The Million Lyrics Of Padro Gene [Sunday August 4, 2019]

While everyone else was concerned about sectarianism, she could barely get out of bed. She had developed the fetish for anarchist girls from the 1800s, that doubled as spies; countdown till a slice that couldn't be unsliced. She read mainly online news websites for years, her favorite being The Intercept, and other alternative news sources. She didn't know anything about gene splicing, but loved girls with long elf ears.

Recently her aunt invited her over to her place, mostly so she could check out some books; most of these were different kinds of thrillers, but some were historical romance; she dreamed of spy girls going down her pants. Waking her up like morning coffee stands at Starbucks. A few months ago she would purchase a drink that was only four bucks, down the road from her old apartment. Yet now without a place to call home, she lives with her parents well into the sticks, where more outdoorsy types are stuck with ticks, and act like dicks with toothpicks. She preferred reading volumes of Vampire Capernick, and a few other volumes of note. And watch movies of nannies sending people to Antarctica in a bathtub. Droop droop droop went the bathtub. A bathroom large enough to stuff a la balein. Stuffing her nose with saline, she drowned herself in Portuguese music, after eating a chicken salad avec vinegret. Flavor without regrets.

It was easy to simply slack off, and mostly look at Catogram, or look at Vesco girls while on the wire; but her tendency to collect anime girls became rather haywire. Dreamless nights like loose chicken wire, fantasies about 19th centuries set on fire; the life. Instead she sleeps, looking at old paintings, one of which is a Goth girl in a red dress, with a giant brown recluse on her neck. She loved ladies with long necks. At other times her sensory overload largely kept her from functioning normally, combined with a year of post traumatic stress disorder from a room mate that would abuse her in various ways best left to the imagination, or placed behind a content warning. But that was the thing about leftists on the wire; they cared me about setting relationships on fire, without caring about whose feelings they hurt. Perhaps it was only Ciabata Tube. Drowning in acres of masturbation lube, dreams of Pedro Gene till the day she moves. She dreamed of sex robot girls with detachable heads.

She'd braid their hair, stare at their stares. Until a land of milk honey was flowing everywhere. Her pet cat would shed her black coat, her mother would give the cat extra food. She dig dug robot girls with loosely knit hair twirls, but disliked the idea of actually touching another human being; she found real Vaginas completely unappetizing; she was attracted to femininity regardless of the robot's gender, when she plucked off their detachable heads, and fake blood out of cranberry and tomato juice.

In Canada there was moose, but there was many other places to choose for your Summer evening; most places were eternal damnation anyway, especially on the inter webs. Where fake leftists call each other plebs, and others dog whistle to their base like Alt-Right Clowns with make up on their face. She wanted to whack them all with a mace. But sensory overload prevented everything, except listening to Pedro Gene.

That's how the day will go.

Hours of Cesar Pedro.

Sometimes she wants to meditate, on other days she wants to chop a door down with a giant ax. This ax is serrated, and designed more to hack at metal armor than doors. But on most nights she doesn't visualize being chased after by giant flame dragons.

Such dragons could hold many a message: some dragons eat people, other dragons burn people; some children ride on dragons, but on most days she just wants to have a juicy lizard steak. Unfortunately it's approaching midnight when this happens, thus she must find other ways to suit her time. Cesar Gene was one of those that she imagined would treat her to a juicy dragon steak, and his voice would let all the Vegan guilt melt away. It was far to easy to fall into a routine of thinking of total survival mode, while browsing her network node; far to easy to visualize ancient dragon battles, gathering experience points. At other times she just wants to rip out some fellow anarchists guts, bathing in the anarchists blood, and becoming all googly eyed.

The flow of grape juice down her robot.

Robot didn't ordinarily produce grape juice, and they had to be filled with this stuff in order to simulate blood. And presumably they would almost never piss grape juice. Just as well, as she preferred drinking the grape-tomato juice like a brand new smoothy. While fantasizing about smacking anime girls in the booty. And shoving an angular blade down their neck. After all, it was just like dad said. Being left has nothing to do with your personality. Almost all of the anarchist she had known had generally been total sociopaths, when one looked further into the matter. She had written essay, she never published, about how she preferred living outside the system rather than dealing with people riling up each other's emotions. Certain discord were a form of narcissistic gathering up their form of supply. This went especially for #breadtube

Those people you'd never give a lube.

