Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Fifteen -- Hemato-Tomato -- A Game Of Wolves And Deer

I've had issues with blond girls ever since I met the one French-American and Spanish-American girls back in fifth grade; the impression I had gotten was that in general, while both Latinas hated attractive people (although don't mistake this for assuming I consider myself attractive), they both liked "Ugly Men".

There were several reasons why this was an issue, but let's first begin with the statement and judgment call we call "Ugly". In American contemporary usage, and this permeates across various fields of life, including fashion; the word ugly carries the meaning of being unattractive. The word homely began being used in the same way during my era, even though it had originally meant "someone I want to take home with me." It didn't seem like there was enough of their immigrant background for them not to realize the very American context. It was one thing for Bianca to treat me this way, as I had once confused her for a Mexican (kids say that kind of stupid shit all the time). But with Stephanie, there was no possible way for her to think I was confusing her for anybody. It was a grudge I had hidden for all the years of my life.

Around the same issue, blond girls, which Stephanie was almost, became increasingly associated with bitchy behavior, doubled with the fact that one girl I knew in high school, essentially rejected me using my best friend as a proxy; it wasn't that I wouldn't have accepted being rejected, but rather I was already dealing with gender identity issues, often being referred to as effeminate. Apparently I was so feminine, like one of the girls, that Emily decided to reject me in a backhanded fashion, highlighting some of her own issues. Mom was also becoming increasingly narcissistic at the time, and it all set the stage for my issue with petite blond girls with cat eye glasses. I was prepared to think of French girls as one way, and not this other way that turned out to be incorrect. But then, and why I jokingly refer to them as Latinas, was what said the stage for the other misunderstanding, and allowed me to be victimized by my ex.

There was a book web site I read a long time ago, that labeled France and being Latino. I already had developed issues about Latino girls, based on my limited interaction with Spanish girls, and why I chose for many years not to learn Spanish, do to associating the language with Flamenco and whatever genre of song the word La Paloma was, which was later adapted across the Latin European world, and was beloved by the Belgian princess. As someone who had for many years hated Folk Music, it made me that much more determined to hate Spanish thing. As someone who was willing to give French girls a chance, and having been somewhat of a Francophile to begin with, ultimately everything seemed to come to ahead.

I felt totally betrayed, because I liked French girls.

I wanted to reject all Romance languages. My ex, whom I had known in trans support group, emotionally manipulated these issues further, and wanted to manipulate me into being something of a Francophobe.

It took at the strength I had.

But I also had a darker secret.


Love crashes into you like an oncoming van, crash victim speeding on a motorcycle fueled up on nitroglycerin; the dangerous game of deranged chess masters warring for to win a round of blow jobs and doggy style. A game of blood, necks, and teeth; the angular blade hitting similarly to a headman's sword. There was a time I didn't think I'd ever date, preferring to recline in a private jet and masturbate; watch nothing but porn stars on holographic screens, textured with various kinds of cell shading.

It was then, as I lay thinking I was dying, remembering the smell of sweat and tears by my ex room mate Kat Mac. "Have you ever thought of writing for erotica magazines, you sure have the sex drive for it." Alone, my body returning to the midnight forest, where wolves hunt the deer, and beers for the fish.

My life of one dying wish.

To see Anna-Marie again. Instead I dreamed of snoring on the motel bed, the texture of fallen hair on the floor, and the uncleaned dishes that were only washed in the bath tube. "Or am I renting to much head space." I woke up in the hospital, in a daze. The doctor said that I had been out for a week; I was more worried that they could peer into my mind, using a dream-scanning machine, my dreams of silent hills and ghosts of another past, merging into a collective group of various government entities in the verge between life and death. For some people, what they see is a tunnel of light, but for me it was always night.

Except for me and my angel.

My Anna-Marie. The girl who wore a lopsided bow, and at other times a flower in her hair. As we snuggled under the moonlight, dreaming of fireflies and lady bugs. A dream of being with her again, as I lay beyond the mortal life. "No, I'm just thinking about something else" I would say to Kat Mac, who was not my Anna-Marie, but some monster from my past whom I had hoped to leave forgotten, like dust in the wind.

