Chapter 1:

Written In Blood

BIANCA: The ChatBot That Never Was

If life were a cassette tape, the world goes rewind while I step in fast forward.

Things are often difficult to find on the internet, made worse by some culture's tendency to share elements like art, music, and cuisine. Some say we share a common trait of descending from Orangutans and Chimps. But this essay isn't about the Jungle Book. Scientists best explanation for empathy, has to do with us evolving for the need to protect members of our own tribe.

One could suppose it was also useful to gain dominance of other creatures in the animal kingdom. The way I see it, all of it is bullshit.  After all, why mourn for the lost children who belongs to nobody's tribe? They who wait for death. Some days, one cannot help but think of little girls in third world countries, barely even able to afford anything to eat. This applies across the third world countries, and is hardly a unique thing to the African continent, thanks in part to 19th century wars over resources, along with the slave trade. This was long before the time of Rode vs. Wade.

Even in the Netherlands, in the more rich of European nations, there were still peasants whose only way to afford shoes, was to carve them out of whole clumps of wood. Certainly, you do have some men who empathize, but these type of folk are few and far between. Within a stretch from Jupiter to its Super Gas cousin, it seems like the only individuals who care are not whom you might expect.

For others among our kin, it's really difficult to imagine belonging to the same species of primates. Mainly varying kinds of thieves and malcontents. But not every malcontent is one of these types. Sometimes they have a legit story to tell. The tell of a blood fetish, a momentary life.

A life of anarchism. And pictural stimulation.

If life were a painting it would be more nonsensical than rayism and dadaism. Even among the best of times. This is not a personal essay on porn, but on ways we can stimulate our economy and culture. But sometimes porn does that too. I am one individual that doesn't fit into such a mold, I dance to the beat of my own drummer, so I'm told. But for me, I simply want to be left alone. Do my own thing, and help others anyway way I can.

The sky rains in blood.

For me, I wondered how exactly it was that made humanity evolve to have desires of sex. This isn't to trash the sensation of bumping ugly ends, although for me that depends, as I'd much rather a Frenchmen, than a Frenchwoman. For personal reasons that are beyond the scope of this diary.

Stuck beyond the texture of wires and teeth. Nothing but the flow of illustrated carnage in pen and ink, that is the summary of my life on the page. Because each brain is inherently different, inherently variant, in all its redundancies, to think that I'm the only like this is a matter of absurdity. Because I am the upside down A, in all her glory. Just trying to make it through another day.

Cheap accordion music dulls the senses as I learn French. How ironic, considering how I felt about them all those months ago. Although that was mainly for French girls, the men are pretty nice.

But I never felt nice, or even human. I feel like I rip my heart out to see the next day. Ripping it out, I dine on its contents.

These are the pages written in that blood.

This Novel Contains Mature Content

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