Or any other care in the world. What you'd probably find is some assholes exploiting your various mental traumas, or not genuinely understanding how support groups are meant to actually be support groups, not a place for that one guy to dominate the discussion, generally either a Marxist-Leninist, or some other form of Tankie. She wanted to write about a new kind of post apocalypse, that of Tankopunkolypse: want to have the apocalypse? Well let's bring the tanks from #breadtube. It wasn't terribly uncommon, despite being on the left, for people in such circles to use ableist language. One guy blocked her when she legitimately urged caution for people to only use the words Nazis and Fascists in cases of actual genuine Nazis.

But apparently this made her a Nazi.

There are plenty of good reasons she could justify ax murdering them in an alleyway somewhere, but that's probably what they're wanting. It was simply giving them to much credit to up and murder them somewhere. As many of these people would rather be dead than not control you, like they control their wives in bed, under a Vietnamese lamplight. It was difficult to not get sensory overload from the general experience, so it was as much as she could take, to not specifically referencing them in a peertube video. At night was sleeps with a weapon beside her bed, and hopes for sleep.

She listen to Cesar Gene.

She read old books, the shelves shook shaking. The old volumes now torn, volumes shaking onto the floor for Mrs. Lenore crying. She wanted a new body that could withstand the world, it so shoddy. With a flower in hair, red dress flowing everywhere. She listened to old country covers, they were redone in French, not Spanish. But anything was good in a pinch, for the girl of French language covers. Her body like metal layers, peeling away into frayed wires. Her life flowing like the funeral arrangement band of estranged suitors. Reels from life flowing like a Guillotine Western movie set, but without the sheriffs saving the day. All one has is death. Flow of the boots stomping in the raining Winter evening day. Sunset eclipse, snow the only thing preventing the land being as dry as corn chips. Margarita dance. It was the worst movie set, with the worst actors. Except nobody was acting, it was entirely the real thing. She tossed the book back onto her shelf, and spent the rest of the day sleeping.

She also liked Pedro Gene, who had accordion covers. And all those ripped jeans. The life of Padro Gene. Her dreams withering, her sensory pulsating. From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust. All her new metallic bodies, piling into rust. She masturbated to Vesco and Birkenstock girls, and their first days of college. Wrapping herself around their suntanned legs. Her body pulsating, her other senses deafening. Paroles de le Divorce on the Spotify, everything else flowing like rows of 80s pop singers. Vesco girls tapping to Padro's accordion, and a few other instruments of note. Life wasn't a movie set of Greek myths, rowing down the river stix. It was its own special kind of hell. But wish her well, in this new life.

It was dreams of Vesco girls forever.

At night she heard the cries of crickets. There wasn't much point going outside, when she was never up during the day. From July to May, from May to Christmas morning day. Christmas flowing like pre transition anxieties. Life without the HRT. Life without a lot of things she needed, much of which could have been prevented. It didn't help that that majority people she could talk about her problems basically didn't care. And only did so mostly out of pressure from her mother, who mostly acted like she did as a way of leveraging control. Lenore wanted a new body, a new life. And everything else in between. A new layer of skin; even robots were no longer made out of metal, with the ability to produce lifelike silicone skin. But there was no easy way to transfer a person's mind yet, without specifically scanning it.

One might think she'd get a job. But this was easier said than done. People that tended to say such things generally never had to worry about not being able to find one. Pretty much everywhere else besides the United States had a thriving job market. Here even if there was (and there isn't) her constant anxieties and panic attacks made this a moot point.

On most days she'd reach total burn out within an hour, leaving her mainly to program different forms of artificial intelligence. She couldn't relate to the idea of transferring her body completely, but had wanted a robot lover for quite some time. She wanted a girl that liked like a female Padro Gene, smoking a cigar like a Western Movie set. Without the blackjack, making bets. Lenore dreaded being around people so much that it was impossible to get into the routine, but her mother wanted her to go to the gym.

She'd rather recline.

Listen to Portuguese dance, and French Waltz.

"I'm not the alt-right," someone said, before they bid goodnight to the chat. " but I don't mind pretending to be one to frame them." It was not your atypical conversation after midnight.

