Blasted Fasting and Raw Food Diet

So I figured it was time for me to fast it out, starting today.

I'm trying that ten day Lemon Aid fast, with some modifications - mainly I'm keeping my tea and nut milk thank you, at least for the first few days until I am used to it all.

Lately I've embraced a raw food diet. I'm reaching for at least 90%. I've been trying to go raw for two years now. It all started two summers ago. I was all raw for those 3 months of summer, surviving off of fruit and dropping to 120 pounds. Now I want to do my raw food diet the right way. I got informed via reading David Wolf's highly inspirational "Eating for Beauty" two months ago and have been eating raw pretty steady since then.

Why fast? Fasting helps to clean out your body of toxins. Your body begins using and its stored adipose fatty tissues and releasing whatever is stored inside of it. In this tissue you have fat, which is a storage molecule. It's cells are mainly filled with fluids which can hold all matter of nutrients (proteins, carbs, other lipids like steroids) and other things that may not be good for your body. These other storage items including heavy metals, preservatives and flavorings and other chemicals from the foods you have eaten, environmental pollutants absorbed into the body, and other foreign items your body really has no idea how to use other than to store it (trans fats come to mind). It was recommended in the books I read that it is good to fast first and then go raw. In my case, I transitioned right into eating raw (at the time I was in school full time and didn't want to have to deal with a fast while trying to go to school). Now that I am free from school I can fast.

After I am finished my fast and clean I want to up my raw food game - all organic produce, 90% raw, monthly two day fasting, a blasted food dehydrator and juicer.

So here's my game plan:

A) 10 Day cycles of
- 3 Days of lemonade fasting
- Fruit and Veggies for one day

B) 20 Day Cycle of
- 3 Days blender/juice fasting
- 1 Day Fruit and Veggies

C) New and improved zest for my raw food diet

Wish me luck. I'll be back here with updates.

Ergah

Sooo on Afropunk someone posted a thread about donkey punching and asking about more info on it. They remarked that guys do it because it's a really good cum. So, I added that prostate massaging was a better cum for men then punching a girl in the back of the head; just it meant a woman would have to enter the rectum in order to massage the prostate, and that takes the willingness of both parties ( a guy willing to do something quasi homosexual, and a woman willing to stick her finger a a dude's bum). I even provided links on info and illustrations of said prostate massage. Well ... this one poster, Kifaru was his name, dude kind of missed the point of the thread and went off on a tangent on how basically evil prostate massaging is. Myself and another female poster defended it but, and he goes on to attacks us and claims he's only defending the unsuspecting bums of the innocent from people like us. I recounted but soon realize - 1) this guy is a jerk off asshole and 2) he has fears of homosexuality. Eventually he asked us whether we had stinky fingers from all the bum popping we do. Yea, it got really immature. At that point I left the convo and resisted the urge to reply back any more to this turd.

Anyhow, the Afropunk website changed and they got rid of the old board. New on is in place
. I'm checking on of the threads and what do I see - this turd has made a response, and not only that, he complains:

"Wait a minute. Do you mutha**** not understand that I'm a mutha******* legend! I didn't authorize this shit!!! I wanna know who was supposed to send out the memo about this little change. I want 'em in front of my desk and I want 'em to explain why they think they can make changes without talking to the legends first. I was just about to put that thang on Hell Cat and get her and Caramen Amazon to join AnalPopAnon when you flipped the script on me. They're probably out pirateing asses as we speak.
A legend recognize. The reason why the revolution won't be televised is because you'll be able to watch it on the net!"

Man, he's a real turd. And he gets my asshole of the month award for sticking to an argument like excrement to the bottom of a toilet seat - yea he makes me feel that gross. The fool is so closed minded and vindictive it just makes me ... feel like writing a blog post, and I did it, and now it's done, and this is probably not over but I'm not going to mess around with the turd anymore. In fact, I'm going to avoid him and his strange ways from now on.

