Cupid cheated on Psyche with an Ai hologram

I am using commercial Palantir software to manage my harem-team of digital whores. By applying workflow optimization and AI-driven analytics, I am now able to reduce seduction to orgasm time by 20% annually, achieving an overall 33% margin of improvement in orgasm efficiency. I can’t tell anymore if it’s the software I love, or the bitches, but I know one thing is for certain: streamlining the consumption of human bodies is a SaaS gift from the divine. Militarized nymphomania. Blood is too barbaric. The real battlefront runs on cumlust.

“In the Rouen asylum there was an idiot known as ‘Mirabeau,’ who for
a cup of coffee would copulate with dead women on the dissecting table.
I’m sorry you couldn’t have introduced this little episode into your book:
it would have pleased the ladies.” — Gustave Flaubert

Unhappily, I am opening up this text document to type. Unhappily, because I would prefer to say nothing. Unhappily, because I would prefer to have nothing to say. I could choose not to type this. I could write it in a journal, but it would be too slow, and everything is content, and potential content, and information doesn’t want to be free anymore. It wants to be a spectacle, it wants to become a still-thing. An image, a text document, an audio file, a zip file, encrypted, a podcast, a stream. It wants to be put into code and stored somewhere. It wants to be entombed like Egyptian royalty, discoverable centuries from now using strange tools of digital archaeology. It wants to be opened and closed and replayed and shared and saved. We need Jesus to die again to save all this corrupt information! Information doesn’t want to be free, information wants to be degraded, manipulated, deceived, and imprisoned. Information wants to be liked, shared, subscribed to, ran through, pulverized, used up and forgotten. Information wants you to love it, to be a whore, to treat it like garbage, use it up and throw it away. Information wants you to submit to it, information wants you to submit it, and if I’m nothing else, an obedient slave is what I will always fundamentally be.

I mentioned in the microblog and on my Twitter, that I was invited to this little event, to which I did attend, and where I read an excerpt from a short story of mine, which, a draft of, was once partially posted here, at one time.

It was very fun and interesting and I’m grateful that I went and got to experience such a pleasant evening. So, any potential latent cynicism in what I type isn’t rooted in anything related to the human aspect of the experience, which I loved.

Be that as it may, I am an extreme introvert, though I’m very loud and social, I see myself as a performer, above all. That person is not the real me. Once the performance ends, or if the performance starts to blur and blend too much with my personal identity, I get very uncomfortable and scared. Often, I envision myself building a metal barrier around my aura—drilling in holes to connect the metallic panels, welding them together and hammering at the corners to sculpt the perfect curvature. I like it that way. Nothing hurts. “You can’t see me now because I’ve gone inside.”

I realized that writing stories is a way to expose some tiny aspect of an “inner” self, still mutilated and armored in the ornaments of language and fiction. It’s much safer to remain camouflaged when you’re so often being hunted. Survival depends on deception strategies, covert operations. Woman with PTSD.

But really, I’m thinking about some of the stories other people wrote, some of the stories those other people are living, and the parts of their stories that they shared with me, and what ceaselessly seems to repeat is sex, love, and death. Though, I might just be projecting…

I often think of metabolism and digestion because of my oral fixation (and my Venus in the 6th house), and the regularity with which I must drink water, eat, piss, inhale: the motions of my lips when I speak, I have an obsessive insecurity about my teeth. Should I get lip injections? My face is my most important asset. Wait, no. My mind is. My face is the advertisement for my mind. My body doesn’t exist.

Maybe it’s because it’s so banal and commonplace, that I concentrate so much on consumption and excretion. Whereas sex, love and death, for me, are rare occurrences, something to fill up fantasy, mystery, and dreams. I do find that metabolism and birth are (obviously physically) associated, but to give birth is to excrete, and to excrete is to give birth, but to give birth to waste, things of no physical use, and would you rather waste be pure refuse, or would you turn it into a commodity and a marketable object, make waste into something off which to profit? (Capitalism is a metabolic process, not incubation-gestation). Whatever. I feel too sad and desperate to think about economics.

