Simulan Consciousness Feed ID: Logan
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I kiss the stranger goodbye and thank her for swiping right. She’s talking to me about something, probably whether we’ll do this again sometime or not, but I’m too distracted by the frozen tundra that is my goddamn driveway to listen. I should have worn my slippers to walk her out, or at least socks. I guess a jacket would have been smart too. I’m shivering like a meth head having withdrawals. She’s still talking. Jesus why is it so fucking cold?
“Okay, yeah, uh-huh,” I cut her off.
“I’m so so sorry,” she says.
She must’ve only just realized that I’m barefoot on cold concrete…in a henley…in the middle of fucking winter.
“You must be freezing!” She has a cute giggle, sounds rehearsed. “I’ll let you go.”
Yeah, no shit. Weren’t you supposed to be an empath or some shit? “It might be a little cold, not too bad though.” Lie.
“See you again soon?”
I want to tell her to go home and drink until she blacks out so she’ll forget ever meeting me; she would be better off. “Yes, please. I had fun tonight.”
Blush again. “Talk to you later then?”
“For sure. Dinner next week?” Another lie.
“I’d really like that.”
She blushes, gets all excited, and launches into a rapid fire ramble, listing off her favorite restaurants, which ones she thinks I’d like and all that. It's kinda cute, honestly. Almost even sounds genuine.
Kinda wish I hadn’t already forgotten her name.
Fuck it. We both knew what this late night rendezvous was: something just to make us feel like we’re not so totally and unequivocally alone, a desperate fuck to help us briefly convince ourselves that maybe, just maybe, someone might find value in our existence even though we don’t. Two empty shells seeking a way to delay the inevitable. Then again, I could just be projecting.
She seems smart. Nice too. Definitely too nice for me to ever be more than a cameo in her life.
I’m doing it again. I should stop beating myself up so much. Least that’s my therapist’s expert opinion; but they also say I shouldn’t use the word should. I’m still not positive I can trust someone who can’t see the obvious linguistic flaws in that prescription. Is lack of self-awareness universal to all therapists or just all of mine?
Fuck. Whatshername is still talking.
I should be…
Wait…
She can’t honestly think vegan food is that good. She’s gotta be a serial killer. Or maybe a cannibal? I guess there probably could be a moral argument for devouring people over animals. World could do without so many shit heads. Fuck. I’m probably one of those shit heads. Wonder if she’d devour me. I hope I taste good.
Her hand grazes my cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Huh, oh. Yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking about how much I love vegan food.”
There’s that cute, rehearsed giggle again. Damn, she has fantastic hair.
Awkward auto-exchange of goodbyes, and a “Drive safe, text me when you get home, yeah? Just so I know you got home safe.” Did I just say safe twice in two sentences? Fuck I suck.
She blushes again. “That’s so sweet.” Kisses me once more. Finally leaves (thankfully without noticing the redundancy that is me).
I am kinda sweet, in my own way.
Shivering in the cold quite chivalrously, waiting for her to make it outta my driveaway, as if my oversight might keep the intimate stranger safe from slush-ridden streets and black ice a while longer.
Stoned ADHD delivers distraction. Dimly lit by sparse streetlamps, I watch dried leaves dying under the weight of early winter’s shy snowfall. Sharp wind blows, biting my face, freezing my pores, and I scowl down south toward its origin. Seems to be picking up fast. Heavy clouds loom in the distance, and…I think that edible’s hitting harder than expected.
Wave her goodbye. Watch her headlights transform to taillights. She disappears. From my life forever—only natural.
Instantly, I’m Usain Bolt on tip-toes, crossing my driveway’s concrete ice caps, holding steady my glass—liquor sloshing but never spilling—hurdling over three gargantuan steps to my front porch, landing lithely as any leopard. Front door’s ajar. I leap inside to escape the early onslaught of arctic wastelands now consuming Cottonwood’s heights. Warmth comes. Did Usain actually do hurdles? Probably not. I should start following sports or something.
I need a fucking drink. And a cigarette…oh god…
…do I need to pick up another pack? Fuck. fuck. fuck.
Heart’s beating. The split-level duplex’s walls are compressing. Luminescent claws of my cobwebbed chandelier are closing in.
Can I even afford another pack? What if I’m almost out?
I fanangle the golden pack of Spirits outta my black jean’s back pocket. Count. Nine left…slow relief breathes into my being. I pull one Spirit out, and some semblance of safety returns to protect me from the chandelier’s soul-siphoning lights.
Check the time. My phone says it’s 11:11.