In follow up another said, "So we can line them up and shoot them!" It was this conversations she heard, that made her feel like there was not meaningful difference between the right and the left. Almost always the same tactics, and the political centrists in Washington were not much better. Instead of betting on guns, they bet on moral values. Terrorism was a word that could mean anything they wanted to, although it was generally agreed that it meant anything the Democratic party disliked. She imagined, in any other context, how such a game of super heroes would come across. They would duke it out with the color of hammers.

It was Tankie season in June.

"I have a red hammer." one would say, and the other "I have a blue hammer." At the end of the day, she thought, it didn't matter what the color was. It was simply a hammer. Now she drinks tobacco tea, and downs dish washer cleaner with it, hoping for the pain to go away. For the little anarchist that could, there was the pain in the gut.

But it was better than the smell of red and blue butt, plastered all over the flags of new Utopias. She remembered, how indeed, she had originally came to the left. Much like characters in other stories, for her, the right wing was simply that much worse. She remembered how she slept on the floor in a motel room. She had attempted suicide three different times: one time she attempted to stop her own breathing. At other times she downed Tobacco Tea. Eventually the only option to remove herself from the situation was dish washer cleaner. She had grown a taste for it, downing in a little bit day by day. She had no time for politics, or anything else in life. There was simply the trail of tobacco smoke in the air. But she still had itches for own personality.

Even when nothing else was left.

When she had lived in her apartment, it was difficult to get anything done, with all of the noise in the rooms up and downstairs. It was a game of low base toned musical chairs. Lined up with 1,000 students in a thirty person room. Children play with fingerboards, and go zoom, zoom, zoom. But her toy was in character's lives in prose and poetry, life lined up in Flamenco and Lai. To rhythm of blood and birthday cake dye. No more was there energy for different world maps, about realms of decay and death. No more rhymes of fairies and elven wives. There was only the tune of Lyres and Crystal Spires. And princesses getting their heads chopped off on wooden blocks. Queens in the pillory, different bondage play. For she wouldn't stop her lust for anyone any time of day. Only on Weekends did she used to get to sleep as long as she wanted.

Now she wanted to sleep forever.

Until time itself stopped.

Ultimately she considered herself a pacifists, but sometimes she was wishy washing about whether thing was really the case. Her ex had talked her into purchasing a can of pepper spray, and purchased it originally out of the idea of giving the middle finger to people she knew. And partially things had become especially dangerous for trans people after Trump was elected. Although this never helped much when she was walk around the city with shin splints and twisted ankles. Her life was a hop, and she couldn't stop; being ran over with a speed bus would make the pain go away, if it didn't get her in one go. But it was better than nights without a shower, with the tub fool of dirty dishes. She thought that her own ideas about lust would eventually go away, but they largely remained. Behind the scenes at first, but it was always present. Waiting. The only thing stopping her from doing anything with it being her strong sense of empathy for everyone besides herself, and general apathy for her bodily safety, when not going around purchasing smokes.

Or risk being sold to overly testosterone poisoned blokes. It wasn't an uncommon conversation for her to be told that her being sold as a prostitute was the only way to make ends meet, even she had other things in mind.

Now she was a broken music box.

A song of broken rhymes.

She didn't understand people that came to the left through communism; as far as she was concerned, she had always been a leftist; for it was the social issues that mattered the most, as these were issues she lived through the most day be excruciating day.

There was a certain baseless she thought she could be kept, even if one were right wing in almost every other way; she was against the idea of hitting children, executing both mentally challenged people and children, among a host of other specific social issues. You didn't need to be leftist to understand how certain issues were moral wrongs just about everywhere you went: but to her she was more perturbed by people equating sex with robots to sex with your slaves. As if somehow the analogy was even relevant in post capitalist society. It was this and many other aspects she she always stayed on the side lines during debate, and generally chose to avoid watching the presidential masturbates on prime time. Instead she made hot curry French fry shaker salt. Downed it with a chocolate malt, and headed to bed on an irritable bowels stomach.