Because for me, there was only Anna.

As opened her coffin, and kissed her cheek.

And dreamed of being with her in death. Instead I grabbed my shotgun, which I had purchased on the black market, outside of the oversight of my parents, whom were now hopelessly bought into the state; even for dad, whom had lost his prostate, among other organs. Yet for me, there was only me, the whole me, and nothing else.

Me, for my Anna-Marie.

And I dreamed of severed lady heads, laying beside me on my lap. The last moments of their life fading into total darkness, while simply no longer wanted to feel alone. So I could be with somebody, into eternity.

But life is a guillotine.

You have to be cut throat.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 9:28 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Fourteen -- Flaxy Boxy Cereal

What they call loneliness, in the world of the net, is really a symptom of addiction. Some call it addiction to the social life, despite all the evidence to the contrary based on its unsociableness. The symptoms a manifestation of a larger disease more toxic to humanity than the fetish for blood and decapitation. For me, I find as I move toward using more federated network, I find that I can actually get more actual interactions that I need, that I've never received anywhere else. But on some level this is a mechanism of coping, not unlike the girl on the street who is doping. Yet not third world enough to grant sympathy.

One of the main issues, some may call self-fulfilling prophesy, although I simply call it being realistic, is how it seems like you never really can really on reliably a European to teach you the language. This is especially the case among girls of that country; there seems to be this unspoken rule that if someone mentions wanting to learn a language, then maybe it's a good idea to say in a false promising way "Oh maybe I can show you one of mine?".

But then you just kind of know, like people from Seattle, the reason they never really through is their tendency to be flakes. This isn't an issue of political correctness, it's just an observation about how French people seem to treat people of American heritage.

This was one of the reasons I was unsure whether I really felt comfortable meeting Anna-Marie, although ultimately there were other issues that made whether or not French people were reliable at much of anything largely a moot point. Because you were the only two who trusted each other enough just to get by in this strange world. A world where when a French girl doesn't get along with her own country, and an American with hers, ultimately it becomes a very toxic game of hate fucking and anti-desire.

It consumes you in entire.

Like being ran over with tires. Splatter. Pop goes the weasel. Boom box bursting the voice box. Radio night streaming, skeleton man screaming, Dreaming of another time when one could break up far sooner.

And yet there was something else.

Something to make you hold on.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 8:22 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Thirteen -- The Nature Of French Girls

What people call a split personality, is simply extensive compartmentalization; everyone does it, some better than others. For me, this manifests as different applications, on a local machine.

To save me from the websites, that make me want to rip out my spleen. For life and death, a recount of a story in between. For French girls, my relationships were always different, even from other girls within my class periods. Most other girls I had a vague hope that I could someday love them, but the closest to this I've ever gotten to a girl from France is to be able to say "This girl, my friends, is a beautiful young girl that I cannot hate."

Sometimes it's easy to forget the past, and perhaps that is why I choose to resent the nature of French girls above all other girls from Europe, despite having more negative interactions for those in other places in Europe. But this is like telling an African not to hate a French infantry men, when they're under occupation. For me, the interaction was not anything so direct. Rather it is more in the specific of not interacting. Howe we choose to interact with others, says much about who we are as a person; how we don't is much the same way. Although it should be noted that my interactions with either Germans are French has never been the same as it was in high school; I like girls in Birkenstocks, whether that be Arizona style or Boston Clog. Whether it is them dangling their beautiful manicured heels, or other quirks of fetishistic desire.

There was a blond who would do things to try to get my attention; but I was so stuck in my own personal anxieties that I never considered interacting; often then meant off hand random phrases about how I never really fit it with Punk or Goth girls; I danced so far to the beat of my own drummer, I was all the way to the Communitarian end. Communitarianism, specifically of the hacktivism variety, is a form of libertarianism that focused on communal needs; but in a world where people are stuck within their own individual concerns, even for myself, it was difficult to even get a word in, in the face of the onslaught of multiple cars being tossed under, to the rhythm of cybernetic motorcycles, and total disintegration.