Angel numbers. Nice. I check to see if anyone likes me. Not even angels or their numbers can usher me out of dopamine deficient darkness without first heralding in positive notifications, and as far as notifications go, I’ve got none. No texts, no new likes, no comments. No one’s thinking of me—they’re better off this way.
Would anyone really give a shit if I stopped existing?
Why would they?
Why do I care about strangers’ opinions?
I’d ponder that question longer, but another question answers swiftly: because if you commit suicide and don’t post about it did it really happen?
Guess it doesn’t matter. Won’t be there to see the likes.
I blame social media for the severe lack of caring exchanges between digital mates and myself, but that’s mainly because it’s easier than braving my shame—I’ve been isolating again. Nonetheless, with no real intimacy to dispel the loneliness, self-hate lets the voices breach my brain. I want to bang my head against the wall until some of the sound spills down the volume. Instead, I’m pleading “Please, just stop” and “Shut up already” to no one.
Jake must’ve been downstairs not too far down the hallway, because his voice breaks through the others, and I hear, “What was that?”
One second later, he pops into view, looking like hipster Jesus, reminding me how much I wish I could grow a beard like his.
“Nothing, just talking to myself.”
“Ah, that’s on brand.” Typical marketing lingo—on brand for him. “Wanna split a joint or something? Shaylee’s busy tonight, and I just got robbed of Diamond tier.”
“Good. Fuck her.”
“No, not good.” Eyelids squintily eclipsing evergreen irises, he looks as sad as he does stoned. “I was one win away.”
I empathize the best I can. “Um. Sorry; that…really sucks?” Thing is though, I’ve still got no idea how any of his online gaming works, especially all the tiers in his favorite distraction, Magic: The Gathering. I wish I was cool enough to consider myself a legit gamer. But all I am is a bad Super Smash player and a half-decent, once competitive Pokémon trainer —a single defeat tanked those dreams (once you wanna be the very best like no one ever was…it’s all guilt from there).
“Thanks.”
“So…you grab the joint and I’ll make us a drink.”
“Sure.”
“Garage?”
“Your cigarettes are filling up the house.”
“Fine,” I sigh. I should quit smoking, I know that; maybe next year, when things are better. But I like cigarettes, and while cancer might be a concern someday, it won’t matter if I can’t cope with survival long enough to have cancer. Shit. Jake is talking about something. I must’ve spaced out again. “Yeah, cool. So you grab the joint. I’ll make drinks.”
“Go team!”
“What would we call our team?”
Jake’s face goes pensive. “This is a decision for mid-joint and post-drink.”
“Shots too?” I ask, hopefully.
“Just pour me a half. I’m done trying to keep up with you on drinking. Fucking irish dock worker I swear.”
I bow. We break the huddle to achieve our incredible feats.
The time is 11:39. Is it dilating again?
Upstairs: take down a double shot of 1800 solo, and chase it with an energy drink from the fridge. Find my Red Wings under piles of clothes. Grab my favorite jacket. I still can’t decide whether it makes me look like a russian oligarch, a pretentious try-hard hipster, or a homeless schizophrenic. Why it matters at all I’ll never know, besides that I care too much about others’ opinions. Fuck being human, or at least fuck being me—sometimes I wonder if mental illness is more of a first world problem.
I make our drinks: double shots of good ol’ 1800, three slices of squeezed lime, ice, and diet tonic water. I sip mine half down, replenish, then ready the shots. I either have problems or solutions, not sure, maybe they’re the same thing. Is this my sickness or am I just sick of it all (life spent subjected to a sick society).
The spiral starts. Ideation creeps in.
Opposite the kitchen counter, across what could have been a dining room, Jake appears from the stairs and strides on over to the kitchen. Wearing a beanie, gray sweats, green flannel over a Taking Back Sunday tee, and what I’m pretty sure is actually one of my jackets. Doesn’t matter. Happy for the distraction.
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“Drinks ready?!” he asks. Golden retriever excitement spanning his hipster Jesus face.
Takes me a second to respond. To be human again. Breathe relief. Feeling saved. I almost thank him for the pattern interrupt but don’t, because emotions are weird.
Instead, I just hand him the blue shot glass. “Here you are, kind sir.”
“This isn’t a half shot.”
Shrug. I show him the double-shot in my skull-shot glass. “It’s half of what I’m shooting.”
“Impeccable logic.”
Glasses raised.
“You pick the toast,” I say.
“Already got one. “To health and longevity.”
We tap. I add. “And an early death.”
“Dark.”
“Always”
Shoot. Chase with tequila and tonic.
Outside we go.
“Fuck, I forgot the joint.”
“That was literally your one job.”
“Shaylee called.”