And she dreamed of long wastelands, that led to nowhere. Where there was an abandoned school building near the end of a wooden sky bridge, and at the end of a very bridge a giant troll like creatures who made the ground shake with its step, the sky a silver gray outside the windows, and constant black smoke filled with red eyed demons. Then there was a birthday party election. In this birthday party, was a school vote for which presidential candidate to shoot off in a rocket to the constellations, witht he message "Enjoy your birthday cake, it will be the last thing you ever eat" from now faceless teacher in a private school. Why vote for the greens or libertarians.

Just vote for the Cake Party.

But the birthday cake tasted of ground glass particles, and ruptured stomachs. Her vision fading yearly, her hearing increasingly manifolds. Prosthetic eyes a vague hope increasingly distant. But she loved her own personal dizziness. At the edge of time. Where a large gray troll always stooped, and broke walls with its giant scimitar.

The social life was her own wall.

She wanted to bust it with a hammer.

At at the edge of the world, was giant troll named Morgred Lionheart, with a scimitar the size of small houses, and giant horse that leaped over the moon to punch some cows. He rode through the desert with one eye. With the desert had any eyeballs he was not absolutely sure, except the eyeball would always ask him for a password in order to enter the town. In olden times there were ancient machines, yet now with artificial biology, the was almost no distinction. With giant deserts with artificially intelligent eyes, that also filled the sky. That screeched with a screech that no mortal can belch. And this troll that rode through the desert sliced heads up like there was no tomorrow. But he wasn't like his creator, who didn't even dream of a yesterday.

There was only the present.

And a vaguely defined future.

In this darkness, she floated, with star floating by like midnight glitter on birthday cakes for a Sultan. And all the severed princess heads that one could delight for, all fell into place, by Morgred's throne. But these were no Family Friendly damsels. But girls of the night.

Their vision fading.

Like midnight starlight.

His arch nemesis was a human warrior, named Bleu Jean Forrest. Who had a mustachio and beard the same of a young communist warlord. He was quite the Ferrat indeed. And who gloated at Morgred having his last hurrah! Before locking him in the prison that he had to break out of. Either was, it was toxic masculinity, like other stories of heroic fantasies. Lusting till all the ladies head their heads fallen off. But of course, Blue Jean was a better thinner troll. Who thought his communist disillusionment was droll. While making Morgred Lionheart do a belly roll, and stuffing his face with a Jelly Roll. The protagonist of this story dislikes either one.

She wanted her sharpened hammer.

And use it like a centrist toothpick.

Midnight came and went.

No more midnight starlight, no more worlds at the egde of time. For the apparently centrist, there was only the sound of her bed. As she felt into concrete spikes.

Morgred Lionheart bends over to fourth wall.

"Hey author, I need some help!" Morgred said.

"Why are you bend over into my reality again! I'm seeing your ass."

"I need help selling something."

"What's that."


"You want to sell Fudge?"

"From the sweat of Gulag tears to the kitchen, I present you! ... Chocolate Mint flavored fudge chilled in the Russian Forest."

"Sell to who?"

"Jean Forrest."

"I'm not a salesmen!"

"No, you're a communist. That will sell like hot cakes."

"Can you let me sleep?"

"Wait, it is 5:00 A.M."

"Gute morgen et bonne nuit!", author said. She woke up to nobody there. Nobody besides us shadow people. Or the rocking play horse, and the broken bunk bed momento in the closet.

"But next time! Commie centrist!" said Morgred.

Morgred's forces were the shape of wood troopers with very large Tour Dr France helmets, floating around in solar hovers. The bike made the sound of a sleepy author snoring repeatedly to the volume of a helicopter crash while they slept on their back during the afternoon sunset--sn--sn--snnsh! "Oh Jean, I have a gift for you. It's home made fudge!"

"My Gulag can make better fudge than your death camps!"

"Let's share each other our fudge of the innocence!"

"Let us dine on the blood of life!"

At night Lenore dreams of broken children's dolls, whose eyes can turn you to stone; demons from the depths of hell, that come for you to atone. But usually the answer was something relatively simple: simply popping its eyes out, and crushing them with a sledge hammer. Her main character Morgred Lionheart knew how to properly crush a demonic doll's eyeballs. He was one of the few things such demon dolls were able to fear.

During the day when awake, she would go to her local art fare.

