't remember me and no amount of money can bring him back from this. My heart, the dead one, used to beat in tune with his. We were a single melody strumming forever long within the acoustic chambers of our breasts, where our hearts pumped life to the rest of us. Me and Liam. A single beating cell. But he can't remember me, and he's gonna die soon. And my heart is charred into ashes. So this new one beats of key. Makes sense.

You'd figure they'd have cured alzheimers by now, wouldn't you Eros? What the fuck, technology? Get your head in the game.

Of course I'm miserable. Everything I love is dead. My heart is gone. Literally. Its cremated. Sitting right next to my old tits in a tiny vial. Bits of collected, burned up pieces of me. One day I'll see myself dead, in vials.

Of course I'm depressed, Eros. I can't shake this. My life, that one I lived already, is over. I'm starting a new one now. Who knows what will happen. My life with Domenica and Liam and Bali, that happiness has been spent. I lived it. I probably deserve the depression, you know, because of all the shit I've pulled. Especially since Domenica. And you know me, Eros. As soon as I don't have Liam to live for anymore, I'm gonna do it all over again. Rampage. The classier version of a rampage. Trouble, trouble, trouble. I feel it brewing. Each irregular beat of this new heart is one more notch on the belt of trouble I feel myself about to cause. Sorry, Dr. S. No, theres no pacing myself.


August 10th, 2036

Eros, today will break me.

I'm starting to show a little bit. A little over 4 months pregnant. You know, it strikes me as fucking ridiculous that a pregnant lady is not gonna have the most important of body parts after this kid is born. Her boobs. After I found out that Dr. Frank thought both needed to go, to be safe, I rescheduled my surgery. 3 days away and my womanhood will only show through this mutant growth protruding from within my uterus. I'm getting the chills just thinking about the rapid cell division happening inside me. I feel like a freak show already. Boobless and pregnant. Sounds like a bad, weird tranny porno or something. So bye bye boobies in 3 days. I can't wait...not.

I can't help but be bitter today. Its fucking hot out. The water ration is fucking annoying me. Frank is being extra attentive, knowing what today is, and thats annoying me, too. I want to drink a lot of alcohol and this little baby in my stomach is preventing me from doing that. "Please Mommy, I don't want Fetal Alcohol Syndrome! So please don't drink that whiskey". But I'm staring really hard at that whiskey. I love this little fucknugget too much to drink it. But I want it. And thats annoying me.

I wonder what he's doing with himself. If I weren't pregnant I'd be drinking myself into an oblivion. I imagine thats exactly what he's doing. He deserves it. I can't even think what other things he might be doing to forget this pain, but if I were him I'd grab me some prostitutes and get laid, drunk, and maybe high. But I'm pregnant. So I can't do that. I can get laid, but I'm pregnant and that just makes me not feel like it. WHICH IS ANNOYING ME. It's not Liam, anyway. Sex with anyone else is an incredulous thought. But I figure for him, at this point, he hates me so much that sex with everyone else is a way to get revenge. He deserves it. I can't even be mad in my imagination, because I know that even with all these imaginary hookers, Liam deserves whatever outlet he can find to feel better. Because I know he feels bad. And I know I did it. I want him to feel better, whatever it takes. Especially today.

6 years. 6 years we're married, today. He hasn't sent me divorce papers yet. I'm leaving that to him, though, because I figure if it were me I'd want to process, get angry, and mail those papers as a declaration. "You're a fucking bitch, Lynn. I hate you, you ruined everything. Die! Die! Die!". And I think he deserves that, too.

I just WISH so so much that he were here, today. More than any other day. Today I need my Liam. Who I guess is no longer mine. But I'm still his. And I really really really miss him. So much that I can feel it inside of me. Like a little bundle in the back of my head, pulsing.


June 12th, 2029


I guess it's really happening. Today we bought our plane tickets. To Vegas we go. We're leaving on August 5th and coming home on August 11th. Liam wants to book a chapel in advance. I think we should just wing it when we get there. The right place, I think, will illuminate itself for us amidst the lights of the most illuminated city in the world. I think.

I know how crazy this is. When I look back on my life, future me, I'm going to tell myself how crazy this all was. But my life without Liam seems not a life at all. We're connected. I know that its insane. Fuck, we haven't even tried to move in together yet. And I doubt we will, when all this is said and done, until other things in both of our lives pan out. Like finishing school. And securing a career. Or something. I don't know. I'm gonna ride my parent's coattails until there are none left to ride. So moving in isn't really something I think about as serious, anyway.

But getting married, somehow, is serious. And real. And insane. But not really insane at all. The only insane thing about it is that I feel any fear to begin with. This is something special. Once in a lifetime. True beyond the truest of things. If I allow myself to do what I do, be anxious and fearful at this thing I don't understand, that would be insanity. I won't do that, though, so long as I've got Liam's hand in mine. A 98.6 degree reminder that this warmth I feel isn't going to burn out or die away. So long as there is a pulse, every beat of me will sing with Liam's rhythm.

So. August. What's up, married life?

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

February 22, 2777


I took of my eye bandages today. No more headaches. Blessed doctors, who take away my pain. I have another set of perfect blue eyes. My vision is clear. I feel like I can go outside, tomorrow, and engage in healthy activity. I will bring Bali. I ate my nuts for breakfast and drank my milk, like the doctors have ordered I do to make sure I have healthy amounts of natural protein and calcium. I like this diet. It makes me feel healthy. Increased chances of survival, with good health. Not that that matters anymore.

Today I spent reading. I read the first two acts of King Lear. I think that of the Shakespeares, this is my favorite of his works. I think it is his greatest accomplishment. They've, through the Loooking Glass, been able to see him at his work. I wish I could have known him, he seems like an interesting fellow.

Eros. I wish I had more to write. I don't. My eyes are healthy. Thats all.


June 12, 2036


Santa Fe is beautiful. There's no denying that. The reds and oranges and yellows are rare and mesmerizing. The warmth is sometimes extreme and yet I somehow find that I love the way it plays across my cracked skin. I love the atmosphere here, with the art and culture from the Native Americans, the Mexicans, and the good ol' U.S.A. It's a humble mixture of three fundamental parts of the American spectrum, as fundamental as red and orange and yellow are to the rainbow.

