This is a revision of an earlier post.

I want my mind
I want my mind
I want it!
More than you know.
I want my own mind

I want it clever, clearer than any of you
Than whatever it may be….

I must admit that my previous post was ridiculously morbid. So much so that I didn’t want anyone to see it, so I made it private. My apologies to anyone who did read that mess (Ha, like anyone is reading…shh). Maybe I can work on it a little more. Make it more likable.

Like everyone (that’s what you tell yourself, so you won’t go mad), I’m having one of those terrible weeks.  Well to be sure it’s been more than a week. More like 6 months, quite possibly from birth. And when I say terrible I mean… (you really don’t have to tell them. Just because it’s a blog doesn’t mean you have to spill everything. Save some for me.  For later).

But the thing is, I’m supposed to be better by now. I’m taking the sugar pills. Sugar pills, because they look like granulated sweetness, and I don’t believe that they’re really going to work. My lover, Paramour, angrily disapproves of my disposition, she said I had to have some faith. I laughed at her, because faith has never been one of my strong points. This is my second week and apparently it’s supposed to kick in by now.

I can’t say that I’ve noticed a difference, but then again, maybe I’d have to dissociate myself from myself to really see what I look like.

Did that sentence make sense?

Am I making sense?

I must be.

Hmm…

Well, this is just a draft anyway. I’ll return when I have another fever and with fresh new eyes and less friends, and no family, I’ll make my repairs.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yes, dissociation. But aren’t we doing that right now? Maybe the key is to look at how people around you react when you do something, anything (Maybe you should periodically make yelping sounds). Ah now that can be informative. Even if it’s based on assumptions, it’s informative? (Okay, this is boring). There’s some level of knowing, there are tells.

Maybe I should talk about my visit to the Cognitive Corrective Repair Clinic (CCRC), and the three words to remember: red, shoe, …?  Yes, Yes, Yes!

I’m not fond of the CCRC, with good reasons that I can list, but what would be the point of that? It was the analyst’s recommendation. It was the analyst who kept pressing the issue of a visit to the CCRC after each private forum session. The analyst worked really hard to convince me, but what pushed me over the edge was another one of those malfunctioning processor episodes that lasted for more than a week. I decided to try. See what happens, if anything I’ll have more data than before (Yeah, but what type of data: spam or recycled ideations?). Idempotent, Idempotent, Idempotent!

At the CCRC, the receptionist with her two screens for her mainframe, one for maintaining the live records of all old and new seekers that’s directly linked to the Health Corp–the global health cartel–, and the other for calendars, directories, notices, announcements. She didn’t believe my clean suit was exactly that, clean. I was the best well-dressed seeker ever. Unfortunately, I didn’t win a prize for looking functional. Oh, but she could care less that I wanted to look good, especially if they were going to detain my mainframe. Well, maybe it’s because the receptionist thought you were a guy. (Come on now, no more sidetracking, and who is this talking? There’s only room for one. The room is filled!). Focus, focus. Hocus, Pocus!

Okay yeah, the receptionist did label me “sir”. But it could be that she’s a Neo-Luddite, against all forms of advancement, technology or otherwise, and refuses to do an upgrade.  Then, how is she not relieved of her post? How is she not relieved of her post.  She’s not relieved of her post. Relieved of her post.  Her post. Post. (It’s the CCRC, and no one gives a shit).  At this point, I really don’t care. Besides they usually overcompensate with pinkness and apologies. She didn’t. (Great Scire! You’re so long winded. No wonder you’re a blogger). Can I just say, that this is the most fun all week.

Anyway, the receptionist, didn’t listen to the soundwave I sent her which said loud and clear–I was on my best behavior, I practiced using a simulaton, rehearsing my script–that I was there to see the Scientist. But the receptionist heard something else and sent me on a wild goose chase which involved going through double doors that locked behind you.  And you don’t have a key. With the aid of a lost janitor– first day on the job– I survived the trap doors and came right back where I started: at the receptionist’s desk. And I sent her another soundwave, “I’m here to see the Scientist.” She then informed me that I had given her three different characters, “And each of them are unique you see,” she informed me.  Defending myself was useless even in my clean suit. Well, honestly your hair was still very messy.

I had been waiting for an hour.

Because I was gone for awhile and the reprimand from the receptionist after,  I lost my place as just a spectator. I had to sit next to an elderly lady. Every five minutes she sent a loud wave to no one in particular, “How long have you been waiting? I’ve been waiting for 3 hours.  I’ve given up on my mainframe.”

There was another guy talking to the receptionist. His wave was impaired, it kept buffering.   Too slow.   His eyes were bloodshot. Like all of us, he came because he wanted answers. A Scientist came and gave the guy a survey to fill out: When was your last…? How much….? Do you get the…? Have you ever….? The Scientist waved that there wasn’t sufficient grounds to conduct an experiment, because this seeker (the guy) did not have any toxins seeping out of his pores like vapor. I instantly went up to the guy and offered him some Prosecco, the good kind. Because he had a reason to celebrate. (What? That didn’t happen.  You couldn’t even look at the guy.  And where exactly were you hiding the “good kind” of Prosecco?) Well, if I had Prosecco, I would have offered it to this guy just so toxins could seep out of his pores like vapor. (Stop rambling and get to the point.) What, where’s the point? There’s a point? Isn’t is a point? There’s only loops and alogorithms.  Sad.

A woman about my age approached me.  She looked normal, I guess (Oh come on!  She seemed too content). How can someone seem too content? I wondered if she was on sugar pills, too?   She waved, “Excuse me, sorry, but I don’t think you should sit there. There was this guy sitting here, bugs were falling off of him. I think they were living on him.”

I lept up, as the elderly woman, like clock work, chimed in, “I’ve given up on my mainframe. How long have you been sitting here?!”

I then thought, perhaps she  (the mirror, the true normal one, that you could never aspire too, and can’t!) accidentally broadcasted a corrupted simulation.  Sometimes if the software is corrupted, simulations can become infected.  I guess the software might just be that good, but it will simply torment if it isn’t applied to a particular purpose.  (Whatever, you had already decided to believe that bagbiter.  Spaz!).  Of course I was scratching myself . (You’re such a compooter, if it wasn’t for me, you’d still be scratching, ha!).

By the time the Provisioner came for me, I was overstimulated and couldn’t focus. Hocus! Pocus! Shazam! (I’m going to swat you, I’m so going to swat you, you fly!)

Repeat after me, all of us:  Maintain eye contact.  Simulate before you wave.  Make sure it’s logic and not the absurd. 

I was waiting for someone, for the Provisioner maybe to come instead of  The Scientist…?  I wanted a Provisioner here (Even while you, we, shouldn’t trust anyone, but me?).

Introducing, The Provisioner, here, and right now.  (What makes them exactly different?) 

Whatever!  I’m still telling the story.  I’m still in Control? Right?  So shut-up!

Get Out!

Provisioners are the middle ground -most of the time- genuinely kinder and seemingly interested in more than control supplements.  

This one looks tired.  Really tired, like she had seen too much already and it was only 1:00pm on a Monday.  She did some test runs, and gave me a survey to fill out.  And I’m not going to fail. With my cheat screen and my script, I’m average. Well, that’s if I maintain function.  It’s always a question: when will the crash happen?  She idled and then waved, “Are you transitioning”. I laughed. She apologized for making me uncomfortable. I wasn’t.

She prompted those three words to remember.

I thought, “red, shoe, …?”

I couldn’t remember the last one. I must remember the last word.