Cyberpunk Blues – Part 8

My family did me the solid of lending me a lawn mower to take care of the yard.  Mine did me the discourtesy of dying mid-mow.  I can’t do anything about the weed-eater, which decided to give up the ghost the same day.  Yesterday my hand was forced, and I had to mow in ~ 95 degree heat.  Not an enjoyable scenario, and it took hours for me to get everything caught up.  Blugh.  

Caught up I am, however.  Further, the house continues to gain showings, and we continue to make adjustments and improvements as suggested by various parties.  I have high hopes that we will walk away a winner from this situation.  

Unemployment has made me want to rip my hair out over and over.  Apparently, despite everything that I can do, there always seems to be another form they are requiring, or another thing they have to demand from my old employer.  I was let go May 5th.  It’s June 12th, and I still haven’t seen a dime from them.  It’s making things tense at home, and I do not appreciate the strain it has placed on my marriage during an already terrible few months.

It’s also been a trying time for my writing.  I’ve got fantastic ideas for what I’m trying to do with the book, but none of it seems to be leaving my brain well.  My fingers have some kind of unusual filter that I’m not enjoying very much.  I know that I just have to keep at it, and stay on schedule to finish by the end of the month.  However, it’s always frustrating to find yourself caught up in delays of your own devising.  

Silver lining to all this however; I’m that much closer to having access to an extraordinary number of writing workshop opportunities, a library to use as a base of operations and several fantastic local bookstores as well.  Kansas City presents a lot of opportunities for me, as well as access to things which will make my writing career a billion times more accessible.  I’m down with it.  

It’s been a rough road to hoe.  I’m caught up in so much change, compounded by my recent weight gain and joblessness.  Trying to navigate a budding career in writing while all this is going on, not to mention the struggles of caring for a toddler, is almost too much to bear.  Almost.  I’m very proud that I continue to put my butt in the chair.  In the end, that’s really the only requirement to find success.  Produce work.  Didn’t have a large audience?  Produce more work, make adjustments.  Keep learning, keep writing.  I promise I will continue doing both.  I deserve a career making people happy, and I will do whatever I can to make it a reality. 

Without further microphone dropping moments…

I awoke to a slightly frantic Betty.  Whenever I went down in a fight, Betty tended to go into panicked overdrive mode.  I guess that happens to everyone whose home is in danger of being destroyed.  I managed to calm her down, and tried to get my bearings.  I wasn’t at Mikes any longer.  Everything around me was darkness and suggestive but unhelpful less-dark outlines.  His betrayal, after my years of polishing his bar with my forehead, still shook me.  If I had been so wrong about him, who else had I misjudged?  I thought I had an eye for these kinds of things.  Being wrong made my skin crawl.  

Also, my arms were strapped together behind my back, and I was dangling from them.  I understood for a normal person this would be extremely painful, but I hadn’t had nerve endings for almost ten years.  Funny the things you miss.  I flexed my arms outward, as my straps appeared to be made of leather.  Now I was just insulted.  After a moment, their lack of snapping dramatically made me upset.  I asked Betty to give her all she had, and my every muscle bulged as I put thousands of pounds of pressure on each side of my bindings.  I was a kitten trying to topple a mountain with my paws.  After a few seconds, I gave it up as a bad job.  It must be like that strange pistol Mike had used, because it certainly wasn’t leather.  

With nothing to do, and only limited means to fight the darkness, I turned my concentration inward.  Funny thing about having a roommate like Betty; I actually had a place I could see her.  To the surprise of everyone involved in my new bodies creation, once it was finished I had the ability to step into my own mind much like a flesh and blood person could enter a doorway.  It was also just as exciting.  You’d figure that an entity made up of a trillion nanobots living inside me would have an apartment in my brain that was suitably cool.  Instead, it was just a hum-drum two bedroom that looked like a page out of a Martha Stewart catalog.  You win some, you lose some.  

I shut the door behind me, and removed the absolutely impractical but rad Mad Max jacket I wore each time I visited Betty’s.  What can I say?  I love the classics.  “Betty, I’m hoooome!” Sue me, they removed my ability to feel pain and shame.  A woman exited the kitchen, which smelt of incredibly well baked cookies, and was carrying a tray laden with the source of that smell.  They didn’t provide any actual calories, but my brain and Betty’s talent made them taste amazing.  My eyes became laser focused orbs of covetous greed.

Betty let out a tinkling bell of a laugh as I double-fisted my way through the tray of oven-fresh cookies.  Between Betty’s bob-weave hairdo and obnoxious dress, she looked like she had stepped out of a sixties Earth TV sitcom.  I’d given her so much shade when we first met, but she put her foot down.  This was her apartment and she’d live in it how she pleased.  I finally gave up teasing her about it after a few months together.  Betty kept my body in such good shape, I wouldn’t argue her lack of good taste.  Besides, her obsession with baking made me want to forgive her anything.  

“Hi Chase, glad you like them!  I can make more if you want.  I found this exciting new recipe for zucchini bread that I want to try out.”  Gross.  It’d probably be delicious though.  I nodded as my mouth was stuffed full of peanut-butter heaven.  “Wonderful!  I’ll have that ready next time you want to visit.  I assume you’re here to visit my office?  Let’s not dawdle then!”  She removed her apron, adorned with “Kiss the Cook”, and hung it on the rack outside the kitchen door where dozens just like it waited.  

Betty’s office was anything but Martha Stewart approved.