Here she started out mainly going for the food, but gradually got to know other artists that plugged their wares; it was difficult to broach the subject of being a leftist anarchist, so she never specifically brought it up, unless inquired of so at such events. Instead she would have trouble avoiding looking at Vesco girls in Birkenstocks, dressed as if they went to the beach. After all, it was a event for buying art, not getting horny. Or feeling stuff till the morning, when on all other days it was mostly curried brown rice. All that spice on Saturday nights, and less spice on boiled eggs in the morning sunlight, downing two cups of coffee and a glass of oatmeal punch. She would have scrambled eggs with peppers, and at other times fried peanut butter banana with cayenne, onion powder, garlic powder, cocoa powder, and a few other things. Brain storming spice blends like an unwritten novel, when she preferred stories about giant one eyed orc men, whom even the demons from eternal damnation feared.

In this prospective story, you might not think it clear whether the real world ends and the dream world begins; but like life follows a procedure, and loops all over again, like life wire torture routines, with repeated plays of lesser known Francophone bands. There was no salt shaker to eliminate this misery, and many others in life. Her life wasn't essays for other people to write, and hated the general desire for constant debate and argument on different chatroom servers: sometimes even anarchist ones would either fall back into mob rule, or worse, have a self-appointed person declare themselves the arbiter of Communist discussion, without any checks and balances. But all this was in the past, with people constantly saying think of only the present.

It was difficult balancing between actual genuine fascists, and those people that acted in a similar manner but were merely Tankies supposedly. It was impossible to concentrate on any given thing when you're constantly under attack for largely no reason.

Sometimes it was just easier to pretend like you weren't there, and simply listen to constant replays of Pedro Gene on Portuguese radio, among other music of different variations, such as French Waltz, Japanese Meditation, and bits of Rumba Flamenca here and there. While fantasizing about beheaded Nazis and Pinkos on the wire. Desires consumed entire, other things fading out like distant starlight; emotions fading to a distant horizon, sensing the gradual loss of personal autonomy in groups that claimed to increase it; you might as well be an individualist, and collectives were not any better

Sometimes it was worse.

Lenore found it way to easy to be hateful about things, whether it was things politicians said while she was on the wire, the way that women looked with nineteen eighties hair, with brunette locks and blond highlight, dressed like a flight of seagulls movie set; and how they reminded of medieval princesses about to get the chop.

One girl she met wore a yellow hippie shirt, and a pair of hippie sandals, and everything else that combined the look of a hipster, as well as that of a hippie flower girl. And how Lenora despised such pictures of artificial innocuousness, as if there were no sins in the world. She dreamed of taking them to bed, and then sticking their fingers down her sweat pants, while kissing the nape of her on a soft squishy pillow. Tired brainwaves like instant jello, the smell of artificial fruit punch filling the air, and gym style sweat pants flowing the beat of eighties seagull laughs. Angular sensations, breathing abbreviations. Life flowing likw Latin Music Radio.

She liked dress up dolls, provided it was with a baguette and a giant hair tie in their hair. Her doll tap dancing like an accordion laced Rumba Flamenca, wearing birks instead of black heels. Sensory perception quickly used up like rows of ancient electrical outlets. A high score at the game of life, where the object was to lose as hard as possible, getting the lowest possible hits. And having many battleships sink as quickly as possible.

Her manifest, her life.

Yet by night she create fictional languages, or more accurately language thought experiments, based on a conceptual of what would happen when French and Japanese culture fused, and took over the United States; in practice this would mean the majority of speaking living in an alternate United States, that had diverged from French culture much like how Mexico had eventually diverged from Spain. The Meti of the United States sharing information with each other, in order to prevent the French encroachment in American territories. The bits of Japanese blood flowing like neon-lights, playing meditation Jazz outside Chattanooga and Las Vegas, then renamed as Les Vega.

However she was unsure of the actual feasibility of such a language at this point. As many of the political events that allowed for that to happen in Twenty Seventeen, never happened. And unless Marine La Pen had actually won the election, bringing forth the National Front, that has since been renamed, it effectively becomes an ARL, and Alternate Reality Language.

-- Mercirigato, comutsu na ca gava! One would say, introducing themselves in the crowd of a busy restaurant. With human-like robots speaking just as fluently in the night life.

As far as she knew, this was averted.

But there was always next election.