I don't travel much outside of the city. Frank and I just stay around town. We're trying to blend in. Our history is mildly fabricated but it is widely known among our friends here that I left because of my cancer, that I was hiding from an ex whose child I am bearing, and that I don't want to be contacted by my old life. I haven't heard from my father yet, or Arty, and I have no idea if Liam is trying to find me or not. Frank has taken up a different name, too, and my loyalty to him through all of this has grown at such an exponential rate I can't explain the feeling. I owe this man everything. I love him so much, as my father, friend, and trusted doctor, and promised myself that if this child is a boy, he'll bear Frank's name. If it's a girl, her middle name will be Francis. I owe him all of me.

I'm beginning to feel less depressed, though. The cancer, it seems, hasn't spread from my breast. I've been taking steps to have it removed. Who cares how mangled I look with one boob? I'll be alive to raise this kid, if all goes right. I may not die from this fucking cancer. I've named Frank in my will as guardian, just in case. But he is very optimistic.

The only complaint I have about Frank is that he keeps urging me to go home. "Liam loves you, Lynnie. So, so much. He won't care that you have cancer. And I'll bet my last dollar that he will love this child, too. He is heartbroken. He needs to know where you are, that you're safe. You need to go home to him, Lynnie. You owe him, as his wife". I know I owe him, Eros. I just can't go home. What if I die? I can't let him watch me die from this. I know he'd want to fight it with me, but I can't let him do that. I need him to start moving on, just in case. And the kid? I know he doesn't want that. I want his life to be the dream he always envisioned. My dream got railed, hard, but his doesn't have to. His dreams and hopes and aspirations can still come to fruition. I don't need to hinder them with cancer or some turd baby. So I can't ever go back.

The longing to go back, though, is killing me. I dream of him every night. I stole his shirt, his black pin-striped button down that he wears to casual dinners or affairs thats covered in his scent and reminds me so much of the him I love to look at. I sleep with it over my face, drinking in his smell. Its fading. It will be rags before I stop trying to glean the last bit of him out of it that I can.

Santa Fe, huh? Who'd have thought I'd have wound up here. I hate the heat.

May 24th, 2454


Dr. Twinn is a cock sucker. I want to shoot myself. Only once in my life have I recieved news of this magnitude. And I've had a loooonnggggggggg fucking life. Of course it was the time I found out about Domenica and my first cancer.

Today, Dr. Twinn told me I might lose all my memories. All of them. Possibly. Because he cut across a piece of my brain tissue he wasn't supposed to. Dr. Frank would have known. He would have done it right. But Dr. Twinn fucked this up so bad.

I might lose Liam. I might lose Domenica. Their faces and the memory of them might exist only within these journals if my brain tissue can't grow back on its own. Because, since Twinn didn't cut the right place, the tissue needs to be regrown within my head. Or else it can't be regrown. Which means all of my memories may not be able to be synced into my brain. The chip their going to insert can, at this point, only digitize and database my memories for a computer to understand. The files can be saved on a computer. But my brain is, basically, the main storage facility or something. So the computer can only process what I know already. I need to know the shit, still.

So basically if my tissue isn't exactly correct, in every fucking cell, then poof! There goes Liam. All that will be left of the man I love will be that haze that lingers when a puff of smoke disperses. I cannot and will not lose Liam to a puff of smoke. And Domenica? She's a part of me. Literally. She was me. She grew from me. How in the hell can I lose her? Thats not even a thought. I can't do this, Eros. I can't live without them. They are me. Just as much as you are me. Help me, Eros.


May 7th, 2036


Dr. Frank might kill me for leaving, but I know I have to go. I'm going West, into the desert somewhere I think. The warm weather will probably help me. I'm going to see him tomorrow to tell him about it. He's like a father to me. I know this will crush him. But I know at the same time he'll support me and do everything he can to help me. Pudgy little guy. If he cries, I'll lose my shit. I'm not packing yet. But I am drafting a letter to Liam. They are easily the hardest words I've ever had to type. This is what it looks like, so far:

My Liam,

I love you, you know. I am yours, no matter how much you're going to hate me after this. My heart is wrenched in two directions, Liam, and I want you to know that I don't do this without you at the forefront of my considerations.

I have something to tell you that is going to break your heart. Since I can't bear to watch your heart break in two, I'm writing you this letter hoping to spare myself the suffering. I can't watch myself lose you, especially this way. I'm sorry I've kept this hidden for so long but finding the courage to run from the warmth of your arms has not been, as you can well imagine, an easy thing. Especially because my home is in your arms.

Liam, I am pregnant. Liam, I have breast cancer. Liam, I am leaving you.

I have to leave you to spare you the burden of the first two of those three things. I can't give up this child. I have to fight a battle that shouldn't be yours as well. I know you don't want kids and so I am protecting you from this one. And maybe I'll die from this cancer, with a kid in the world that I know you don't want. My only hope is that you'll never have to suffer from either this child or this cancer. So I am leaving to prevent you from ever having to.

God, you know how much I love you. This is the hardest thing for me to do. I'm changing my cell, my credits, and my GPS. I'll keep the same mailbox, Liam, but please don't feel obligated to contact me. I understand that this will crush you, so please know I am sorry that I have chosen this child instead.

Ugh. that sounds so bad. This child instead. It isn't like that. I just can't bear the thought of killing some little creature just because I don't feel like having it. I fucking hate kids. But here I am, having to have one. I'd adopt the thing out, but with the government regulations on adoption parents, I can't imagine that Liam wouldn't come after me or try to find me. He is going to be angry and sad and hurt and lonely and I need to stay hidden from him. I hope that Bali can comfort him.

Eros, is this right? Am I going to regret this for the rest of my life? Probably. How can I really leave Liam. Its not even love anymore. Its something more. Something bigger. Something that just....is. We're a plane of existence. Not two worlds to be shared. We are one. And I have to WRENCH myself away. I don't think I can.


November 17th, 2015


I don't really know how to explain the past couple of days and I know I didn't write at all and I'm sorry but I was really busy and I was in the hospital and stuff and so I didn't really have the time.

The day after I freaked out at school I went into school and they sent me home with a letter to give to my mom. I wanted to read it really bad. It was unopened and it looked really easy to snoop in. So I almost did it. I looked and looked and tried to convince myself that I could read the letter and get away with the whole thing but I knew if I read the letter it would be painted all over my face and my mom would know the minute I gave it to her that I had read the letter and she'd be mad and yell at me. So I just left it in my brand new blue bookbag, finally a Jansport and not some lame bookbag with flowers all over it or something dumb. When I got home I gave my mom the letter (which she thought I read anyway because it was opened and I thought to myself, well that was stupid of you) and she started to cry and she hugged me alot. I still don't know what that stupid letter said.