Love, sex, death... I could sense it in most of the readings: an undercurrent of desire, longing, dejection, isolation, insufficiency, and it’s ingrained in my own typing, too. The human experience… oh la la… Trinities and polarities, ew… I smoked too many cigarettes and I didn’t sleep enough. I’m going to be honest: I feel sad. I think it could be a mix of crashing from the high of socialisation, and the sense of being put on display and vivisected. Almost every social interaction, a privatized financial and capital exchange owned by the other person, owned by me, like a real human market of thought and emotion, biology and genes, and it makes me feel as if I live in a toilet, in a big pile of shit, and I’m just absolutely nothing.

What’s bizarre and against all human morals is that love does exist in filth. Love exists in piles of shit. Pigs still fuck, vultures lay their eggs in landfills. This is where life is: in the pain, the rot, the microbial anarchy of waste, the disease, the death. That’s a discussion for a previous or future day.

People love and long, and they sit on their phones and they love through it. They love their phones and computers and their papers and their books, not the person behind it, not the person who writes it. We love the fantasy, our own imaginations, we generate whole worlds while in near-total sensory deprivation. We sit in nasty bars full of dust and grime and uncleaned toilets and dream of love and touch and entanglement. We’re in trains, factories, offices, in public bathrooms watching pornography, taking selfies, researching niche topics, recording content, recording something: voice, video, screenshots, something, isn’t there something to share? Something to type? Somewhere to exist? Let me penetrate this world with my existence, is there room, do I fit? Is there someone for whom to share? Someone who’ll read this, see it, hear it, share it, and network and connect and grow and spread, like roots and arteries, so the information can flow through different bodies, be manipulated by so many different genetic arrangements?

We’re working so we can take care of those we love, so we can give them a good education, buy them clothes that won’t get them bullied, buy them things that will make them loved. The effort and labor to help create valuable human objects with precious resources inside. We’re buying things to look good for the people we love, to make a beautiful space for the people we need. To be beautiful, so others will be kind. To be beautiful to express something to others, to protect ourselves, to make ourselves vulnerable, to communicate something. We’re doing, and doing all the time for love and exchange and transmission and reception and it’s VERY overwhelming. So much signal, I can’t even imagine how anyone came up with the concept of noise.

You can be with someone for decades. You can love someone even when you fucking hate them. Love them when you hate fuck them, when you duty fuck them, when you pity fuck them. When the rage and bitterness become blinding. But there’s cheating, resentment, mistrust, lack of protection, vulnerability, familiarity, weakness, conquest, collection, fuck and dumps, the unattainable, the fantasy. There’s always the chance of someone else, other options, other wants, secret desires, secret addictions. Do they like me enough? There’s the chase, there’s the missed connection, the rejection, the first heartbreak, loss of virginity, rapes. There’s dating apps, pornography, viral gangbangs, underworld orgies. There’s hook-ups, erotomanic delusional fans, internet stalkers, lonely women, lonely men. There’s the guy at the grocery store, the woman at the café, there’s the girl on the screen, the body in the flesh. And you want me? You can’t. How could it be?

It feels so good, in that sea of flesh, drowned in the billions of bodies of water full of blood, terrestrial electrified dirt, in the streams and ravines of body parts, walking/running/kissing/fucking. There’s billions, billions, billions of humans. Trillions, trillions, trillions of insects, microbes, bacteria. And there’s you, and you’re nothing. But maybe you could be something, to someone? Special to the nearby body in the sea on whom you rubbed up against? God sent them to you, it’s not for nothing. You’re special to whoever put their voice in your ears, whose hands touched yours at the cashier, whose body is now a filter for your thoughts to pass through. Then, you’re alone again, and it’s like, without someone, am I anyone? Am I dead? Am I anything? Really?

