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Jan 15th, 2020
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  5. I miss my cock. I was blessed with roughly a full foot of girlmeat, and it wasn’t some kind of slim pencildick, either. Oh no, I had people say, “Jesus fuck, that is not going to fit in any part of my body” and “Are you seriously gonna try and cram that Coke can up my ass?” I was popular. I had animal magnetism. I had roguish charm. But then they said, when I was super drafted (it’s like the regular draft back in the deep dark history of vague references to historical events that the contemporary reader will recognize and then chuckle to themselves about because some of them are given absurd importance, only moreso) that it was “disproportionate” and “how does any blood get to your brain with that thing in your skirt?” and all that nonsense. Look, fuckers, I had big bimbo energy. I could pretend that my cock made me a total moron and divert any attention from my MSc. in MatSci. OK?
  7. I still have a dick, of course, but it’s been redesigned to fit a catheter better. Still not great, you understand, I was only on Penis 2.1 and they’re up to 2.45c by now, but whatever. They say that they will replace my original dick when I am finally mustered out, which in this kind of story never happens because the true horror of imperialist war is that the imperialist warriors are hurt too, and I am working very hard to get my records changed to indicate it was even bigger. I plan to take every last bit of life out of this gig.
  9. I’ve had my body overall redesigned, too, beyond the penis-reduction-for-improved-pissing. For example (and I, the author, can totally cite research papers that found this to be true! This story is SERIOUS, HARD, ERECT, SCIENCE FICTION) my tits have been crammed full of silicone and heat sinks and computer circuitry, to improve my aerodynamics and to give me an expert system which is meant to give me the ability to accurately hit targets at unfathomable ranges with assorted guns. The fact that I have truly massive boobies is not, in any way, a sign that the author has a fetish and also has no idea when to let that fetish out to play, such that her writing is irretrievably skeezy because in the middle of a very edgy monologue about the reshaping of the body by capitalism or neoliberalism or imperialism or whatever shit, she’s talking about how she’s a fucking N cup fetish model or something. First of all, I’m even larger than that (the expert system is water-cooled and they needed more space) and second of all, this is serious fucking science fiction and if you find this premise absurd or ridiculous it’s because it’s too challenging for you, pitiful reader.
  11. And if you noticed the rather unclear antecedents in one of the preceding sentences such that it’s unclear when the sentence is referring to the author or to the viewpoint character, well. First of all, queer people are allowed to be messy, and that doesn’t just mean uncritically accepting all fiction as unworthy of harsh criticism on an ideological/thematic level because the author could be queer somehow, it also applies on a technical level. Pointing out unclear syntax or misspollod wirsds probably counts as abusive if I get mad enough about it! Yeah!
  13. Anyways, my body was filled with all kinds of additional sicknasty cybernetics, because what is a story that is intended to be pro-green without a horrified fetishization of technology as simultaneously annihilating and alluring? I was currently using them to heft an enormous fucking laser gun, which we totally have in the near future where this story is set so it seems topical. Sure, you might think that this kind of acceptance of gee-whiz shit is just a plausibly deniable form of military fetishism. But it’s not, OK? Just read this goddamned amazing, challenging, incredible story written by a fucking goddess in the flesh, someone whose brain is so vast it actually sucks the brains out from everyone else in the room.
  15. The laser gun was intended for a kind of open-field warfare that does not actually make sense with how warfare is conducted today or how it would likely be conducted under the circumstances, which are namely: no-holds-barred, all-out war, against suburban homeowner’s associations and PTAs. You see, they had gotten their hands on advanced military hardware somehow. You might think that incinerating majority-white suburbanites is, if anything, something to guiltily cheer for. You might worry that you enjoy phrases like “gurgling screech as the bullet vaporized the soccer mom’s chest” or quips like “You’ve sipped your last Merlot, mom, I mean, you vapid Instagram influencer.”
  17. You are stupid, unlike me, the author/character, who is very smart. It is downright disgusting and appalling that American society has turned in on itself. It’s the real nature of imperialism, that it’s solely about the experience of direct violence from active-duty military personnel and maybe a PMC if we remember that Blackwater exists. And imperialism is at its apex, in its worst, most final form, its Safer Sephiroth (video game references are a way to challenge cultural assumptions about high art versus low art, and not a tawdry way to try and build rapport with the reader) when it involves said violence happening to prosperous white people. Like me, the character, and me, the author, (and me, the actual author below the level of fake authorship, if I’m being totally honest.)
  19. Anyways, I was toting the laser gun, which weighed about seventy pounds. Specifically, about a pound less than that. You’re probably going “nice” about now, you disgusting meme-addled wokescold. Fuck you.
  21. Toting the laser gun meant that I was effectively the machine gunner of the future. It’s the equivalent of the SAW except it acts like a really shitty flamethrower you have to hold on someone. Maybe you remember the part about how I have a master’s in material science. Maybe you’re making some smart-ass remark about how this isn’t how the fucking US military works, that they do make some effort to put people with formal training like college degrees into positions where their talents can be made use of. Maybe you’re such a pathetic worm of a critic that you’re writing out a socialistic critique of how this ossification of credentials furthers class divisions within society. Fuck you! I read some posts about how war is nothing but a waste so the DRAMATIC IRONY of having someone with a graduate degree being an infantrywoman is very obvious and it totally outweighs any incisiveness that might come from knowing what I’m talking about! And I didn’t make the self-insert, I mean viewpoint character, a jarhead because I have self-respect, god damn it.