So the day after that I didn't go to school. Instead I went to a doctor's office. His name is Dr. Frank M. McCord. He just sat there trying to get to know me the whole time I was sitting in this puffy red chair he had in his office and I thought that was weird because when I go to the doctor they put a cold thing on my back to hear my heart and prescribe me some cough medicine and then charge my mom 5$. They don't care who I am. We just talked and stuff and it was really lame and I wanted to go home but my mom said if I stayed and didn't make a big deal about anything she'd take me out to the movies. And there is sequel coming out soon to the Kung-Fu Aliens movie that I really want to see, so I'm going to make her take me to see that. And then Dr. Frank M. McCord told me I wouldn't be going to school for a few days and at first I thought was was totally awesome but then he told me I would be spending a few days in the hospital getting tests done to my brain and then it wasn't so awesome anymore and I was angry at my mom for tricking me because she knows how I feel about brains. Especially my own brains.

So I haven't been able to write until today because my mom kept on forgetting my journal at home so I couldn't write, but I did have my gameboy and I got to play a lot of Pokemon. I had my own room there and stuff and I wasn't around any smelly old people or anything but I didn't get to do anything fun or go outside and they put a lot of medicine in me and they made me sit very still in these big machines so they could take pictures of my brain and even once they had to drill into my eyeballs to get a picture of a part of my brain they couldn't see unless they drilled into my eyeballs. it wasn't like a drill drill just a little laser thingy that I had to hold my eyes really wide open so they could insert it into my head. Ah! I don't like these past couple days.

The only really good thing about these past couple days has been Dr. Frank. He was my only visitor on one of the days since my mom was working really late and my dad who never stops working couldn't make it on his way home at 12 o'clock at night so Dr. Frank came. He spent almost all day with me that day, and most of the other days with me, too. My only other visitors were Arty and Max, who drove over in his car. I didn't tell Max what happened. I only told him not to worry about me and I was in the hospital but would be back soon. So he went to my house and demanded that Arty take him to visit me because he said that no one should ever be in the hospital without a friend. I love him. But other than that it was just me and Dr. Frank. We played apples to apples and monopoly and he lost at monopoly but thats because I cheat when I play that game, but he beat me at spit every time. He tried to teach me chess but thats boring so we went to the kitchen and helped the chef's cook instead. I really like him he is a really nice man and I think that if it weren't for him I might have had more anxiety attacks than I did. I only had one that I can remember, which was after this man in a purple coat walked past my door about a zillion times and looked in at me with these black eyes and I thought he probably wanted to murder me which is one of my biggest fears, being murdered. So thank God for Dr. Frank.

Anyway Eros, I don't have much else to write now but I'm glad that I am home. I have to go and see Dr. Frank again every day for a while because I think he's still testing my brain, but I get to go back to school in two days and so I'm really happy because I miss Chelsea a lot. She didn't know I was in the hospital but I can't wait to tell her about the weirdo who lived next door to me who never stopped licking things. I never got close to her, I didn't wanna get licked too. LOL! And I get to go outside with Max later, so I'm happy. We're going to explore a patch of woods around the corner we just learned about. I can't wait!

Love you, Eros,

May 6th, 2036


Grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

All I can do is pray, Eros. Liam is going to be crushed. I am crushed. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I can't tell him. Thats impossible. I just have to beat this cancer and then have this kid and only then can I tell Liam, after its all over. But I have to tell him about the kid. I can't hide that. I've never lied to Liam before. Ever. I've never kept anything from him this big. A surprise party. Thats the biggest secret I've ever kept from him. What if he leaves me? Because I haven't told him yet.

Its just, how the hell am I supposed to tell him this? How? Please, Eros, help me, because I can't even believe that its possible to form the words on my toungue. I can never say them. Its not in me. I can write them, maybe, but how cruel is that?

Dear Liam, the love of my life,
I've got cancer. I'm having your kid. Deal with it.
Your Lynn, the shithead who couldn't say it to your face.

But the more I think about it, the more appealing a letter becomes. I CANNOT handle the look of rejection he might have on his face. I cannot handle him leaving me. A. because I lied. Well, not exactly lied, just withheld pertinent information. B. because I'm having a baby I know he doesn't want. But I'm having it. C. because I have the big fucking C. And am having a baby at the same time. And could jeapordize the little thing growing in me because I have cancer in my fucking boob. And am too stubborn to say, hey baby you probably shouldn't come into this world through this hyper-contaminated vessel.

Letter it is. Maybe I'll run away, too, after I write it, and avoid the horrified look I'll see in his eyes, followed by the rejection, followed by the pain he'll feel, followed by the pain I'll feel, followed by...I don't know, some other awful feeling I know I'll see expressed across his perfect tan face just to reassure me that his love for me is dead. I can see the love die in his crystal blue eyes.


Please grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.


Sunday, March 13, 2011

April 13th, 2029


This can't really be happening to me, you know? It can't. This kind of connection, this kind of love, well it's not really possible. This shit is storybook. I live in the real world. But here I am in the clouds, me and Liam together, and I can't believe this is happening to me.

We've only been dating for a short time. He told me he loved me. And today, Eros, he asked me to marry him. For a while he's been leaving me hanging on these silly quips, like "Let me take you to Vegas and convince you to marry me" or something like that. A few days ago he even went so far as to make it a suggestion "One day, when I buck up the courage enough to actually ask you, I'm going to take you away and marry you". My brain, I think, can't handle these things. No, it definitely cannot. I couldn't even register that this might be something he was serious about. I still can't register that he really, truly asked. Playful banter. Thats all I could ever let my brain think any of those silly quips were. The first time he mentioned marriage I ignored it. I couldn't think of an adequate response to a suggestion that to me seemed like a joke. The subsequent times he mentioned it I failed at making a joke back at him because well, maybe he wasn't joking. Finally I told him "We can talk about that when I get to the bottom of you". Liam is mysterious, but hes no longer a mystery to me. I've been digging at him to tell me more of his past and experiences. He's been reluctant. Rightfully so. He took me through his old boarding school two days ago. He told me all about his life as a child there. He was tortured in school. Up until the time he was an 18 year old boy at that school, he was picked on, bullied, and brutally tortured in the locker rooms by the evil boys he boarded with. Princeton kids, I guess, will be that way. When we got to the end of the tour he broke down. Crying. I hate when men cry. It skeeves me out. But I was there for him, consoling and understanding, able to let go of the skeevy feeling and in order to let myself feel compassion and only compassion while he told me how his headmaster raped him. Bye bye mystery. I know him, now, all his life and experiences and now all of his trials, and the biggest most painful part of himself he has chosen to share with me. So I know him. Even just in the act of choosing me, I learned more about him and about how he and I fit than I ever knew before. Until then all those marriage proposals were just silly quips. He said them, again and again, and I put a mental blockade up to prevent myself from thinking "Oh hey, he might be serious". So I kept on thinking "Nah, he's not serious". But I think he's serious. And now I can be serious, too.