"Oh shit now, I knew I shouldn't have cropped my hair."

She was a very different type of voice from Anna-Marie, who stayed in the side-lines never speaking to anyone. It was almost as if she was a kind of ghost in the class. This was most note able in art class.

She was the only one I ever spoke with.

Maybe she was a better word smith. While I ground invisible axes.

Made by deranged blacksmiths.

Anna-Marie would always give me a heads up about the girl, with the hair color of fairies slaughtered by battle robots. Their heads falling off their shoulders, the crimson noticeably from the blue in which it came.

Perhaps there is a lot I could go into here, but to be honest, I'm not a hubzilla or friendica profile. This isn't the first draft of somebody's trashy romance novel, written on a pop fiction website for hopeless romantics. I may be a hopeless romantic, but I'm not so hopeless as to lower myself to that, while subsequently uploading the same content in which I rant, on its very bandwidth. It is a story of my own sensuality, with everything between love and hate. Even if that means it's time to masturbate.

Because we all do it people.

But all this to say, French girl had their own allure.

For Anna-Marie, this allure was in death.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 8:12 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Twelve -- Hemato-Tomato -- The Hand Reaching Out

It is never easy to discuss one's own vulnerabilities. Whether that is for the death of your beloved pet, your favorite uncle, or your wife from a malignant cancer. Some deaths are inevitable, and yet others feel less preordained because of the overwhelming sense of the present moment. While it was easy for me to not grasp this when I had tried topping myself so many times in my young life, somehow when it involves someone else, the feeling puts you in an even greater depression than if you had never met the girl. That feeling of total helpless, that total lack of the innocuousness; the overwhelming feeling of being the only one left in the world. For me, I was a vampire who lived with a family of humans. You may think I'd let this get to me.

But I'm not that kind of girl.

If only life could flow like sweet rose metal, and not like the thorns. And yet sometimes the rose petals are mixed within, that feeling of pain and regret all over again. At sometimes I would see the spirit of the wolf in my dreams, and wake up constantly with screams and breathlessness. And I reach out for some hidden hand of a love that is no there. Instead it is the hand of death and despair, the knowledge of the passing of someone you life. The feeling of constantly seeing a lover's execution over and over again. Yet life never gives you second chances, even when one wants to bring their lover back from the dead.

To think, instead, that the real world treats us like monsters. The villains in old western movies; movies of young damsels being ran over with a train. Yet my mind feels like I walked right into the train tracks from the get go, my world not letting me die in peace to once again be with my beloved. The feeling of earthly estrangement drawing nearer and nearer with no end in sight. The feeling of being a pawn in a game of chess.

My relationship with Anna was not the best.

Nor the worst. It was what we had with indifferent parents.

And sometimes the indifference is the worst.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 7:58 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Eleven -- Hemato-Tomato -- A Head On My Shoulders

High school was like a boxing match while dancing in the nude, deranged men wanting touch you all over, despite being of the opposite sex. No mater how much one may be perceived as male, there was no escaping the similar feeling that other girls experienced when dressing like men, and the male protagonist not being able to explain why they were turned on by you. This was part of why it was so much easier to court men, and not ladies, despite my obvious sexual preferences to the contrary. And the seemingly contradicting caring nature I possessed, not wanting to burst into the room when Ashley was getting dressed for the prom.

There are good things and bad things about those perceived as women, as the gender that they were suppose to be; there was no reason to be jealous of the beauty of other girls, although this did not stop the traditional feelings that other girls had for wanting to be the prettiest. By up to my senior year it was like going to the cafeteria would blood on my face. People were not sure whether I wanted to cut their heads off and eat them, or take them out and suck their dick. So I spent many years dining alone, as there was no Anna-Marie, there was only Emily Duncan, whom had similar appearances, and yet did not possess the same degree of innate charm that existing for the girl "out of time." On some level, it felt inevitable that I would only date Anna-Marie, despite my contradictory repulsion of love and hate for French culture.

