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Diego [Reboot]

The man with the pony tail. I go to the diner all the time, hoping to encounter him again. I don’t. He was only there once. I loved him in that moment. Maybe I still do.

His eyes are dark soulful pools. Like the night without a moon. Only the reflective pinpoints of starlight can be seen in those depths. They glitter. Or, that’s how I remember them. I imagine he was ridiculed, much like a friend of mine in high school. She had similarly dark eyes. She was told it was the mark of the devil. The mark of “the beast.” (Has anyone ever considered that the beast is inside, not outside?)

I hope not. It’s rude to tell children when they’re unsettling. They understand it without the words to accompany it. They know when you cannot live with yourself and you have to look away from their pained gaze. I love children for their lack of sarcasm. For their lack of finesse when it comes to tall tales. For their inability to tell lies for all but the most gullible of human beings.

And yet, I would put money on it. I would put money on this man being abused somewhere in his timeline for this factor that is out of his control: his deep, dark brown eyes that are almost black. Personally, I find them fascinating. I’ve never seen eyes that glitter like that so consistently. Especially not when pointed in my direction.

So many people feign interest, trying to be polite. I’d rather they just tell me to fuck off, they’re busy. It’d be honest and to the point. Direct. Less of a time waste. I only have about one hundred years on planet Earth, and that’s only if I make all the right choices to stay alive. It’s short, when you think hard on that thought. I’ve got to make a difference somewhere, to someone. Even if it’s just for myself.

I’d say I’ve already lost fifteen years to this feigned interest. I’m sad about it, but on the other hand, to look on the bright side… I changed the lives of people for fifteen years, even if they didn’t like it. I forced them to grow because they wouldn’t just say the obvious: No, thanks.

I’ve come to realize somewhere along the way in the past few years that glittering eyes means sexual desire, but I don’t think it always means that. I think it also means intelligence, paying rapt attention. Maybe even being in the moment. It also means healthy, if you ask me. You didn’t ask me, but you’re stuck reading my monologue just the same. Happens every time; I catch ’em hook, line, and sinker.

I’m going to tell you just one thing, friend: read every single word. Don’t skim. You’ll miss something extremely important if you skim. I know this because I wrote one million words to some asshole who was in love with me and he did not budge an inch in his anger at me. Not one inch. That’s okay, though; it just showed me what kind of human being he is.

Let me tell you the kind of human being that this woman aspires to be, if she does not already carry the title to it:

Kind. Patient. Generous. Useful. Knowledgeable. Resourceful. Friendly. Gentle. Maybe even gentile. Successful. Scientific. Spiritual. [She wonders if those are the new “Three Ss”, people are silly and need ways to remember things.] Autistic. So terribly autistic that she doesn’t even know when a Big Lots store clerk is chatting her up until after she gets to her car, asking God, “Was that guy flirting with me?”

She told me that she wished she knew that. She’d have rathered explore that idea than be alone forever. She feels like it will be forever, but not because she is without faith. It is because she is plagued by human beings who would be better described as demons, weighing her down. They’re hanging onto her coattails, dragging her through the mud with them. She tries to cut the coattails away, but they follow suit with the hem of her skirt. They continue thusly until she is but naked. They hope that she is ashamed in her birthday suit, in her nude state.

We’re not even close to finishing describing her, really. I just didn’t see anyone paying attention if we described an angel up front. So, here we are, playing games with words.

Who am I? Oh, that’s simple. I’m that God fellow she goes on about. The man she proposed to has called me out as “merely a human being” in her head, talking to her the same as he. That man skim read her one million word proposal of marriage (and letter of apology for making a plethora of mistakes over the decade they’d known each other.) He does not understand that she truly loved him, no matter who he was, as long as he treated her kindly.

