Okay, so, I enjoy guns, guns as thing. I like the sound a rifle makes when it’s cocked, I like the sound a revolver makes when one pulls the hammer back, I like muzzle-flash, I love the cracking sound machine-guns make… Aesthetically, I love everything about guns. I don’t like how guns are a thing people use to end other people’s lives, in a perfect world we’d only use guns to put down zombies.
Anyway, I have this Things to Do list that really isn’t getting done. I’m thirty, I’m old, the list needs to get moving again. To that end, one of my things is to fire a gun with an assistive technology switch. I have no idea how this would work. Would the switch connect directly to the gun? Would the gun be fired by way of software running on my MacBook Air that I’d access by way of my NeuroSwitch? I don’t know.
Do any of you know how I might fire a gun with a switch? I really don’t care what kind of gun I’m firing, I just want to fire at some target until said gun is empty. Can anybody help? I live in Tampa, I especially totally welcome local help.6 comments
You wake to lips on your neck, gently caressing, searching. Cold fingers on your chest, sliding toward your shoulders, pinning you down.
Her long dark hair’s in your face, tiny curls tickling your nose, her tongue wrapped around yours.
She’s already naked, already wet for you, from you. Her breasts, her body, pressed hard against you, her legs hugging your waist.
She’s going to take you inside her, she’ll hold you there, deeply. You’ll come deep in her, sooner rather than later, whether you want to or not. She’s taken you past the place of choice.
You can’t breathe, or speak. Her teeth tore into your throat, ripped out your tongue.
You’re inside her and she’s soaking wet, wet with your blood.
You’ve never been with a woman like her, nor will you ever be again.6 comments
I have this spectacular assistant, Stacy. Stacy show’s up a little early, works late when necessary. She’s excellent at talking with the alphabet, she does little things I need before I ask, she always follows the notes I write, follows them perfectly. I like saying to her, “You’re a professional.” She’ll perform any task given, with grace, and class, and… Well, almost any task. She prefers not to open doors. Like, if we’re at the mall, or a restaurant, she’ll always try to let anyone who’s near go ahead and open the door. Nobody ever shuts the door on us, someone always holds it. Someone always holds the door for us, for now, but what happens when the zombies come? Not if, when. So, I asked Stacy when I was making fun of her for not being a professional about opening doors, I asked, “What are you going to do when the zombies comes?”
The zombies are coming, maybe not right now, or tomorrow, or in ten years, but they are coming, and when they do come we will no longer be a “Everyone holds the door open” society. It’ll be a free-for-all on getting through and closing that door behind you. Parents will immediately abandon strollers in favor of those baby backpacks. It’ll be babies in backpacks, and doors being slammed shut, and blood, and screaming, and zombies, and chaos. That’s how it’ll be when the zombies come.
Tonight, Stacy purposefully opened two doors for us by herself. She really is a professional.1 comment
So, I’ll be honest, I think that overall I’m much better at writing about bad things that happen. If zombies showed up tomorrow I’d definitely write something spectacular, whereas if the Rapture came and it turned out that God decided to just forgive and forget everything, I’d probably be inclined to ascend and not write about God being such a good sport. Still, I have to say…
I have had some really fucked up trache changes, especially the one in June. However, my last one, on Monday, was pretty spectacular. My anesthesiologist was Doctor Devenard Manger, an absolutely excellent doctor. I’ve had him before and he always treats me perfectly. He’d heard about my last astonishingly bad visit to the OR and said he’d make sure that nothing like that will ever happen again. He gave me his card and said to just let him know before I come in, he’ll make sure he personally handles every procedure. I fell asleep feeling safe and happy, which is all I really ask.1 comment
He can’t sleep because he’s not with her. He wants her close, the flesh of her cheek against his arm. He wants her steady breathing in his ear. He’s alone in a room that doesn’t feel like home, such a place seems distant right now. He’s kind of a zombie, a wanderer, doing the things people do, but his mind is always somewhere else. He’s a moth with no flame. He can’t sleep, so he writes…