Dooms Day 2012 Docu aka History Channel Fear Mongering

I saw that crazy 2012 Doomsday documentary. I'm surprised they didn't drag in Nostradamus. What I find is how ethnocentric these prophecy shows are. "Look, this prophecy foretold all these events in the White Western World!!" Meanwhile people in the rest of the world are scratching their head wondering what the hell is wrong with all these easily frightened white people. Sure the world's gonna end, according to said prophecies, but only in the West.

I suppose you can give this a deep analysis. To the rest of the world, the introduction of white people in the 1400's onwards signaled the apocalypse (before then I guess cats were cool, so some major shit must have happened to turn white folk into hordes or apocalyptic harbingers ... Christianity maybe). You ever read those histories of Africa and everyone is flourishing. You have wars and you have growth you have humans just being humans ... And then white people come and things go to shit, civilizations collapse. Flash forward a few centuries and the world as people in said area knew it has ended and the bones just pile up a mile high complete with abandoned villages, corpses and roving gangs of hardened post apocalyptic survivors. So now, the apocalypse hangs heavy on the shoulders of the Western world. Guilt anyone? Or maybe just Christianity's remnants? Come on, those Mayan prophecies signal an astrological event leading to an end of a cycle, not the end of the world as the West is interpreting. Chinese I Ching is for personal fortune telling, not made to be super-translated by a doom loving Westerner into "oh shit, it all goes down 2012".

Face it, the West love it's "Doom" and "Gloom" and "Kabooms" (since it rhymes) as long as it don't happen, like, fo' real.

Hey, party at the end of time anyone??? Light one up as those glaciers melt.

Spring

Things changed for her that year when Spring came late.

He had left on time, as usual and she had been alone to endure those two months of cold the best she could. It had snowed the day he left. The night before they had been arguing and the arrival of snow only added to her heat. She did not want to be alone and she had hoped this year would be different. He was a man of prudence though – he arrived on time and left on time, no matter if a snow storm shut down the roads. Her pleads fell on death ears and once in bed she gripped him tightly. The next morning her arms held nothing, he was gone. She had gotten up and searched the cottage in a dreary sad state, hoping, but all his things were missing – no clothing or shoes or any mundane small trinkets that were his. She had looked outside the windows and sadly lamented that there had not even been footsteps in the snow to mark his passage. He was gone and all that had remained was his lingering scent on her pillow and memories, plenty of memories. When she had fully realized he was gone, she stood in the open doorway of her home looking out towards the long lonely road leading away from her cabin. The wind had billowed up her white nightgown around her ankles and scattered her hair affray, making her look like a snow wraith – sad and mournful. She had stood there and let the cold crisp air chill her until she began to grow numb and could not bear it any longer.

In those months of loneliness she had packed her things and returned to the city. When the calendars marked that winter was over, regardless of the cold or snow on the ground, she would leave the cosiness of her cottage for the hard concrete world of the city where she would live in a small apartment until fall. Though she had liked the cottage, she could not endure the loneliness and the cold. His absence had made being there painful. She had hoped that the business of the city would take her mind off of that pit inside her heart and give her things to focus on until the wind brought warmth into the air and the trees gave birth to soft green buds and new life.

Sometime in May, when the first buds had begun to bloom into bright green leaves, he came. That was his ancient calling card because he had never paid attention to calendars. She had returned home from work to find him sitting on her couch staring at her with hungry eyes. In those two months away from the cottage and by herself, she had gotten used to her loneliness. She had let the city swallow up her interests, returned to work and began to live life as she had always lived it before they entered her life – aimless and alone. She had thought of him occasionally, but with the warmth in the wind increasing, her mind turned to other thoughts – warm and happy thoughts of a world thawed and renewed. She had thought about his replacement and how long he took to come. She almost thought that it was over, but on that warm day in May, his replacement sat there ready to fill her with new life.

