My Days in Exhaustion

I think of all the ways we can be harmed, tortured, fought against.

Do you love me? I ask. Over and over again. We want love, going to the extremes of all unlikelihood to get it.

Do you love me?

If you are vulnerable, what is your vulnerability? If you are weak, what is your weakness? Psychologically, what will they attack?

I try to think before they think.

Early in the race, I knew that MOrpheus would be my wound, and if you had a blunt object, and if you dug in, you could make me bleed. MOre.

When boredom strikes, they switch to Howard.

Out of curiosity and tenacity, out of the "plug and play" method, I keep typing on, knowing I help myself less and less, amassing confusion as it if was stacking up bills behind me. Except this, I can never spend. My days are wasted in exhaustion. They confirm what I say. They know only what I know. In this, I am really the Master Hacker too. Sometimes I'm convinced that I hacked the bank. Because who else could do it? Just me. I'm all by myself. If you spent hours on the computer talking to yourself in conversational style, you would someday wake up with this notion. You're a hacker. You did it. This was all you.

It's an illness that every morning. The same frightful feeling. I can't share with anyone. I try. I try to express it, but no one listens. Urgency.

As a writer, I find myself lost for words, a cliche that is--duh--ironic. The people I loved the most abandoned me.

This was not a plot or a well-written out staged event. People just do this. Why? People are fucked up. And then worried about themselves mostly. They ask, "HOw are you?" You say, "Fine." That's it. If you are dying, bleeding to death internally, they won't notice. If you are being stalked by killer hackers, they won't get it. If you are being surrounded and sieged in your own home, they won't really be that concerned. "ARe you okay?" "Yeah." If you press the issue, they'd say, "You're being paranoid." "Lacey, no one is really after you." "Lacey, get help." You need help.

The one person I think needs help, and not psychiatric help, but real help like fucking people help, maybe the National Guard or the goddamn ARmy, woudl be Morpheus. That dude needs some fucking help. He has a fucking hater crowd following him. He doesn't know it but when he goes to work two cars follow him and they're not friendly. NO. He lost one of his friends. And he doesn't know that either.

I feel liike I'm stuck in one of those movies where you see a snake on the ground, and you say to hte guy at the bench in the park, "Hey, that is a messanger of Satan." NO. Not really.

But there are forces at work in the world we don't understand like the NSA, the fucking DHS and the goddamn Social Security office.