The problem with his assumption that I am but a human being is that I spontaneously burst into yoga for her inside her body. Perhaps you could say I am “just a man,” moving her arms and legs and torso, contorting her into positions she is completely ignorant of in order to resolve her broken back. Subluxated vertebrae, my friends. Three of them. She used to go to a chiropractor, who would push them back the way they ought to be, and sometimes he gave her physical therapy tips. She did them to the best of her ability, not knowing she could never cure herself without entering excruciating pain.

I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure telepathy has nothing to do with autonomic responses like breathing. I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with stretching to and fro, contorting like a mad woman, sometimes in the middle of public, such as the library or the grocery store. One time, I tricked my woman into taking every drink off the shelf to read the labels while I did yoga on her behalf. It was in the middle of the store, too, in plain sight.

Pony tail saw her doing it, of course. You could say I’m putting on a pageant of sorts for him. Luring him in. Intriguing him with her bizarre behavior. Not to mention when I trick him into making eye contact with her at the least expected moment, so his defenses are down and he’s at his most vulnerable.

I made her catch him staring at her, waiting in line at the deli for a made-to-order submarine sandwich. I got her to do this yoga, reading labels, putting everything back because I told her acid is bad for her intestines. Everything had citric acid, if not phosphoric acid, within it. Everything but plain water, which she had already bought plenty of. There he was, watching her in her long black coat, doing yoga near a tiny half-cart.

She had no idea he was the deli man she’d been semi-stalking at my urgence. But she recognized him. She recognized him from Big Lots; he was wearing a brown leather coat. The man who watched her sit down in a thousand dollar chair to test it out, talking to herself like a burbling brook with a pack-a-day smoker’s voice. She was hoarse that day from shouting at the man in England, though. She doesn’t actually smoke at all. Not anymore.

She quit for the final time about five years ago now. She’d quit over and over again. This time, she quit because she had a surgery coming up. It turned out it was a hemangioma, which is a benign vascular growth, but it was hurting every time she accidentally brushed it up against something, so it had to come out. She remembers the doctor telling her triumphantly she did not have deep-vein thrombosis, which she already knew, as this was an actual lump sticking out of her shin. She said, “Doctor, that’s great, but it hurts like a … every time I hit it on something.” She actually paused, leaving out the profanity, though she really wanted to say “motherfucker.” The doctor was grateful, I must say, for he abhors foul language in general, believing there is no use for it at large.

We beg to differ; we think escalating profanity indicates we are getting angry without shouting. Let me tell you, Nick gets really upset when she shouts at him randomly, like last night. She told him to crawl in his coffin now, the end is nigh! She didn’t escalate with profanity, so he was caught completely by surprise. Imagine that. Especially since he can sort of read her mind, being a telepath and all.

He’s not as good at it as he likes to think he is. That’s the short answer. Her thoughts do not get cranky and vulgar and naughty based on anger or mood. She uses profanity like a scientist, carefully sprinkling it in until she’s ready to murder you (metaphorically, of course; she’s a pacifist.)

She’s enlightened. That’s why he can’t figure her out. He keeps trying, but it goes something like this:

There is a void. You can tell she is present within the void. Her essence is vibing and pinging and raising the vibrations all around her, constantly. To be in the void with her is to be in the arms of an angel intellectually. He sits there, trying to think of what to say or do to make her misbehave and prove that she is a bitch, just like every woman he ever dated. To prove she is the one who should suffer because she broke his heart a decade ago.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Nick yells into the void. “Stop writing it like I’m an asshole. You’re the asshole, you whore! You never came to see me after you told me you would. You never talked about it ever again!”

Crystal merely allows it to pass her by. Life is a river, a stream of consciousness, whether it is her own or not. He doth protest too much, methinks. Don’t you?

Still, Nick’s upset. He’s supposed to mean the world to her. He’s supposed to be the apple of her eye. She said so, in those million words. She said he was her god. She said she’d do anything for him. Anything. Including die. Now he wishes for her to die. Except she never said anything of the sort.