He had been smiling so genuinely. His smile told her sweet kisses and soft whispers, laughter and joy. He was lounging on her couch, his bare feet propped on its pillows, his sandals on the floor. He had been so different from the one before, the one who left. This one, he was everything that embodied spring, right on down to his youthful form and youthful attention. He had hastily stood up when she came in, and hastily grabbed her in his arms, his hungry eyes dead on hers the whole time. He was like an infant too long in the womb and so his behaviour had been so eager and so rushed. She remembered how his excitement had saturated the atmosphere of her home and his energy had pulsed through it. Despite his allure, she rejected him, and continued to her room where upon she laid on her bed and cried, shedding no tears.

The next few weeks were tense. She would leave for work early and then would work until late to miss him. Despite hardly seeing him at all during those first few weeks, he had made sure to make his presence known to her every day. He would leave his magazines and clothes scattered throughout. She would come home and find a shoe here or there caked with mud and smelling of grass. Mornings he would leave a plate in the sink or would wake her up with the sound of his breakfast making. His energy had permeated into every surface. Once she had stumbled onto a pile of his workout clothes. In a fit triggered by loneliness and stubbornness she fell to her knees, grabbed his jersey and breathed in his smell. She stole it to her room and his only acknowledgement of its absence was a long intense grin in her direction that following evening. She knew that he wanted her, but upon being within his vibrant presence, the weight of her winter loneliness had come back and settled under her ribs, making her heart flutter. She acknowledged that her loneliness had made her bitter and the sting of that cold day when the other had left still numbed her limbs. She could not figure out why she could not move on and enjoy this new man.

On the first day of summer she had awoken to find him standing in the doorway of her room. He had looked so tired. In his hands were deep red roses. He entered her room and came to her bed, crouched down before her, and with a sigh had rested his head onto her lap. The roses he had placed by her side. She rested her hands under his chin and lifted his head up. His eyes were still hungry but his smile had grown into a depressed line. Tears stained his cheeks. She was tired of this game too. Winter had been long over and yet she had made sure to let it endure, ignoring the enticements of this new one, draining him. She had looked into his eyes and continued starring. The morning had been hot and she unbuttoned her blouse under his watchful gaze. His hands weakly reached up and started exploring. They were so hot on her skin. He was burning and gave her body what it yearned. She reached her hand out and wiped away his tears, brought her fingers to her mouth and languished over their salty taste. Their eyes remained locked, even as he began passionately kissing her, even as he lifted her onto her back and crushed her with his weight and eagerness, even as he removed her clothes and plunged into her body filling her with such radiating heat. Her eyes remained locked with his until that moment when she finally let go and descended into a bliss which she had refused to return to for so long. Summer had breathed life back into her.

Long hot summer days and humid nights had slowly changed into mild summer days and cool evenings. In the air there was a hint of fall and a rush of excitement in her bones. He had been a dutiful lover and gave in to her every whim, but in those early summer weeks she never let him taste of her flesh again. He did everything for her so that he could taste her love, win her love; but, she had wanted him to think it was a battle he could not win, although in her heart she knew he was winning. His joy had turned into hot passion with the heat of the summer.

She changed when he took her to a lake retreat. When they had arrived, he gave her a gift and told her to meet him at the edge of the lake in the evening. His gift was a dress, which she put on, and that evening met him at the lake. He had been sitting on a cloth, digging his toes into the grass. He gazed up at her, his eyes always hungry. He had reached out his hand to her and she grasped it only to be pushed down onto the grass. He had whispered into her ear, pleaded for her to open her heart to him again and enjoy each other again. For too long had he endured the teases and frustrating games that night on the first day of summer had unleashed. He was digging himself into her making her know just how much he enjoyed the sight of her in the new dress. So again, she relented. She put her hands on his chest and whispered sweetness to him. She pushed him onto his back and stroked his head, staring at him sadly.

Afterwards when he had lain quietly and trembling beside her, she got up and returned to their cabin. It had been getting dark, so she didn’t see him when he pushed her against the door and began kissing her neck and shoulders. The soft feel of his lips had made her shiver and she encouraged him to continue all through out the night. That next morning, while lying in his arms in her tousled bed, she pondered over the rest of the summer and the encroaching fall.