We all know we’re not. Even the Caesars and Napoleon Bonaparte’s are not. The brand is not the person, the story is not the soul. That’s why longing, longing, longing… Oh! If only we could! But we are not, and isn’t that so so sexy, doesn’t that contradiction make you want to fuck? Isn’t that idealism and romance all rolled up into one? If only we could bring the moon down from the stars, and wrap it up in pieces and tie it in a bow, which I would give, solely and especially to you. If only we could re-do it all over again. If only we could’ve said, “I love you, I love you, I’ll simply die if I don’t confess!” If only we could’ve been more, or different from what we are. If only we could be special to her, or him, or them, and you, and you, of course, you! I want to be special to you, just you, only you.

I’m only special if you think me so. And because I want to be special to you, I make you special, too. You stand out from the crowd. You’re for me, and I’m for you.

If you tame me, we will need each other.

Consider love as a lesson in domesticity and control. We can weave in traditional stereotypes of masculinity as primitive, seeking a woman to refine and civilize him, to give him purpose and meaning and to care for him. And he does the same for her, tames her “feminine” chaos, or the inverse, the virginal archetype, who becomes depraved and corrupt behind closed doors, who transforms from an innocent girl, to loving wife, to wise matron, all through the gifts bestowed upon her by her husband (and dad). Dependence. I’m unique to you, you’re unique to me. We are bound, we are made, and ultimately, confined by each other’s design.

True love is a prison from whence you’d never want to be free, one in which you’d rather die than ever again touch the outside. You’d cling to love’s rusted chains the way the dying gasp for life. You’d die without those bonds. They make you who you are.

But instead, it is this: viral gangbangs, one night stands, collectors, players, distractions, substitutions, prostitutes, instagram escorts, dating apps, slampigs, streaming, gaming, posting, texting, video chatting. A disembodied voice, a bodiless head, a body part in suspension, paralyzed in the amber of a screen. Your body part is special to me, I’m an expert in amputations and dissections. Your voice is special to me, I’m an expert in auditory hallucinations. Your face is special to me, I’m an expert in eugenic physiognomy. Send me more, give me more, share more, expose more. This is real intimacy. Sex is absolutely nothing. What could be more private than your biometric data, saved and stored, forever in my phone?

I’m the CIA and your my watch-list target for today, and forever more, my surveillant’s vow, to watch you, observe you, take notes and survey; to wait for you, to follow you, until my dying day. To plead for you, obsess over you, to think of nothing else. To make myself and undo myself, a thousand times a day, for you. To make myself your thing, to be human when you don’t want to be. To clean you, present you, unwrap you, host you, devour you, remake you, design you, confine you, enshrine you, worship you, idolize you. You’re my God, I’m your plaything. I’m God, you’re my emergence. I’m special because I make you so, I’m unique only because you are.

I feel sick with the neediness that surrounds me in this apartment. I feel sick that I’m not being kissed, that I had the opportunity and I missed it. I lost it, I ruined it, and now, in the desert of loneliness, a drought rests upon my lips. All of my words, I wish were never spoken, I wish were never thought. I’d surrender to a lifetime of silent muteness in exchange for a lifetime of making out.

Imagine my face barely ever seen, for it rests between the embrace of my lover, eternally. Monogamy could be such a paradise. We could die every day and resurrect each night in the soft caresses of each others warm bodies. If only it weren’t for all the gangbangs, the pornography, the rapes, human trafficking, massage parlors, glory holes, sex dungeons, dating apps, selfies, the handsome man on the street, the woman with the beautiful eyes at the library, the colleague who sits too close, the what ifs and how could anyone be enough?

How could anyone compare to that? How could you compare to that? You’re just one person, and the entire world rests between our fingertips. You can’t fight against ruthless competition and overpopulation. The free market made its verdict: You have no demand. Maybe there just isn’t enough true love to go around anymore. Commodities still exist, Malthus was right, it’s the emotional and social connections that are scarce and deprived. You can still look for love in the air, the isolation, the atomisation, the water vapor, the diesel particulate, overflowing landfills, and you’ll find it there. Carbon dioxide wants you to exhale. You’re so needed. What’s another body, what’s another embrace, what’s a lifelong love affair compared to this entire galaxy? You’re just one person and this is eternity.