Liam and I, we work. We want the same things. To travel, to live, to be a bunch of bohemian yuppies in the city before moving back down the shore and living a life of seasonal beaching among the modest middle class of New Jersey. Maybe a dog. Never kids. We both shiver at the word infant. Ughhhh. We talked about it early on. Marriage is a joke. Who needs a document to declare that love is true? Only people who are too afraid that it isn't. A bond to unify you to a person in order to stamp them with yourself just to prove to yourself that they won't leave you. Its fear, marriage. Marriage seemed like such a fabrication, a blanket woven to cover up the fear that you'll lose the one part of yourself that you need. We knew that we agreed on that way back in January. But here we are. I've been thinking about Liam since he brought up Vegas for the first time, about if that was even a feasible option, and suddenly marriage seems very different to me.

He asked me to marry him today. He went through with the whole down on one knee traditional Will you marry me? ceremony. We're not doing rings. Tattoos. We're Motley Crue fans. So I said yes. And in August when we can both have off from work, we're leaving for Vegas. No one will know about it. Its a big fucking secret, which I think is kind of fun, until our families find out and murder us both, but whatever. Who cares? I can't believe that any of this is happening. Come August, though, I'll know for sure.


March 30th, 2029


He dropped the L-bomb. The big three. Whoa.

I'm not normally a blondes girl. I like the dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark sexy eyes type. I just don't know how to handle this situation. Which is now what it's become. A situation. Because fuck fuck fuck I love him too. Blonde hair, blue eyes and all. I'm not normally a ripped surfer dude ultra in shape type. But holy God, he makes me want, so badly. And thats WEIRD.

So after these three months, these dates and tension and unknownness, through all of that crazy attraction, he laid the big fucking three down on me. And only after I'd told him all about my past: my heart disease and bipolar disorder and how much trouble I'd been in as a kid. I told him how it started, the difficult stuff, you know? Got it all out, over wine and some amazingly good Italian food. The embarrasing stuff. The stuff that I shouldn't share because, well hey, I'm crazy. And then, after I told him the most horrible things I'd been through and expected him to think I was crazy for all the horrible things I'd done while going through it, he said "I love you".

And then we did it.


January 2nd, 2029

Hey, Eros, how are you?,

I'm excited. Something happened, today, that I didn't think would happen to me again. I was asked on a date. Not that I didn't think I was capable or that it wasn't possible to be asked on a date, I'm not that self-conscious, but the thing that I didn't think would happen would be that I said okay. His name is Liam. We met at the golf club. He was sitting at two tables over with a group of politicians. My doctor family and their politicial group inevitably got to talking, the result of which was alot of drunken stories, most of which embarrassed one figurehead or another, and Liam and I (who were equally bored and feeling out of place) struck up conversation about the discovering of the recent quickened pace of the Andromeda/Milky Way collision. I was sold.

Anyway, he's taking me to hibachi. Tomorrow. I'm really quite excited about the whole thing. Happy New Year, Lynn, you did good!

I don't know why I agreed to go and I've incessantly battled with myself about the whole situation, but I somehow don't feel bad. Promises to yourself can be broken so long as your self is agreeable, and myself is all in for this one. I think. I don't really understand it, but I'm undenaible attracted to him. Who knows why I've abandoned the fear, but somehow all my brain can process when I think of why it's stopped crushing any hope of love in my life is that I don't even need to think about that. Its just a date.

I came through disease, Eros. I got by. My body has been fixed and freed from a debilitating, fatal disease. I've been so afraid, you know, that disease might spring up like that again and that I'd find another love dead from it. But I'm beginning to think that events in life happen for a reason. I'm alive. Why shouldn't I be living? And dates, I think, are important to living life the right way.

So, here I go, Eros. Whatever.


Wednesday, March 9, 2011

May 5th, 2036


You know what's worse than getting the news that you've got breast cancer? Finding out from your doctor, two days later, that you're also pregnant.

This is proof. This is the absolute and unequivocal proof that God fucking hates me.


Tuesday, March 8, 2011

May 4th, 2036


Cancer. The big fucking C. How am I supposed to tell Liam? He's going to cry. I hate when men cry.

Dr. Frank said I should go into the office tomorrow to talk. I'm not going to tell Liam anything until I go. I trust Dr. Frank; he's been my doctor since I was just a girl. This Comprehensive Doctor's rule or whatever they call it is really great; I can't imagine a life where my doctor wasn't always my doctor. They say back in the old days that one person could have up to twenty doctors at a time! Thats insanity. Dr. Frank is more than just my psychologist or my physician, he's my oncologist now, too, and my gynocologist, and my pharmacist, and I love that in all things related to my health, Dr. Frank is there for me. He's my friend most importantly-a figurehead in my life that I can trust. So tomorrow I'll go and see him. Maybe he'll be my counselor, too, and help me figure out how to talk to Liam.

I didn't like the sound of his voice on the phone, though, when he said we needed to talk. I'm nervous. What if he says there is nothing he can do? What if he tells me I'm terminally dead?

Don't you think they'd have cured cancer by now?


Sunday, March 6, 2011

November 13th, 2015


Today was bad. I got taken out of class. I was hallucinating. I do that sometimes when I get afriad. I see stuff thats really not there. I'm not crazy. I mean I think I'm not crazy.

