Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Ten -- Hemato-Tomato -- Thrown Under The Bus

It only took a moment to fade to black, when I was hit by an oncoming bus. Strapped into a broken motorcycle, cycling their the air like an airplane. I expected it to hurt for more than how it manifested.

Previously, I had tattooed a new kind of bar code, that had only come out when people began to rapidly use smart phones. QR Codes took the planet by wild fire, much like how the world wide web was expected do. It unable sharing off grid micro blogs in a way that was more wireless and seamless than originally intended for the purpose of tracking purchase histories inside of a box of sugar coated cereal. After a point, people started tattooing to their arms and legs, and other parts of their body. It became the new it fashion among other high schoolers and those just entering the university level of education. It didn't matter if you were a grandma on a bus, or a wife with her husband having a fuss. It was all part of a deranged social rave.

I was one of the few that had not switched to using such means of tracking directly upon my person, in the most literal way possible. But I do use it to exchange off grid micro blog posts about the nature of Communitarianism. While other people's identities continued to fragment, mine achieved a certain level of mental clarity, that to others observing seemed in certain ways like someone with a brain disorder. This meant being careful about what I told to certain people, even if in previous generations such information would have been something I'd tell them. Because there was no way to really nobody on an intimate level, this made trusting other people something of a challenge. A challenge that I still face today.

I tried killing myself several times: once by poison, one time trying to slit my throat. But no matter what I tried it was never enough to wash away the guilt of the lust for people blood squirting on my body. Jacked into a virtual reality headset, my interactions were mostly with digital three dimensional rendering of scantily glad ladies. Unable to trust others because of their proscriptive phrases for certain orientations, it made it difficult to find someone who could deal with eccentricities. Personal anxieties, personal sins; personal ways of dreaming and hallucinating of cute girls getting the chop on the guillotine blade.

To this day, I remembered her face.

And it was a face I could never forget. We had split briefly, before briefly uniting once more. I didn't consider to invite her over to the bookstore, back when such companies were still in vogue, and the country had not degenerated into a certain level of extreme lawlessness. But I was one of complete social anxiety, masked by gatling gun of puns. Some people, of a less genial nature, were inclined to refer to as: "You just can't help yourself."

Part of it was a way of coping with anxiety. I still remember the blood that was spattered on my face, and her the flow of my girlfriend's tears as her neck was slid into the stocks. And the looks on her face when the angular blade came down. A mixture of lust and sorrow, such was the nature of my dance with death.

Yet here I am, trying to die again.

But this girl, will not let me die.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 7:17 PM