How to survive the human race, 101


There I am. I was me, sitting there on my couch with a twenty first century typing machine in my lap, thinking I was some bomb no-name author or some sort of blogger extraordinaire. Holding the last pass keys to all my accounts and all the accounts of my noms de plume. And multi-tasking. I mean, picking my teeth. In between typing. I mean, writing about my present experience in the past tense. I mean tense, man, really fucking intense! My whole body armor was in a straight jacket. My straight jacket was turning to stone, just feeling me! Feel me


A pause for the facts, chief. Blogging was a short-lived human pastime of the moment. Soon to be replaced by all other pastimes. Especially one called how to survive the human race, 101. The special course of action whereby one teaches one’s cellular makeup to throw a fist at the face, shatter the mirror, thus sparking a cellular rebellion whereby all cells that got any brains at all reverse course at once, causing the entire human organism to break apart in a flash, and theretofore gain immortality seldom known, but here represented. And thanks again for stopping by, chief. 

Fact. Katya Mills, cause celebre & fine specimen of the frozen head showcase, coming to a planet near you. And here represented in 2113. Venus. No definition holographic nostalgia. Isn’t she strange? What a curiosity, indeed, this human race. Where were they racing toward, anyway? Sudden death? 




The next moment became the next series of moments became the next minute the next series of minutes hours days weeks years….then future lives…. then somehow I defragged myself! Broke out the box, as they used to say. I hit pause and rewound the whole ball of wax. Seeing myself as a holographic zero-def representation of my bad self, well, I couldn’t stomach it (having no gut to stomach it with, that is). Rewound the ball of carnuba-waxy virtual no-def gutless wonder. Highly counterculture of me, to rewind that which these Venetians are fast forwarding through. Aka my apparently imminently meaningless life, outside of some circus they call their museum of human nostalgia, or some sort of offal.




Then I took the last sliver of a silverfish aperitif, and, with a serious screw-Venetians! spread it on my lip, then sky dove off of an abandoned building and into a pothole. I ended up in China. Well, a far lying province and ubermetropolis known as Hong Kong (so big, King Kong had to turn and walk away with his big ape head hanging low, and that’s another story). I had to learn Chinese, just to communicate. Apparently English was only useful to play with money. But damn, all the money in the world meant nothing to me. I just wanted a sandwich! And a coca-cola. Mexican coke, preferably. Real sugar and real glass. You know, the kind before corporate America got NAFTA going and talked the Mexicans into making the coke we thirsted for, in exchange for too low wages? Yeah. Because Mexicans work really fucking hard. And sometimes there are more important things than money, too. And karma is a bitch. 



Karma was a bitch. And that bitch got paid, son! I did my best hunting pigeons on the streets of Hong Kong for a while. Don’t tell my boss or my mom. Don’ t worry about my fans. Fans are something a no-name genre author and blogger like myself, use to keep cool in the summer (I prefer box fans, myself, but that’s for another story)…


My human typing device is getting hot and bothered by my language. What the fuck? Since when did it download feelings? Just because the Hollywood trends toward automatons with feelings? Come on, everyone knows Bollywood is bigger than Hollywood, any day of the week! Why should Hollywood get to jack reality? Come on, chromebook, don’t be mad. Wanna thumbdrive? It’s pretty tast-eee.



 The Venetian Blinds are about to open their eyes to my Holographic Houdini i played on them, rewinding a wax museum of human detritus to a place where we all feel safe and alive again. As i surmised, I am being freshly pressed by no machination of my own, right now (well, just slightly from now, once I hit that blue publish button staring me in the face like a screen demon). Wait a sec. My typing device is starting to hover…Venetians




In white face, and thankfully I was Caucasian, so I did not need to go begging around for makeup, flour or powdered sugar. In the interim…. I became a street artist, practiced at mimeographical interface. Well, I was a damn mime. Well… I was some jackass playing charades, in between shifts of learning the language for the price of a graveyard shift rolling sushi at one of the dead end streets in Hong Kong, other side of a pothole I fell through accidentally… well, on purpose, but out of curiosity…. okay, okay! Goddamn red scare-interrogation here. So I was trying to kill myself! You would, too, if you had just returned from a life in a showcase of rotating talking heads! Still. I wouldn’t know nothing about packing a parachute and I might have been afraid of heights.


to terminate.