I bite my tongue. Not my place. I already used up my one allotted fuck her, she’s mean, grody, and ruins everything, and worse, isn’t even clever, today, so I go with, “Apology accepted.”
Jake heads in to fix his fuck up. It takes me approximately three tenths of a second to forgive and less than that to forget.
I light a cigarette. Inhale that early death with earnestness and empowerment. Death is in my hands. Thinking of Rand. Power of fire between my fingers. Leaning against the porch’s rusted railing, I drink. Ayn gets replaced by Oberst. Lighter head for my heavy heart, His lyrical influence droning through my mind again. I’m probably nothing but a cheap byproduct of all I consume. I guess that’s what makes me human. And I hate that, almost as much as I hate myself.
Don’t spiral. Stop ruminating. But, you are a piece of shit. Radio’s loud again.
Two drinks, four drags; drown the voices, or burn their culprits alive; never works but hey, least I’m still fighting them?
I stare out over the city. No shivers anymore, thanks to the oversized thrift store treasure. Hipster, homeless or oligarch, doesn’t matter; I love this fucking jacket.
Tired of standing, I sit down on the cold cement step, set the quad-shot cocktail to my right, fumble in my pockets for my phone and proceed to social media to see if anyone’s messaged me yet—nothing. I switch through a few different dating apps, because…validation—if social media stopped existing, would I also cease to exist, or would I finally start living?
The time is 11:54.
Where’s Jake? Did that fucker get lost or…
Testing Neural Network Compatibility
Neural Network Compatibility Test Complete:
Neurogenesis Activity Confirmed!
Well brain, this is new for you. Doing prompts instead of looming horrors tonight. I’m impressed. Wait, why am I seeing prompts?
IQ Test Initiated
0%...24%...69%
Test Complete!
Score: 128
I got a 131, thank you.
EQ Test Initiated
3%...19%...56%...
Test Complete!
Score: 137
Those are a thing? Do politicians get an automatic fail? What about narcissists? Is there a difference?
Potential for Survival in Apocalypse Simulation
Testing...
Complete!
Average
As if I haven’t heard that one before. Most replace the exclamation point with an adverb though. Get it straight, guys.
Brain Capacity for Evolution
Test Initiated
Please standby...
The flood of pop-up ads stops waterboarding my brain.
Please standby…for what?
The time is 11:58.
MMORPGs HUDs, prompt screens, self-hatred, along with questions regarding why the fuck the prompts were so real…are all vying for attention on my mind’s radio.
11:59.
I’m nearly at the end of my cigarette when something stirs me from my space case dream. A sound, like one of those emp pulse blasts in movies, erupts across the sky, far off in the west side of the city. Then every light, block by block, goes out in accordance with the sound.
There’s a loud thrumming that’s swept up the valley toward me. I should be more scared. More unnerved. But, the edible’s mixing with the joint nicely. I could be imagining this, I take a drag of my cigarette, watch the sound nearing.
Lamplights lining the street flicker like a seizure, spark then shatter. Showering the darkness like a harem of neglected pixies plummeting to their demise.
“What the proverbial fuck.”
Voice shaking, hoping my inner critic doesn’t hear my weakness and comment on my paranoia, but they do…
Everything’s going to shit, this is about to be an apocalypse; and the world as you know it’s going to end, and it’s all your fault, because everything’s your fault, including the upcoming, admittedly thrilling doomsday, which you of course won’t survive because you’re the most underwhelming failure to plague the earth, but hey, at least your inevitable death will end in epic tropey flames.
My inner critic’s so on the nose I can’t help but furrow my brow at a fourth wall I of course have no idea exists.
Shivering in the cold, I smoke, and drink down well past half-empty. I should’ve used a bigger glass. Watch the distant fires. Eerie, insidious, oddly inspirational. Even destruction casts light. There’s hope for me yet.
Some snow is dancing in one of the nearby lamp post’s cones of light, but that snow is gray, and I’m nearly at the end of my cigarette. I haven’t gotten another pack yet. Do I still need one?
Another EMP pulse erupts across the sky, but this time, further east. Closer. The sound and the visible fury pulse sweep east, higher. Like watching electric blue shockwaves, their rings dragging black holes along for the expanse.
More explosions. Real explosions. Only twelve blocks, maybe less, maybe more.
At times like this, I hear what’s probably the bridge to Borne On The FM Waves of The Heart by Against Me! in my head: Anxiety, anxiety, you give me no mercy. I almost hum along, but the heart palpitations can’t keep a beat.
The blackout has consumed up to tops five blocks west of me.
Fires scorch the sky ever still. Everything once there, still.