And still, no one kisses me. And still, there are so few I want to kiss.

You must be thinking contrarily by now, and I hope that you are, because, of course, as I hope your mother told you, and repeated often: you’re something, you’re someone, you’re someone special, because it’s true. If the love of your life is special, of course, you are, too. But if everyone is special, then no one is, because we can’t have a competition. God forbid there’s a fucking loser. What if the loser is you?

When you’re a star and you’re sparkling and you’re on fire and you’re dancing, do you think about the other 200 billion trillion stars? Do you think to measure them, their size and diameter, their brightness, metallicity? Yes. You do, you must, you should, because what if you shine less brightly than the other ones? What if your surface is dimmer, your mass small, you’re about to expire, explode into supernova? You’re evolving. The compounds you’ve burned have all but dispersed, and you’re left to wait, and long for aeons to be reassembled, glow brightly, and shine in the competition of light, anew. Or maybe you become a planet. Some parts of your atomic structure drift through the ether and bond to form a comet. Rank and order all comets in the universe. You must, you should… because there could be a comet better, more complex and more beautiful than you.

It’s silly to think like this, but so many people do. How can you shine at maximum brightness? Utilize everything you’ve got. But what do you do if there’s nothing on which to shine? No surface on which to bounce, all that light and radiation transmitted for naught?

Are you dead?

You can glitter forever, and shine on entire civilizations, just like our dearly beloved sun does, and has done for so many thousands and millions of years. Poor fucking thing. I hate the sun as much as I love it, as much as I pity it for being so alone up there, and deluding itself into thinking it’s the only sun in the entire universe. Billions worshiping him and each one set back into dust. Where’s the loyalty? But you can’t blame him, can you? That’s what must be done, if you’re going to survive the competition for best, most beautiful, most useful, time altering, life changing, warmest, biggest, brightest. This is the sun’s world, his light made us his, or do you think it’s his absence, what we do with that solar radiation under cloak of night’s darkness? When we see all the other stars? Do you think, in the universe, the planetary formations are ranked and ordered by utility and beauty? Which planet do the most souls “like“? Which planet is the most popular on which to reincarnate? They have lotteries, you know, in the underworld, to see who gets to win a lifetime in heaven, at the top. Real winners only.

Who really gives a fuck? You could go on and shine, and you could mesmerize, but who is there by your side? Who can receive you when you’re burning that bright? The moon? Who comes for you? The simps in your orbit (the comets)? Your fans and followers (meteors)? The people on the street entranced by you? They don’t matter. And they might even resent you. Why do you have so much light in this fallen shadow world? Maybe you’re competing against the sun, waging solar war. You’re going to swallow them. You’re a double agent, guarding an alien light. The crystal of your spiritual core resonates to an extragalactic center, and you’ve made a threat out of yourself. Being special isn’t so special when it comes at the cost of absolute loneliness and alienation. Now you’re dehumanized, now you’re can’t show emotion, now you’re sacred and profane and no one will touch you. You’re something simultaneously more and less than human. You’ve shown yourself to be so unlike the rest. You beg and you plead to be put back your in place. You tell your true love, I’m not that special, I’m nothing. Don’t look at my light, please don’t find me this way. Fall on the floor, and grovel on your knees: Gravity, where have you gone? Push me on the ground, let me writhe with the worms and remain far, far, far from their eyes. They made me this way and I still have to pay the price.

The object of affection becomes the object of resentment. Cling to me, my planets, and fall into my trance. I hate you for always revolving around me, but I can’t be a star without my fans (planets). We’re enslaved, you and I, in this infinite cosmic dance. Spiritually, that sentence made me die a little inside. In any case, now who is special and who is unique? The cigarette after sex is to alleviate the comedown, soften the blow, dull the entrance into a newer, deeper, more profound emptiness. When you’ve been filled and stretched out, the hollowness becomes greater. Sometimes it’s better never to let anything inside to begin with.