I hate the birth certificate system.
A pathetic piece of dead tree – I’m not offending the tree, but it offends the tree, knowing that it’s been stripped to an “important” document – that carries the tattoo of a Realist’s full legal name, where and when they were born, and all the rest of that bull cr*p.
I hate the birth certificate system.
They’ve had their eye on me as soon as I was out there, in a world which the Realist claimed was theirs, but it so wasn’t.
I guess it didn’t help me having my eyes closed for 10 straight days, because I could record my surroundings and store them in main memory.
As soon as I was born, word got out. Of course it had to, because I was born to a decrepit pair of disgusting, snivelling Realist swine you’d address as “parents”.
And what would a Realist parent do?
Get the frickin’ family out, that’s what they’do.
And what would the rest of the frickin’ Realist family do?
Get their frickin’ Realist friends out, that’s what they’do.
And what would all these frickin’ Realists do?
They’d get their frickin’ cameras out, they’d get their frickin’ camcorders out, they’d get their frickin’ phones out, and do you know what they’d all do?
They’d record the freakin’ darn thing, like it’s worth doing, like it’s their freakin’ darn law. I hate it. I hate all of it. They’re out to get me. And they’ll never ever stop. Ever.
Word of my birth somehow circulates its way all to the government. And as I cry in that swine-of-a-mother’s arms, begging in baby language for the trauma to end, the government manages to actually come up with a way to… capture this.
They have a way of putting all this on video, on their pervasive C.C.T.V. cameras. They are little, seemingly soulless eyes that bore into me, they gaze and they just stand there, watching me.
They’re all watching me. Why? Who for? Why? Why?
I don’t understand. I fail to understand. I can’t seem to understand. And I get tense. I get so, so worried. I can’t get a good grip on these emotions. And at just the exact moment when I think I’ve got it all under wraps, when I think I’ve contained them in the box, they stop playing by the rules. They stop toiling with me. They could’ve broken free this whole time, and I didn’t know. How stupid.
My emotions escape from the box, and they fly off into the night. Forever, never to be found again.
What’s all this doing, you may ask?
Well, to answer your question:
When I get worried, I’m inside my own mind, trying to get my emotions into a box before they escape. But I fail. My emotions flutter out the box and away into the night sky like butterflies.
What this does to my exterior… I spring a leak in my sight holes. Inside, my screen is springing a leak and water is coming out, flooding the room that is my mind.
Outside – I’d have forgotten to pull the lever that controls my mouth, because I was so busy trying to clean and fix up my sight screen. And because I forget to fix and clean up my mouth, on the outside, my speech hole starts to whimper like a dog that doesn’t want to die.
I notice my mouth lever pulling itself forward and backward in a random order, like as if it was possessed. I notice my mouth lever acting all weirdly, and I rush over to take of it. I suppress my whining – for now.
But now I have a whole new problem. I forgot about the eye screen. Water still leaks from my sight holes. The screen is still emptying gallon after gallon of fluid into the room that is my mind. I get some more tissues and tend back to the screen. The screen seems a little better. I’m a little relieved.
But I can’t relax for long. The mouth lever is moving again.
It’s back and forward, back and forward, back and forward, there just seems to be no end. Absolutely no end.
On the outside, my eyes are leaking, my mouth is whimpering, my eyes are leaking, my mouth is whimpering, my eyes are leaking, my mouth is whimpering.
In short, disgusting Realist, I am crying because you took a photograph of me.
I never liked having a photograph of myself. Those disgusting Realist b*st*rds were trying to put me on their Realist system. And I hated it. All of it.
And it all started because I was born. And it because it was perceived to be seen.
What I really wanted to get at is:
Why are there these birth certificates?
Why must it be on paper for us to be born?
If there are these horrible, disgusting Realist certificates, then why can’t there be any death certificates to counter that? Where’s the peace now?
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