Today in my social studies class we were talking about this massacre that happened in 1856 in Colorado where these super peaceful Indians were just chillin and then these dirtbag American soldiers came and took off their scalps and murdered 200 people in cold blood and suddenly I was there and I was lookin around and there were all these really dead people with no scalps on their heads and I couldn't stop thinking about dying and I wondered if those bodies were ever even buried and maybe if their souls were just not even there and maybe they just were in black.

And thats why I had a bad day. So I just sat there staring at my teacher but really I was looking around and seeing dead Indians and little kids getting killed by some Americans and I was so afraid but what happens when I'm afraid is I can't move at all so I just sat there lookin at Mr. Jacob and then the bell rang and we were supposed to go to our specials but I was just sitting there lookin at Mr. Jacob and then he got nervous and I had to get taken out of class by Mrs. Gonzo because I couldn't move so she carried me into her office and then my hallucination stopped.

I used to spell hallucinate hellusinate.


September 3rd, 2015

Hiiiyyeeeeee Eros,

School starts in two days. I'm going to start my first year of middle school this year! I can't wait to go to a new school. I hope I don't have gay teachers. Not really gay, just lame gay. I might actually like to have a regular gay teacher because those people are nice and sometimes other people aren't.

They wanted me to take this honors test to get into the nerd classes but I don't want to. I'd probably fail anyway and get into idiot classes but I don't want to risk being in nerd classes. I have alot of friends and I don't wanna not be in their classes just to be in a smart kid math class. Thats corny.

I hope I make alot of friends. I'm gonna write more tomorrow about today because I don't have much to write yet, but I didn't want to miss a day because later on Chelsea is coming over and I don't want to be writing because she's sleeping over and we're gonna build a tent and put some bungee cords on my stuffed animals and launch them out of my window bungee jumping. And then we're going to go collect worms in the rain, if it rains, which I want it to do. I'm really happy that Chelsea is my friend. I always get so nervous because I know I'm really weird especially because I always have to leave the class to go and talk to counselors and people look at people like that and think they don't wanna be friends because that person is weird, and I know that. But sometimes I'm just so afraid in class and if I don't talk to a counselor once a day then I can't stop thinking about the bad stuff and when I do that well I can't behave in class. So I'm just really glad that I'm not too weird for friends because I know I'm a good person. I mean, I hope so. I don't do bad stuff, I just think really scary stuff and then I get hyper and need to talk and sometimes I launch my crayons across the room on crayon catapults because I know that will distract me. But Chelsea doesn't care that I'm really weird so thats really good for me.

Eros, I'm really glad I can write to you. So thanks. And I'll write again tomorrow. And tell you all about what me and Chelsea do.

Lynn =]

August 9th, 2015

Dear Diary,

Hello! My brother says that if I want to be a writer when I grow up I need to write alot of the time. So I'm gonna write everyday. This is my new journal. You're my new journal and I'm going to write everyday about the things that I did in my day.

I don't really know how to write to a journal. But I guess I'll tell you about my day.

I really like to swim in my pool and I have a friend across the street named Max and he really likes to do that too, so today we went swimming in my pool and we sat at the bottom of the deep-end holding our breaths and trying really hard not to float to the top so we'd wave our arms to try and stay on the bottom. Its a game. So what you have to do is just sit there on the bottom of the pool which is a 12 foot deep-end and thats pretty big and pretend to drink tea and cookies. And thats the game. So we just have these pretend cups of tea and pretend cookies and whoever can't stay under the longest loses.

I won. I always win.

After we swam in my pool my mom made us macaroni and cheese so we ate that and then we went for a bike ride. I wish I had pegs on my bike. And then we watched this movie called Toy Story and my favorite character was Woody. The movie ended and we went back outside and it was starting to be dark and Max's dad called him inside by whistling out the door and I always thought it was cool that Max got whistled at and I wish maybe my mom would call me inside with one of those triangle dangle bell things cause I'd feel like I was from the prairie or something and farms are probably fun.

I think you need a name. I don't want to write Dear Diary because thats girly. So I'll give you a name and write to you everyday. So I'll give you my nickname at school, which is Eros, and I like that name. So from now on I'll write to you, Eros.

My brother Arty might not like that because he says that journals should be "authentic" but I don't really know what he means by that. This is my birthday present from him cause my birthday is yesterday and so I'm writing in it today. This was my favorite present because I want to write stories when I grow up. So Arty said I should start by writing down my thoughts in a journal and being as descriptive as I can because stories need descriptions, he said.

Okay, Eros, I need to stop writing now. Its dark and Mila wants to come up on my bed and sleep with me. Plus, my hand hurts.


Thursday, March 3, 2011

May 23rd, 2454

Oh Christ, Eros,

I'm not exactly sure what Dr. Twinn means, but I've never gotten the look from a doctor before. Except from Dr. Frank, once, a long long time ago.

"Lynnie," he said, staring into my eyes from across that familiar mahogany table, "I've got to tell you something, dear. The results, well, hun, they weren't good."

I never hated Dr. Frank. I loved him, very much. But in that moment, when I knew what he was going to say, I hated him. I hated what I was about to hear. I hated that I was sitting there, waiting to hear it.

"Lynn, you have breast cancer"- all I wanted to say was "Yeah? Breast cancer? Well fuck you, too!" But instead I just sat there, defeated, silent, and I remember he looked at me and expected anything but quiet and I was just so, so quiet. No tears, no expression. Inside, though, I was a boiling fucking furnace.

And when Dr. Twinn came in today to talk to me about what they were finally able to discover in the empty fucking cut out spaces they made in my brain, why the new tissue "doesn't seem to fit correctly" as if that makes any sense at all, I saw the look and knew that I was not going to be getting any good news.

But the dickbag just gave me the look, said to me "Lynn, we're going to have to talk, soon. Stay in bed, please", and walked out the fucking door. Well now I'm not quiet. Now I'm crying and screaming and Bali, this big mother fucking Great Dane beast dog, even he's shaking. AH!


May 14th, 2454-Belated


I've been under for almost two days now. They knocked me out real good! I don't know what new drug this is, but its the most intense coma-inducing thing I've ever dealt with. So yeah, sorry I couldn't write, I was just on drugs =/ hah. I haven't heard from Dr. Twinn yet and so I don't know exactly how many more surgeries are left, but I imagine that he'll say only one. I'd be lucky if he said none. I'd be thrilled, actually. But at the same time, maybe I need to go under one more time.