I take a drink then a drag with my shaky hands.
The sound intensifies.
Attention pulled left, toward the main street that runs east/west on the southside of my rented corner house/duplex: starting west, climbing east, climbing at me, the lamplights lining that street, spark, shatter, and shower the darkness like all my past lovers.
All the lights in all the houses on my block explode. Fireworks burn my nostrils with power tools cutting metal.
The world is black oblivion.
I hear footsteps. Immediately jolted upright, I start looking over my shoulder, when the front porch light behind me pulses, shatters, but I ninjitsu dodge just in time, jumping down the two steps, kicking my glass over, all while impressively holding my arm over my face, then landing, and spinning 180 to the sound of the front door opening.
Jake stands in the frame, joint in hand. Perplexion paints his face as he glances at the shards of glass mosaicking the front porch.
“Power went out.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
I see it first. A demon wraith without headlights speeding east to west, down the mainstreet. Hell burning behind her. Around us all.
The driver’s gotta be female. We hear her at the same time.
In the hard cast shadows of a world plunged into Hell, I see Jake’s head swivel, and his perplexed expression decay into dread. No wonder why: girl in the car’s shrieks would give sadists a hard-on. The wraith she’s trapped in goes speeding past us.
Speeding, as in: seventy-something in a forty zone. Going way too fast for me to make out what she’s screaming, and before I even have time to begin processing, she’s already further down the road, turning that sharp corner too hard for its curve.
Out of view.
I’ve never seen a crash. Seen the aftermath. But I’ve never seen an actual crash take place, and the most morbidly curious parts of myself have always wanted to. I no longer want to—the sound is enough.
Jake’s slew of nonsense don’t help. Except, of course, because moments like this never last, he’s actually cursing at Bane, ushering the dog back inside.
“Kennel, Bane.”
He sounds so paternal I am actually impressed. The dog’s too-long nails sadly echo from up the staircase as Jake closes the door.
“We should help.”
“Jynx?”
We’re starting toward the crash, when the world glitches.
This is not the first time the world’s done this. Not since some scientists showed evidence supporting the theory we’ve been existing inside a shittily programmed simulation.
Fear freezes us in place as we watch pockets of everything blur.
Stars go static, their lights stretching across the night’s sky like white paint smeared across a black canvas. Cross the canvas, a commercial airliner roars, and I crane my neck as the flying coffin’s hull kamikazes overhead. Wind slaps my face. Then the airliner’s gone, skimming a canopy of trees, before disappearing. My mind’s dual wielding battle rifles, emptying their mags with burst fire thoughts. How many commercial coffins fly in and out of the Salt Lake Airport? How many passengers are on board? How many crash sites were populated? How many people would’ve been going through intersections?
Rifts ripping open every structure, revealing hacker white text that’s scrambled into what might as well be fucking demonic tongues in a second.
The questions grow louder and louder. Inside of my head’s like some department store wall of TVs with their volumes all turned too high.
Then everything’s some app-filter effect. The nearest lamp post looks like a dick in a japanese porn— dictatorial censorship and pixel phallus.
Suddenly, my vision goes into full distortion.
I reach out and grab the stairs’ railing for support, notice Jake has already done the same thing, his glitchy silhouette sitting on the nearest step.
Jake’s gone. Fuck, where’d he—oh, found him. Using the porch’s railing corner for protection like he’s some child in a cold war bomb drill.
“Feel safe down there?”
He takes a few deep breaths, looks up at me. “You said something about a drink?”
Another crash pulls my attention west, and I stare out at the city. If it weren’t for my recent encounter with flying catacombs all the fiery masses currently falling from the sky would probably make me think of comets.
Mind is preoccupied at the moment though.
“If by a drink, you mean one of a water slide’s worth of that clear blue Lunazul down my gullet, then yes. Just one though.”
“I think that might be more than one.”
“One water slide. All about perspective when it comes to metrics.”
Somewhere a cricket must be chirping.
He says, “I can’t decide if that makes sense or not.” He half-shrugs. “Make us some fucking water slides!”
We go inside. Everything’s dark, except for light coming from the tv. No idea how that’s possible, but fuck it, some light’s better than none. Youtube is playing Son et Lumiere by The Mars Volta. As much as I love this song, it’s unsettling to hear at the moment.
Walking up the stairs, my vision blurs again, and new text is generating.
I stop. Jake stops. Bane barks at his humans to get out of the way. But we don’t.
Prompt pops up. This time it’s a deep crimson red, the aesthetic similar to “GAME OVER” in Dark Souls. The color of gamer trauma. Except, the prompt doesn’t say GAME OVER. In a way, it’s worse.