  23. The point is, the point is, I was holding fire on a defensive position, namely a sprawling stack of old DVD cases, and enjoying the stench of plastic burning and melting. It was a pleasure to inhale. My dick was so hard my catheter had been crushed and then slipped out. I was fucking horny from smelling burning plastic, motherfuckers! Isn’t this just so fucking raw and edgy, describing an unpleasant thing happening and then going “ACTUALLY IT WAS REALLY COOL AND SEXY. I AM A LIVING JPEG ARTIFACT FROM A PICTURE OF SHADOW THE HEDGEHOG HOLDING A GUN ON DANTE FROM THE DEVIL MAY CRY SERIES”? Aren’t you so fucking challenged right now? Isn’t your brain about to explode in your pitiful cuckold skull? Yeah, I fucking went there! I invoked the god damn cuck meme! Isn’t this fucking timely? If you bring up how the cuckoldry fetish frequently invokes racialized hierarchies of power I will call you an SJW but in a left-wing fashion.
  25. A white flag popped up from behind the melting burning heap. I motioned to my squadmates. When the suburbanites popped out, hands in the air, we shot them both. Two to the chest, one to the head. “Just like the police used to do it, before we killed them all for being bastards,” I mused aloud, winking at the reader. “How appalling.” My squadmates laughed like the tiny-brained, tiny-dicked sycophants they are. I can’t even bring myself to fuck them. I laughed too, but secretly I was crying on the inside because my pain as an agent of imperialism, even the absurdly stupid twisting of the notion of imperialism which is going on in this story, matters so goddamn much. It is absolutely vital that we write progressive stories that ultimately promulgate weepy apologetic guilt that centers us as Americans in order to question American beliefs and ideology and promote less malefic ones. And also, I want to appeal to both the Marxoteens who post “Death to AmeriKKKa” on Twitter and the kinds of people who say “not all troops”, because either audience by itself is kind of infinitesimal so I have to cast a broad fucking net.
  27. Anyways, as we were able to maintain a coherent understanding of the battlespace in the middle of heated combat, as we were the Warfighters of Tomorrow and this story doesn’t actually implicitly suggest that the military is kind of cool while it wags its fingers at us for daring to have complexity of responses to the US military. So we withdrew in good order after destroying a strongpoint in an abandoned Culver’s.
  29. “Utterly asinine,” I said. “When my number came up I thought I was being dragged into counterinsurgency hell, like the broad standards for hellish conflicts that should immediately come to fucking mind for anyone for whom the Iraq War was a formative experience.” I sniffed. “I bought all those goddamned memoirs in order to get an understanding of the experience and yet it was all for nothing as we ended up in a Future World War 2, or maybe Future Korean War.”
  31. “Shut the fuck up, you titty monster,” my latest squeeze, a hot number called I Cannot Be Fucked To Do The Three Minutes Of Research Necessary To Avoid Being Racist About People’s Names So My Story Doesn’t Sound Like It Takes Place In A Sundown Town, but I called her “Jet” because she was extraordinarily complicated and made of very strange materials and not because she made whooshing sounds the first time she saw me naked and then barked out her altitude as she descended onto my cock, said. Is it possible for love to bloom, even on the battlefield? Are such creatures as we, so very traumatized, extremely such, capable of love?
  33. I didn’t really care, she was hot and a great fuck and she said I was hot and a great fuck and we also fucking hated each other so if you wanted something romantic, some point of human contact to make with this story, that’s something you only want because you’re weak and want weak unchallenging stories.
  35. “You’re a fucking titty monster,” I said. “It’s monstrous that you managed to get away with having your AI-”
  37. “It’s not an AI.”
  39. -your AIspert system embedded subcutaneously as a Noroi Cluster, such that you didn’t get the tit inflation.” I leered at her. “Honestly, it’s really a turn-on that you have a natural bosom.”
  41. “Oh, you’re feeling fucking articulate today, aren’t you?” Jet said. “‘Bosom’, she says, like she’s got any actual taste at all instead of just calling them “tits” or “hooters” or “bazongers”.” She sneered. “But we both know that you were born for the gutter and never really leave it.”
  43. I sneered back at her. “Prissy Chair Force bitch,” I said. Hey, did you just notice I said the “b” word? Bitch? Yeah, it’s right there. Let me call attention to it. I am so fucking bold to use a word like that because the wokescolds suggested not using it at some point that may exist entirely within my imagination.
  45. “Babe, if it wasn’t for my F-125 (they restarted the Century Series numbering because I, the actual author at the depth of all this metafiction, am a nerd and want to be nerdy in the midst of being sneeringly bitter and angry) loitering at 40 miles from the target area, you and your squad and your whole company would have gotten fucking kablooied by their MQB-25 Reaper IVs.”
  47. “How the fuck do you say that goddamned mouthful without compressing it into slang like a normal human being?” I asked, climbing onto the bed and shrugging off my tank top.
  49. “Do you really want to read the futuristic military slang that the author would come up with, let alone speak it and hear it?”
  51. “Point,” I said. “Wanna fuck?”
  52. “In a minute, lemme finish this battle.” She played with her phone for another few minutes. “OK, let’s fuck,” she said, laying it down.
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