It was weird, too, to be under the way I was. I was dreaming. I don't normally dream, or at least dream that I can remember, while I'm being operated on. Anesthetics normally leave me groggy for days-so much so that I don't normally remember my name for the first few hours. This new anesthetic, Coliva (and I must say that I really dig how shortened the drug names have become), put me under in half of a minute and I remember something like 10 years worth of dream. I lived, like, a lifetime on this drug somehow. An old lifetime. It really creeps me out, dreams, how sometimes I have them and I feel like I've lived extra years or something. I mean, not that years are really relevant anymore. But still. When you lose track of time, what's to say you haven't lost track of reality?

Well anyway I want to write about this dream before I totally forget it. I was living on an island. Me and Bali and Liam and Domenica, we were all there on this island. And we had a little hut with all the stuff we felt like having. So like, if one day Liam and I felt like taking Domenica scuba diving in the reef off the coast, we could do that because the scuba gear was just there. Christ, how magnificent that reef was. I'm telling you, Eros, it wasn't unreal but it was totally out of this world. It was so pristine, this reef, I can't even explain. Or if I needed a frisbee to play with Bali, there'd be a frisbee in the hut. So Bali and I would play frisbee. We didn't have a house. We just lived in the trees and on the sand. Some days it rained, but we didn't need shelter because we could just camp out in the trees. We had these little burrows, too, that we'd crawl into and lie down in at night. We had all this food, like fruit and shit all over the island, and whenever we wanted something that wasn't there, well, there was this hut and we could get out an old-fashioned barbeque and some burgers and just make whatever the fuck we wanted. It was the most perfect place in the world. Domenica and I used to run on the sand together, always warm sand, and we'd have mud ball fights and we'd take trips to this waterfall in the little forest that was there. And we'd jump off of it over and over, whooping and shouting, into this icy crisp blue pool of water that stretched endlessly downward. I'm talking freezing cold kind of crisp, too, but that didn't stop us from splashing one another and swimming around in this water all day long. One day, we decided to follow the river and figure out why this waterfall was so cold and we found a massive cave at the top of this hill, filled up with fresh water that came from who knew where? So we dove down into this cave one day with Liam and explored and watched all these crazy zooxanthellae light shows because sometimes zooxanthellae do that-emit chemical lights. So we swam in these really pretty lights and loved each other in timeless ways.

It was honestly about 10 years that I spent in that dream. 2 days into 10 years. Most if it has faded, at this point, but I remember alot of intense moments with such crazy clarity. They're like memories. It felt like so much more than a dream. I remember the scuttle crabs that littered the island and the trails through the forest that we'd walk on for fun. I remember Bali never changed, but Domenica grew up. I got to watch her grow, Eros. I saw her grow. She was alive, here in this dream. And Liam, well he never changed, either. I was made up of all my original parts, too, and I didn't change. No cancer to ruin me. No chopped up bits of others' body parts sewn onto my fresh skin. I was just me. And Liam LOVED me and I LOVED Liam and it was true. And that was that. And Domenica was there and we LOVED her and she LOVED us back and that was more true than anything I'd ever done. Simple, but not plain. No way.

As I'm writing this I just keeping thinking: what now? What do I do now? I want some more Coliva so I can escape back to that island and live there forever again. I wasn't alone, there. I mean, Bali is here now. He's at my side, faithful, waiting for me. But Bali is the only one I have. One of three. Two pieces are missing. And I need them. I wonder if, someday, I'll ever know those pieces or fill in those blanks. But I doubt it. They are together in the beyond place and I'm too afraid to meet them. Does that mean I love them less?

God, Eros, these thoughts will kill me.


Tuesday, March 1, 2011

April 31st, 2454


I'm my own worst enemy.

I can't accept that good things can happen to me. Bali comes tomorrow. I'm in recovery-the surgery was a success.

But half of my brain is gone.

I feel like while I'm waiting, I've been filling in all these blank spaces with doubt. Doubt about this or that: whether my body will accept this tissue or reject it, whether I'll have my memories still. I'm hooked up to a machine right now, so my brain is basically a computer at the moment, but when this new tissue comes will it store all of my data? Will it take what is now part of a computer chip and store it inside microscopic cell nucleii? What parts of me will I lose when I fill up these spaces? A new part of me is going to grow in there soon and I don't know how to ensure that it doesn't kill me. As afraid of it as I am, I know that it is so neccesary. I know that I need this. These blank spaces can't stay blank forever, who the fucking fuck do I think I'm kidding?

I just can't shake the feeling that this is too good to be true. I feel like this brain tissue replacement surgery which will restore to me all of my memories and feelings (basically my entire life will have to be recategorized and processed into a new set of matter) well, it can't possibly work out, can it? How can I have it all?


Monday, February 28, 2011

April 9th, 2454


I think my favorite thing about living so long has been watching the evolution of the plane. I remember the old passenger jumbo jets. No leg space, a reclining chair with a DVD (holy cannoli, DVD!) player tucked into the headrest of the person in front of you. Economy class. Gosh-as if that could ever exist today! So here I am, with thirty minutes to kill before my stream jet plane lands, comparing and contrasting what immortal people must inevitably compare and contrast: plane seats. I'm getting a massage. I can order food in my brain. I've got my own personal restroom. I can recline. I can get up and go to the bar. I can go to the movie theatre. I can exercise. I remember once, in the old days, that they had this program on jumbo jets for people to exercise in their seats. They wanted people to avoid stiffness and seat-ass. If only flights lasted that long anymore! But if I need to use this one hour flight from New York to Europe just to exercise, I could. I'm using the time to write to you, instead. I always write on planes; it's just an old habit, and they sure do die hard.

I'm meeting my surgeon today, a Dr. Malin Twinn. He's going to operate on my brain. Brain surgery is one of the only kinds of surgery I can't ever feel comfortable with. My memories are the only thing that keep me here. The surgery is going to replace almost half of the dead tissue I've had up there for the past number of years. I'm afraid of the ensuing weeks. For the first time, I'll be existing with huge portions of my brain totally gone. And then in three weeks, my new brain tissue will have been grown, and they'll install a new microchip for my memories, and then they'll operate on me again, and well-ah! I've got a fresh set of brain matter. I just can't fathom what could happen if something went wrong. Certainly not death. Thats impossible. I don't even remember what death is, it's so impossible for me. I mean, I guess. I just can't process it, anymore, as something thats real in my life. Immortality, now thats a thought to try and grasp, sometime! Eternity, well, its a long fucking time! But I'm looking forward to it.

