Una Carmine - Cutting The Cord - Prologue

Motherfucker!

I thought when I got brought into "reality" things would get better. But you know what? This reality sucks and the only reason Malachite and the rest of them want me is because of my so-called talent - the involuntary talent imposed upon me by some fucking software freak, whilst I was in the "false" world, no less.

So fuck them. I don't have to like this real world, and so I won't. It's dreary and claustrophobic, sad and smelly.

Besides, I only have their word that it's real.

Why should I take their word over anyone else's? Who defines reality? They say that they do. But so do the machines. And so do I, so who do I believe? How do I decide?

Really, what is real any more?

I suppose I'll fight for their reality, if only because I don't know anything else to fight for but, you know what? I walk around the world I know - when they oh-so-graciously jack me in - and no-one sees me. It's bad, in its way, but it also means I can have a steak dinner, a few drinks, fuck a cute guy and walk away without any consequence. It certainly beats the Mucus O'Wheat that the Powers That Be around here have deemed nutritious food.

I didn't get asked to get pulled out of it.

I understand why they did it, but they don't seem to understand the magnitude of culture shock going on. And they haven't made a compelling argument for their revolution, either...

On the good days, I get it. On the bad days... I want real green grass under my bare feet, and real wine and maybe even a steak.

I hide this journal under my bed. I hope Malachite is keeping her word about privacy.

I need some painkillers and some sleep. More soon.

 

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