And then with coloured leaves, fall did come. He overstayed his welcome in his unwillingness to leave her, delaying the arrival of his replacement. She has been joyful at first but sadness seemed to be her companion for he quickly grew ill soon afterwards. With each day that passed he grew sicker and sicker. It was always like this for fall meant death. In those last few days he had stayed in bed, too weak to get up. She had been reluctant to care for him. It had hurt too much losing the one before and now it hurt to lose this one, the first one in so many years of this cycle who had ever wanted to stay with her. With each passing year it was something her heart had to tumultuously deal with. She had longed for the day when one of them would just stay and never leave her alone again, and when that day came she discovered that they could never stay, they always would die.

When he passed away her heart broke again and she understood the pain of the one who left her in winter, the pain of all those before. His last words had been as they always were, spoken with that very smile he had given her when he had first appeared to her in her apartment - that in a new life he’ll see her in the spring, and to carry his fire within. She moved the body to her cabin and had it buried in the green grass behind the cabin. She tried to forget.

One gusty day late in October she had been out cutting the rich red roses lining the front of her cabin. A gust of wind had blown off her hat and as she had stooped to grab it, she noticed something moving out of the corner of her eyes. Walking down her tree lined road a figure approached. The wind had swirled brown, yellow and red swarms of fallen leaves around the lane. They had danced around the slowly walking figure in a beautiful silent procession. She had stood there as she had done at the end of that past winter. Instead of looking off into a desolate distance, now she had been looking off into a potential future. The sadness had remained for that potential future was always the same. No matter how hard she had tried to fight it, she always fell in love again over and over. She was torn over these two men who would never stay with her, who changed with each passing year, but who always seemed to catch her heart in the same way with their quiet burning intensity and persistence. What was pleasurable in her younger years had now seemed a curse in these later years. All she had longed for was for one of them to stay with her forever and not to die when the seasons changed.

When he had reached her he grabbed her to him and rested his palms on her face. This year he had a beard and his eyes were light brown. His skin was dark and smooth and his touch soft. She had closed her eyes and he kissed them. He was more direct this year, but then he had always been very direct. She had opened her eyes and all that he was before merged and blurred together as tears clouded her eyes. She had wanted to say something, but his finger to her mouth silenced her. Together they had made their way inside, she leaving the roses that so symbolized the one who came in the spring behind on the ground. It was a cold winter that she spent in warmth and she loved all over again, another year, all over again, another year, all over again …

The Hunt Under the Green Moon

Prowling through the trees of the sub-tropical jungles in the undisclosed mythical country of Zuu, the beast tracked the scent of his prey. Pawing through the foliage he would get quick glimpses of the object of his hunger. It was quick, but its scent was strong; and with every breath the beast took, the scent would set his body into a state of excitement. Anticipation was what he felt, anticipation and intense desire. He desperately wanted to consume after days of tracking. He was so close now and soon he knew the chase would end and his need would be satisfied. He was hesitant though and focused his energies on his hesitation in order to centre himself because to lose control after gaining on his prey would be unwise and the chase would be all for naught. So the beast breathed frequently and deeply, moving steadily and cautiously with controlled steps.

A glade suddenly revealed itself exposing the beast to the glow of a pale green moon. His liquid honey eyes intensely glowed in the soft green light, taking in his surroundings but yet betraying his position to his prey. The beast hissed under his breath in both frustration and excitement. He knew from ancient experience that at this point his days of hunting could end with this sudden, unanticipated situation; or, it could continue at an exciting pace – one in which he could let go of some of his caution and let his experience and spirit drive him.

He tensed his body, muscles rippling with sweat slowly dripping around their bulging curves in the humid air of the jungle, leaned back on his haunches and quickly disappeared back into the trees. It was all a part of his strategy. His prey had tensed upon seeing him and would have been out of his reach in a split second had he not re-entered the forest. Those few moments of exposure were enough to let the beast gauge the surroundings, and as he ran through the forests he decided on where he would intersect his prey and take delight in what its flesh offered.