I just wish I could have brought Bali. I mean I left him in good hands. The doggie hotel. But he is the only friend I have. I need him to be okay. I don't know what I'm supposed to do for the next two months without Bali. I'm thinking of having him shipped here. I can't comprehend how mad at me he must be, knowing that I'll be gone. I remember when they thought dogs didn't have emotions. Retards. They knew nothing then. Look how much we know! The more I think about it, the more sure I am. I'll send the money tomorrow, and have Bali shipped. I need him.

Anyway, Eros, I'll write more, soon. We're landing. The clouds have never changed their face. Its nice to be among them again, no matter how brief this visit may be.


Sunday, February 27, 2011

December 21, 2443 - Belated


Sorry for the delay. I gotta get this down, though. I got a dog! Its been, well, years since I had my own dog. Lots and lots of them. Of course it's a boy. I named him Bali. Great Dane. He's brown with a wet black snout and I love him. They say Great Danes only live for around 7 years, their lives in instants. I need Bali in this instant. His warm fuzzy little body, which inevitably will become a gigantic-ly massive body, is keeping my bare legs warm while I write. Every so often, he licks my leg and I kiss his head and we are two organisms unified by a need. So here we are exchanging warmth and energy, satisfying this primal need for warmth and energy, and I suddenly see in this moment that there is nothing more perfect than what simply is. And this is simple, and always will be.

You always see those commercials or movies where some brunette middle-aged woman takes her spouse into the dog store and just "knows" that the fluffy retriever with his fat paws stretched upward in an attempt to get his fluffy face over the wooden pen is "the one" for her. There is this "awwwwww" that escapes her lips and she looks pleadingly at her spouse, warning him that yes, this is now my dog, and you'd do well to buy him for me. And the spouse caves, realizing there is nothing he can to do fight what just is. That bond, that immediate connection with this golden version of man's best friend, truly happens for that brunette woman in one single instant. And it lasts her a lifetime. My connection with Bali was that way, in the store, minus the spouse and brunette hair and golden retriever. Instead I saw this lonely brown Dane, content with himself in his pen, not stretching toward me but waiting patiently for me to pick him up, which I'll bet (if dogs could have journals) he'd have claimed he knew would happpen all along. Because our connection was immediate and timeless and genuine and real.

In this instant, it is Bali and I, and we are just content to be.

Love you, Eros.


January 29th, 2145


I know. I missed a day. I'm sorry. You know that this doesn't happen very often. I was just far too hung over yesterday to even think of picking up a pen. I can't think to write without a pen on a good sturdy piece of paper. I know, the environment and all that, but screens can never replace this feeling.

Anyway, Eros, I went out Wednesday night and I got very, very intoxicated. I don't even remember how I got home from Manhattan, but I got home somehow. I probably took the stream, but who the fuck put me on? I can't remember a thing. My memories stop when I walked through the bathroom doors at Wave to reapply some lipstick. I vaguely remember that I was making eyes with a short blonde at the hoverbar, and I knew I wanted to dance with her. I must have danced with someone, because I looked in the mirror yesterday morning and that lipstick reapplication was smeared across my cheek. There was a number for Wynona synced to my mobile. I won't call. I hope it was her, though, and not someone I'd regret remembering.

I spent all of yesterday on a blue couch that was not my own. I was too hung over to be alone and so I went over to Talula's house. Its comforting, for me, to have the relationship with Talula that I do. I can pretend to exist within society when I am with her. I can pretend that I am not 139 years old and that she is not 52. She and I sat together, sipping SwissMiss hot chocolate while she talked to me about her family dramarama. Its such a cruel comfort, to me, that SwissMiss still exists. They even have the little marshmellows, you know the ones, that taste like nothing but are integral to the hot chocolate process. She made me some, and I sat there with her and we talked. The thing about talking to Talula is I don't really have anything to say. She can sit with me and talk and talk and talk and I can listen, chiming in here or there with some nugget of 139 year old advice, and she'll happily take it and pretend that it was from another 52 year old woman on equal ground in this 22nd century. And while I listen to her I can sit in introspected silence, remembering to regret myself. So while Talula told me about her mother's sister-in-law (divorce) who'd filed suit against her brother for wrongful repossession of a dog named (how fucking original) Spot, I thought of Liam.

I've known I should stop thinking of Liam. I've tried. You know how hard it is for me. But its like he still exists. And so I catch the eye of short blonde girls at the hoverbar and see an opportunity to break my bonds with a dead man. One I'm in love with still, who I know exists in some plane of time and loves me still, too. I wish I could just reach into that plane and hold his hand, the only hand left in time that is familiar to me anymore, since my two are long gone, replaces by some dead woman's twelve years ago. He should get mad, right? For cheating. Because it's what I am doing. I'm cheating on a dead man. Loving Liam, well, its timeless, but I'm still alive and he is dead. So what am I supposed to do, but have lesbian sex with a short blonde girl from the hoverbar? And hope that just for one night, I forgot to remember him and his hands that I wish would trace the length of my spine and justify the chills that I get when I remember that once, it was true. An x and a y on an axis, but I've left and gone to z. There is no backwards, Eros. Only z.


Friday, February 25, 2011

January 27th, 2145


You know? I'm feeling kind of wild, today. Essentially, I'm 30 years old. Again. I've got the body, the stamina, the mind, the will, of someone thats 30. Why me? You know? Why do I get a second chance? I don't deserve it. I've never done anything worth it. But here it is, and I feel like a trillion bucks. Like a gabrillion bucks.

Today, I went running. My replacement leg, my donor leg, is perfection. Sure, there are some unsightly scars. But thats nothing another surgery in a month or two can't fix. So I threw on my shortest pair of shorts and I ran along the boardwalk. Three times. Six miles. And it felt great. The wind, it seems, always feels the same. No matter whose skin you're wearing.

So tonight, to celebrate my new perfect leg, I'm going to go dancing. Like I'm 30. Hopefully most of the younger crowd won't pay attention to the news. Hopefully I can get into the bar and dance my face off and hopefully none of these youngsters will have a single clue that yeah, I'm over 100 years old. But really, I'm only 30. I'm young again, Eros. Or maybe I was always, and just needed the right body. But I remember feeling old, so screw that.