But there was something about Anna-Marie, whose total beauty was beyond the mortal sphere, a goddess on the throne of Olympus, throwing down a cupid bow right into my ... trans lady parts. But there was more than this, something that I had no wanted to admit, something that continued to plague me.

When I interacted with most girls, there was an inevitable feeling of lust.

My body a decaying suit of metallic rust, falling apart in the wind. Turned to powder and dust. Leaving behind the remains of some demonic skeleton. Yet there was something about Anna-Marie, something more vulnerable, that she had seen in me. Something that I had not even seen at the point before her execution by the state. She knew my secret, in some vague fashion, before I expressed my interest in decapitation. Her severed head sitting in my lap, me embracing it as if it were dying sibling love.

My tale of forbidden romance.

A dance of death and beyond.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 7:52 PM

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

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Nine -- Hemato-Tomato -- Living With The Guilt

There were things taught to me in my early high school years, that if they became true, it was uncertain how much longer the United States as an empire would continue to exist.

Already in my life at that point, I had seen the withdrawal of troops from the middle East. Donald Trump was trying to start an economic war with Mexico, and nobody really quite knew what he would do next. I just hoped the he would not try to keep me and my Anna from moving back to Alsace France. There would limits to what European countries found acceptable, and many countries were beginning to reject new people into their countries: already there were several groups of wandering Indian tribes that were deported from Romania to France, which caused a large stink, because it violated EU protocols.

Say what you want about large economic institutions, their seemingly infinite propensity to roll back people's freedom made it an increasingly grim alternative to move to Europe. Even for Anna-Marie, she had lived in the United States long enough, her parents first generation French immigrants, that it might be a hard sell to go back to her old home country.

For those, there was only one way for her to go.

Her head into a wicker basket.

British isolationism overseas further triggered more animosity in the European Union, and it made other countries that had also have issues, want to also leave the economic bloc.

The only result seemed inevitable.

And me and Anna-Marie lived in the after-math of this great war, the third in the series, trying our best to make it through another day. But one day, there was simply no alternative.

And now I live with the guilt.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 6:54 PM

Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Eight -- Hemato-Tomato -- Liking The Trans Girl

I didn't even think a cis girl would have a think for a trans woman. Being trans wasn't exactly a convenient thing, or trendy, if you're living in one of the more conservative states of the union. We had met in our freshman year of high school, though eventually she started seeing boys. But the boys started demanding things from her, so she was quick to break off from unhealthy situations. I was never quite she how she was able to easily switch from one lover to the next, but in all cases she always came back to me, sobbing.

And she knew that I would be there, to give her a shoulder. And she would talk about what happened. I knew that her father was a douche bag, and from time to time she would have trouble with law enforcement. And being an immigrant, it put her in a tricky situation do to Obama's and later Trumps immigration policies. But I was one that she knew she could trust. She knew that my dad dropped his job working as a short order cook, when he was offered lots of money to cut people's heads off for the state guillotine familla. Eventually it came down to this, we trusted each other more than anyone else.

And, out of anything else, was what bothered me the about having her gone from this world. The lust, overpowering. The sensations of mixed feelings, then overwhelming despair. That feeling of hopelessness that only ever achieve full fruition when you realized you've met the love of your life, and simply no longer have the option to express it. Weeping, weeping, and weeping till one could weep no more.

It was time to die:


Danse, the rhythms of death,

In this Kingdom by the hidden sea.

For me and my Anna-Marie.

The final epitaph of the damned.


I heard the sound of my father screaming in the kitchen, then he jerked me to the sound. He didn't much like the idea of one of his daughter, dating someone that they would eventually have to execute by guillotine. It was one of the most difficult decisions of my life.

But I wanted her, I wanted her now.

I wanted her as my wife.


posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 6:40 PM

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