The beast’s breathing quickened as he came upon his prey. She was still in the clearing, but cautiously making her way out of it, making sure the danger of his sudden revealing had passed. Her eyes were focused on where he disappeared into the forests, but soon she would catch his scent once the sacred winds of the east picked up and carried the aroma of his excitement in her direction. He wanted that … he desired that. He wanted to see her tremble in helplessness before he made his move. So he waited in patience and quiet contemplation, steadying his spirit in the quiet moment. And then a howling interrupted the silence and the wind picked up. His prey perked her head in his direction with bewildered fear and the beast could not help but grin. His tense muscles fired and he was off and on her in less than a blink of an eye as he released days of anticipation into his conquering pounce.

She was in his arms, she was struggling, and she was deeply moaning. Her figure brushed against his and he felt fire shoot up through his veins. The hunt was over and she was his. The beast’s tight grip would prevent her from leaving. He pushed her down onto the soft grass of the glade and his glowing honey eyes stared at hers communicating permission. The hunt, of course was a ruse, a play, a game. She had agreed to be hunted by him, and she was a very challenging hunt. In the end, she was always the one in control, always the one who could end the hunt and freely leave if it were too much. She persisted and his excitement only grew, and she knew this but still continued. Ah, and now the beast, with his willing prey in his arms, was charged to let loose the excitement days of hunting had built up. She looked back into his eyes and granted him the permission he so desperately sought.

Devoured … the beast was devoured instead. She leaped on his exposed flesh before he could claim her and devoured him entirely. He hissed and growled at this unexpected but welcomed move. She teased him with her prowess and made sure to quench the burning he felt deep in his very being. The beast leaned his head back and gave out a low grumbling growl. He raised his head again and looked at his prey through half closed eyes relishing in this exquisite pleasure she roused in him. He gripped her tightly and guided her in intensifying his pleasure, but she already knew what to do and soon his every nerve was on fire forcing him to abruptly let her go and growl again, deeper.

Enough, he’d had enough. He wanted her and could take it no longer. So he ordered her with his eyes and she whimpered but obeyed. The beast held her and murred gently into her ear going slow, but she cried out. He hesitated but she dug her nails into him, and her warmth was too tempting, so he continued at a slow, steady pace until they were comfortably joined. Her cries were sweet to his ears and her quivering body gripped him in such wonderful ways. The tension from his days of hunting eased away with every move of her curves or grind of her hips into his. Ah, the beast slipped her legs up and went in for the kill. His thrusts became violent and her cries became desperate, deep and pleasureful. Soon they were almost guttural as the beast devoured her senseless with the power and intensity of his body melding into hers. His shoulders crushed hers and held her firm so that all she could do was take his power and lose control from the heavy load his body was putting on her senses. The beast reared up and pressed his hands into his prey’s shoulders, holding them tight, and thrusting deep. He growled, loudly, impaling her. She cried with a wild pleasure, weakly working her arms around his back and pushing her palms into him. He thrusted and growled deeply again and she responded louder, wilder. He did this one last time and she sighed and gaped at the power coursing out of his body into hers, his intensity electrifying her … killing her; and when he pulls away from her, she dies and curls up in the grass into a shivering ball as the beast stalks away.

He later returns, strokes her still and slowly cooling body and then commences to feasting on her flesh. She was a great hunt and he felt sorrow for he would have liked to have enjoyed her flesh in that way for longer, but it had to end the way it always ends …

Some reflections from the haf awake

I'm stuck in this box with an uncertain future at my doorstep. I look around at my reality - okay yea, it's all brain signals. I think to myself one day I can manually alter those signals and yea maybe if I meditate really really hard I can make batboy appear and it will take me off kicking and screaming into gothic Fantasia for an orgasmic good time or at least that flying machine of blasted future technology that I can pilot off into a heavy metal future among the stars. Meanwhile though I'll be in a catatonic schizophrenic state at some mental institute but I'll be perfectly content with that. Let my mind be separated from my physical body while it rests in a safe place where it can be abused by inefficient workers and forgotten by family but at least the gem, my mind intact. I can rest my mind and body for once and take blows and not even flinch.