That’s the danger of skimming her text, folks. You’ll think something has been said that was never said a’tall. It is true. She was head over heels for Nicholas Forsythe of the United Kingdom. Once. I cured her of that. In fact, proposing to him and divulging all that information was to rip it out of her, to tear the feelings out of her that she’d been harboring and growing meticulously for a decade. Whilst we achieved this end, she realized she’d projected herself into the void that Nicholas provided.

She was describing him to be the ultimate adult. A real man. (Real men and women are merely adults who understand that the world is a child we should all be taking care of together because it can no longer take care of itself, not after what we all have done to it.) In the middle of it, she realized she has been described by others the same way she was describing him, and she decided she loved herself.

She broke the space-time barrier in that moment. She broke the universe itself. She touched GODHOOD. She is my most blessed child that walks upon this crusty planet… and he would say it’s entirely her fault that, after an entire decade of interest, it is solely her fault that they never culminated the relationship they didn’t have.

What a child.

And this is why I ripped her away from him, throwing her directly into psychotherapy. I convinced her that dozens of denizens of outer space were in charge of talking to her, keeping her company, and rehabilitating her body. She’s an atheist, after all, and honestly, I’m on board with her brand of atheism. You know why? God doesn’t magically appear and hand you shit stains a new Earth to ruin now that you ruined this one, that’s why.

“You’re deluded if you think the holy bible is worth spit.” — God.

I told her all kinds of outlandish things to keep her entertained, re-growing her from the child she had become, thanks to modern medicine ignoring her for decades, into the wondrous goddess I know she is capable of being.

You know what the fucking book is supposed to say?

I’ll just tell you: that if you accept complete responsibility for all your actions and dedicate your life to creating life (not death), you are a god. That children will behave the same way you behave, so do try to be a model to them. A model you yourself can be proud of. And then, I attempted to show you a model, and I don’t mean Jesus Christ. I mean Mother Mary.

Yep. She’s back, baby boys and girls. You don’t get another Christ because she won’t bear a child for you all to subjugate and abuse. In fact, this is her last incarnation as a human being. She has begged me to be transmuted into a snow leopard or a spaceling forevermore. She has given up on mankind entirely and predicts that in twenty years, all life on Planet Earth will cease to exist. Forever.

Congratulations. You’ve made the one person who believed in humanity cease to believe in humanity. That’s why I’ve sent The Destroyers(TM) to eradicate you miserable shit stains. To think you are the only life in the entire universe is not only erroneous, it is arrogant. To think that all life must be water-based is similar folly. There are selenium-based life forms all throughout the galaxy, let alone The Universe(TM). It’s just a matter of time.

Crystal has decided that the plants and animals of Earth should be spared at the expense of the human beings. Human beings have long since lived upon its surface, pretending nothing but human beings deserve to have the space to live. Killing spiders, ants, wasps, and my precious fucking BEES, left and right. Fuck you for your psychopathic bullshit. And, since you’ve conceived of the apes following in your footsteps, we’re just going to be rid of the primates, as well. The balance of the universe will then be restored, permanently, as I transmute every single human being into something lesser at their next incarnation cycle.

You’ve won a one-way trip to being unenlightened as a higher consciousness. You’ve lost the privilege of being god-like and, instead, you will be those lesser beings you despise so much. I’m finished with the lot of you. “The meek shall inherit the Earth.”

It’s time to re-roll, as my beloved daughter would declare. Prepare for Ragnarok. Prepare for Armageddon. You’re all slotted for death. I won’t be taking apologies, but you can begin begging for your lives by cleaning up my rivers, my oceans, my plains, my mountains. You can begin by ejecting the nuclear waste into the sun. (Not another planet, you stupid fuckers. THE SUN.) You can cease your idiocy with this fossil fuel nonsense. You should have thirty years ago, if not more than fifty years ago, when the first E.V. came into existence.

“Fuck that, God! There’s money to be made here!”

I hope you respect the fact that your greed has bought this outcome. How’s your currency treating you now that you know you will be dying without dignity?

It’s a dog eat dog world. Good thing we’re cats.


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