I'm putting on makeup as I write this. I'm making my young, pulled, stretched back face look even more young. Maybe no one will bother to look at my eyes. Those, I'm afraid, I'll never get to look right. Not young. They've seen too much, too many days, to ever look young again. I guess I'll just have to replace them altogether, instead of fix them. Young eyes, now that would be a feat!

I'm going vintage. Relive the old days, I guess, with my outfit. Some heels that purr. These kids don't understand the value of a good pair of leopard print pumps. But I can dance with 100 years of experience. They can't. So let them say what they say about my heels. I'll ram one up their ass. They don't get it. Watch me make out with a twenty four year old boy. He'll be none the wiser. He'll never know I'm older than he is, five times over. He'll never even see my face. But shit, accomplishment for me!!!!

Eros, I wish you were here with me tonight. I mean, I guess you are. But, you, physically, just to see me and know that I rule the world. Because tonight, with my new leg whose scars are now covered in a layer of very old fishnet stockings, well, it proves that I'm invincible.


Thursday, February 24, 2011

June 8th, 2253


So I guess I'm kind of famous. I knew I was, I guess, but its just so much more...real...today. I think. I don't know. I can't explain it. It just really came over me today after I heard from Dr. Hemi. He called this morning to make sure I was onboard. Duh! Thats not even a question anymore. He gave me all the details about who'll be in the room, whose performing, etc. etc., and at this point its so routine I don't care what the fuck. But I did register during our convo that this apparently monumental surgery is being broadcast, live, with those weirdo eye-cameras. At one point a long, long time ago, that would have freaked me out beyond comprehension. And I guess today it really clicked that I know I'm famous and that I'm part of changing the world, in a changing world, and that history will write about me and my story and it will be important for whatever future generations come along and say, hey science, I'm gonna change you all over again. And I'll be there watching it all, always a part of history, but with the experience of history. Valued. And I was thinking all that after Dr. Hemi told me about the broadcast because I'm so famous that people actually want to watch me get cut open and operated on. We're all a bunch of sick fucks, us people.

I'm getting my new liver today. The surgery shouldn't take all that long, at least according to Hemi. I'm not worried. Christ, I've been through so many now, I can't even count them. It's impossible to be worried. I look down and there are barely any parts of the original left. And here I go to replace the second liver I've ever had. I remember when I found out they'd finally been able to grow one. No more donor organs for me. Maybe eventually I'll never need donors again, even for limbs, and will be able to look down at myself and not see all these pieces of dead people sewn onto my body. At this point, I guess its debatable whether its even my body or not. But to parts that were all grown? Or made in a lab somehow? That'd be cool.

The press is going to write another story. I still can't grasp the idea of those eyeball cameras. It gives me the creeps in such a hardcore way. They just think "picture" and their memory chips register their entire field of vision as a picture. Memory chips. In brains. Unlimited storage for recollection. How did that ever happen? So all these people will just be in my operation room, blinking, blinking, recording, blinking, and blam! my insides are broadcast all over the world. Because the world loves me. Because I'm interesting. Because I'll never die. Because I'm rich.

I guess I'm kind of resolved to the fact that I'll never have another friend, namely because people are scared to connect with me. I'm immortal. But reporters will talk to me, at length, asking the same questions because they want to get to know me. My personality, they think, will give their stories some "oomf". If only they knew how much bullshit I feed them.

This liver will live for, they say, at least 50 years. Thats good. I won't have to get this procedure again for a solid 50. I'm starting to wonder what 50 more years will feel like. Maybe only 25. And who knows what other things will need replacing in that stretch? I can already feel my spine starting to bend. I've been trying to hold off for that metal skeleton. Never having to replace my bones again? Hemi would love that. He's my favorite doctor so far. Except, of course, Frank. He is one of those people I never forget to miss. I wonder if I should even call him a doctor? Ah, Frank, if only you could see how stable I've become. I'm in a good place, Eros, and I think Frank would love to know that. Maybe I'll go visit his grave soon. But knowing myself, I won't. Remembering love is the hardest part about this whole thing. But I can't think about that. I need to focus on having some good energy for this liver. This brand new bad boy liver is gonna make history. The first stem-cell grown liver, successfully transplanted. The heart, the lung, and the tongue. Guinness Book, baby, and no one can EVER beat me. Its impossible. Hemi said I have dibs on that metal skeleton, so here's hoping this good-for-nothing spine holds out til then. He also kind of hinted that I might be on a list for some stem-cell skin. How. Freaking. Awesome.

Eros, you're the only one left that I love.


Wednesday, February 23, 2011

February 23rd, 3024


Its not like I don't know it. I know it. I know everyone else probably knows it. You can't hide that you're a smoker when everyone is judging your smile. I know I look like a fucking monster. I know I am, kind of, a monster. A masochist. A freak. They wonder about me, I know they do, and I wonder about them, because they are all humans and I'm not a human anymore. It makes sense that we'd be curious. They always ask me "What is it like, watching the world evolve and change?" and I wish I cared enough to answer. But, Goddamnit, I don't. Not at all. One of them will invariably say, at some point in the interview, "for all these years" because they want me to talk about each year, each era, one by one. They want my story. But they live so quickly that they can't even see the years have started to stretch. I'm not kidding. The Earth is spinnning slower. I see that. Maybe once, years and years ago, I thought about it. I can't remember that far back anymore. I might once have noticed and needed society. And sure, I can see my physical surroundings. I know them enough to notice how shits changing at a rate that hasn't stopped accelerating. We've hit light speed, folks, and yeah, time definitely slows when you're moving this fast. I don't even feel time anymore. There is that expression, you know the one I mean- Time is a blur. Who said that, anyway? Blurring suggests existence, but there is no such thing as time. So I can't even think about change for these reporters. How could I? Change happens because this thing we know as time has stretched us out and we're forced to try and catch up with our length. Not me, though. Not anymore. Can I change if time doesn't move? For me? I've been affixed. I'm a static fucking conglomeration of these things they call cells, frozen finally, and they've discovered through me that these things they call cells aren't really cells at all, and so I know what I am. I'm a vibration on pause, cause thats all cells are anyway, you know? A zillion different particles that are all supposed to vibrate on different waves of light, just to reflect me. But I'm on pause. We're all descendents of some star that blew the fuck up, and here I am on pause, waiting to blow up, too. I know my nothingness, and its all that nothing that makes me a monster.