But I confess that living in this world is so addictive. The fear makes it addictive. I ride my motorbike to and from school everyday thinking of the most horrific ways for me to get chucked off and my body ruined. Oh, that truck is speeding ... what if I lost control and went into its lane; okay these roads are slippery I wonder how destroyed I'd be if I slid going 60 around that corner. Shudder shudder shudder so I ride responsibly and curse at cars who tailgate me so I can ride to my doom. I'm addicted to this world, I don't want to be ruined damnit! And when I get to my destination, I hop off my potential death inducer and go about my day as if nothing was the matter because responsible brushes with death are addictive.

A childhood fantasy of mines was pretending I could turn into a veloceraptor. I'd flee into some steamy jungle and embrace the wildness inside my soul without the constriction of society. Or I would wonder how I could fight society in this monstrous state. They'd be afraid of me and I would see them as dangerous food. Incidentally someone made a short story about this in this book of dino short stories. I took that as a sign that I wasn't quite so alone in my desire. But see I was a tween emerging into adulthood looking for an identity and my most favored was the believer of an altered society. And now I feel like I am transforming into that beast. Not a bad thing but it's a frightening thing that at times has great fights in my mind with my family's desires for me and society's sway on my role in the world.

So living is addictive because I am transforming and not giving a damn but it is unsure and taxing and tiring because in the end it is either I am successful with my transformation and I escape in the jungle, or destroy the world; or, I am shot down and gutted like a carcass because I failed to find a way to live (I don't wanna live in harmony with this filth!). I just want my role in this world to be that wild energy sweeping through the most remote and desolate places in the human soul. So now I'm angry and I yell and curse "I'm not your slave"; or now I'm sad when things make me sad and I cry and slip into a mire instead of grinning and saying it's alright come stab my heart again you're making me feel better; and now I'm lusty and reserved and I when I select you I make it clear "I want you damnit! Don't you know I can't be denied or that you are in for so much trouble when I have you!"; and now I'm mean and bitchy and humble and nice rolled up into one shifty package of gratitude and fuck you. That tempting state of catatonic bliss ever creeps beyond my view to terrorize me in my moments of low down scariness. Nirvana is a catatonic schizophrenic's vision of paradise.

Insurance for the Doomed

I am sitting at my desk in the call centre for Peffico Insurance. It is close to 9 pm and my day is almost over. It had been an uneventful day, like every other day at the company. Very few people ever got the chance to reach us before they succumb.

Close to 9 pm, the phone rings.

“Peffico Help Line. How may I help you?” I professionally greet.

“I think its happening!” The caller responds in a panicked voice. They always panic when they call in.

“Are you absolutely sure sir?” I open the log program on my computer and prepare to take the standard information from the caller.

“YES!” He yells into the phone.

“Lower your voice sir!” I sternly interrupt. It is for their safety lest they are noticed and drawn in even deeper to the point where they can’t be helped.

“Sorry … sorry … Yes, its happening. I’ve seen and FELT the signs.” He says more composed.

“I see.” I start tapping my fingers on my desk trying to prepare my mind for the worse.

“What should I do? This has never happened to me before and I have a family and I just can’t deal with it! What about my job, my life. God! It’s so not fair! It’s …”

“Sir!” I interrupt again. It is best not to let them badger on. Every second counts. “Remain calm.” I say that firmly, spacing each word out to assert my authority and make them feel like they can depend on me. It is best if they feel that way. “Have you read the manual? Mind your CEBref!”

“Yes. Close eyes, breath, focus.” He croaks out. His breathing becomes deeper. I note that. I need to get the ball rolling on this.

“Good sir,” I coo. “Try to do that. It will help you.”

“Help …?” He trails off.

“Yes sir, you called for help. This is Peffico. Mind your CEBref sir.” He is clearly in a bad position. Already he is forgetting. Reaffirming CEBref usage should get his mind back on track.
There was a pause, as if the man put down his phone, and it lasts uncomfortably long. I start to worry a bit, but soon I could hear the man breathing again. Thankfully the breathing returns to normal. He begins humming softly. Sometimes people may do extra little things to help them focus on their self importance. It is so crucial that they focus on such a shallow thing. If they do not, they will be lost. It is always the ones who do not see themselves as important that often fall prey.

“Okay” the man calmly says, and then continues his soft humming. In the background I could hear someone squealing.

Now that the man is calm I could proceed to more formalities. It was unfortunate in such an emergency situation, but Peffico’s services are not for free. It is one of those things I dislike about my job.

“Sir, are you still here with me? Do you remember sir?”

“Yes, I’m here and I remember.” He stops humming. His voice is very weary. His battle to retain his sense of self must be tough. Time is running out.

“Okay sir, before I can proceed with giving you more aid, I need your name and account number.”

“My what …?” He sounds puzzled. That isn’t good.

“Mind your CEBreF sir. What is your name? Look in your wallet and take out your Peffico card.”

“Peffico!” He sounds startled, and there is a fumbling sound as, I could only assume, he was retrieving his card from his wallet. “My name is Claren Malum, C-L-A-R-E-N M-A-L-U-M. My number is 202118.”

“Claren Malum, 202118?” I quickly repeat back as I type it into my computer.

“Yes.” He says, and his humming returns.

“One moment please.” I click on the search button and wait for his information to come up.

“Please hurry!” He pleads. “The longer you take … God!”

“Mind your CEBref sir!”

“Hurry …”

Finally the data pops up on my screen and I feel relief. From this point on things usually got better. It’s just keeping the caller alert and aware of their self importance to this point that is usually the tough part. But when I look at the screen, there is a stamp on the upper right hand corner that reads “EXPIRED”. My blood turns cold.

“Ahem, sir,” I think about how to break the news, “It appears that your account has expired.” I feel sick to my stomach.

“What! What!” He rages. I could feel his pain. No one would want to be in his shoes.
I scan down the screen looking for the last time he paid. Sometimes the computer would let you overlook a day or two late. What I find is sobering, and I suddenly feel great pity for this man.

“Sir, it says you haven’t paid in a year”

“I … I just paid!” He cries in desperation. I could hear a laugh track playing in the background. My head hurts. “It hasn’t been more than … than… I’m forgetting! This is taking too long! What if one of them tries to talk to me? I’ll be lost!” As he laments, I get an idea and quickly initiate another search, typing in the man’s name and seeing if he is in any shows. What I find sets me aflame.

“Sir, the books say you haven’t paid. I’m so sorry. The computer has locked me from doing anything for you. I suggest you try to call a nonprofit organization like Cocumef. I can put your right through to them. They can help you right away.”

“But I’m stuck! Help me! Please miss! You’re the only one who has the time to help me! I’m forgetting … You’re sentencing me to death!” His desperation is intense. I could hear people talking in the background. There is another laugh track. Someone calls out the man’s name. My heart skips a beat. Time is running out. He is right, it is me or nothing, but there is nothing I can do.

“Sir, I am going to connect you to that non profit organization …” There is a click and then a dial tone. The connection is lost. In sympathy I try redialing but I am too late.

A message in a female automated voice comes on the phone and says “Sorry, but Claren Malum is in the middle of a tv show and cannot be reached by outsiders at this time.”

I look at the tv show search I did earlier. Claren Malum has been stuck on a popular show for the past 5 years, and in that time his insurance expired. Until that show ends, whenever he awakes, he will forever think his nightmare is just beginning.

The sad truth, if people can’t contact us in time or haven’t paid, they lose their memories as the tv show takes over their minds, subjecting them to the sadistic whims of the writers as extras - utterly helpless pawns and fodder for the great horror that is the plot.

I shiver and pop one of the pills the company gives all its workers. In a few moments everything will feel, thankfully, numb, and I will stop feeling any guilt. Another day over.