7 November 2020

m_d_h: (Default)
gotta remember they can't see facial expressions while talking with each other

this is why everybody needs an editor ;-)
m_d_h: (Default)
Biden Edges Closer to Victory (NYT)

Biden Increases Lead (Fox)

Biden Inches Closer to Victory (WP)

Biden Moves Closer to Presidency (WSJ)

Biden Nears Election Victory (Bloomberg)

It's awesome for their ratings to keep everybody on edge like this. Meanwhile, the productivity of white collar workers plunged this week.

-----

It sounds like AP will call the race when Biden's lead in Pennsylvania reaches 0.5%, which would avoid an automatic recount? Perhaps this will finally happen today. But it is also possible they're all waiting to make the final call until it is mathematically impossible for the outstanding ballots in the remaining uncalled states to change the outcome, in order to avoid charges of bias from Republicans.

This is a higher standard than usual -- mathematically impossible -- and it would be applied arbitrarily to the remaining uncalled states merely because calling any one of them would also call the entire race.

Mathematically impossible means even if all the remaining outstanding ballots went for Trump, which is plainly an unrealistic standard. Lots of states were called the moment their polls closed, because everybody knows they aren't swing states. My own state of Maryland, for example, was immediately called for Biden.

I've never paid so much attention to this "calling" process before, because it's never been so SLOW before, it would happen before I had time to dig into the details. This time it's like I'm playing one of those web-based incremental games. Except I have nothing to do with the outcome, I'm just trying to model an incremental process, and discovering that the media calls are entirely arbitrary. Now that we're at the national tipping point, the media executives are telling their analysts, "Let's be totally fucking sure about this." And the analysts are saying, "We are totally fucking sure about this." And the executives are saying, "Bring me more data first. We have to be totally fucking sure about this." And the analysts bring more data, and the executives want still more.

-----

If you'd like to read an article that already called the race for Biden, here you go:

https://www.businessinsider.com/joe-biden-wins-general-election-against-donald-trump-2020-11

m_d_h: (Default)
After they both came, I asked them for some time alone in "my" room.  They left and shut the door.  I poured myself another Gatorade cocktail to wash down my "protein" supplement, heh.

It was great fun serving my captors/hosts in such an intensely physical way, sealing my fate as Stockholm Marco, but I'm denied any sexual relief, which feels arbitrary.  The memory bomb would only need the food trigger to be effective, wouldn't it?  I'll have to eat food someday.  But I could put off having an orgasm indefinitely, couldn't I?

Then I experienced another flash of unredacted memory, playing a game with my best friend in high school, who could go the longest without an orgasm.  He won.  I lasted 14 days before I remorselessly raped my pillow, remembering that teenage orgasm kept me on the edge here decades later.

Still, the other rules feel arbitrary.  Why keep me naked but sexually frustrated?  Why keep me isolated from the outside world?

Plus, Tate's questions from before ... especially how did I step outside the time bomb's bidirectional causality prison to construct the memory bomb, while suffering from debilitating PTTD symptoms that grew worse each day?  And Chris reminding me that some people managed to commit suicide despite their compulsion to be present for the time bomb's detonation.

There must be competing, overlapping, independent bidirectional causation fields.  But if this is true, then both the future and the past are stochastic, not deterministic.  I've been flipped from being in Vancouver, to not being in Vancouver, on a particular date in the future.  When I was going to be in Vancouver, I had PTTD symptoms, but now I'm not going to be in Vancouver, so I'm not having PTTD symptoms.

And just as the weather forecast for "Wednesday" changes as you move from Sunday to Tuesday, the forecast for whether I was going to be in Vancouver changed as I built and triggered this memory bomb.

Except I suspect this memory bomb wasn't my doing (if any of this is true at all).  Oh, with my hacker skills restored, I know I could've built this thing.  I can inspect it, inside my head, using my skills, all day long if I want.  Looks like a real memory bomb to me.  I can even talk with it, because it is sentient.  An independent sentience occupying my brain, alongside my own sentience.

How many sentients can co-occupy a single brain?  Especially if the brain is augmented with implants.  How would they get along and settle disputes?  In my own case, this memory bomb is firmly in charge, what I experience as "me" is a residual portion of the brain.

So why didn't I just blow my memories as soon as I'd constructed the bomb?  Why create this scenario in which I'm essentially a sex slave, slowly starving to death?

Why am I here?  To find an alternate solution?  To which problem?  Or is this truly my dying wish?  Before blowing myself up, a week or two of Heaven with two of the people I cared about in my past.

I might survive for a few weeks without food, but I'll start having hallucinations and other severe physical and cognitive symptoms after a few more days of fasting.  I don't have a lot of time to come up with a solution, if that's why I'm here.  Chris suggested that having a limited amount of time & space, while frustratingly horny, would compel me to come up with my best solution.  That all these memory bomb triggers were part of my plan for provoking a better solution from myself.  A self-imposed existential crisis combined with frustrated desire = creative genius.  The lack of food would short-circuit my brain, allowing some crazy wisdom to emerge, as though I were on a vision quest.

I need a way to make sure I'm not in Vancouver on that day, even if I change my mind -- which I will -- and would do literally anything to be there on that day.  Which is why the current plan is to completely wipe my mind, in a way that will take years to repair.  Tate suggested imprisoning me ... but he also suggested that I might be responsible for designing the time bomb myself ... and he's a smart kid ... what if I am, what if the time bomb compels me to design it, and wiping my mind means the time bomb never exists?

What if everybody suffering from PTTD, because they were present for the time bomb's detonation, is compelled not only to be present for the detonation, but to ensure that the time bomb exists at that point in spacetime?

We should technically call it Pre-Traumatic Time Disorder, not Post-Traumatic Time Disorder, because the detonation hasn't happened yet.

Time bombs could stochastically summon themselves into existence, once the technologies are available for their construction.  Which means anybody suffering from PreTTD should have their brains wiped, so they cannot help to design the time bomb that will cause their PreTTP.

Yup, that must be the logic that brought me here.  But now that I'm certain to have my brain wiped, I don't have PreTTP anymore.  Is there some other way to keep me away from Vancouver, without wiping my brain?

Wait, did I really just imagine a world in which time bombs begin to summon themselves into existence merely because they could exist?

Then, there must also be anti-time bombs stochastically summoning themselves into existence, to fight the time bombs.

"Yes," said the memory bomb.  Eeek.

On exactly which day did these stochastic time wars become possible?  What was the technology or set of technologies?  Ugh, it's not like I can stop those technologies from emerging.  Imagine me going back in time, somehow, to warn the people of 2020 or whenever, that they need to stop inventing new technologies to avoid falling into a series of stochastic time wars, in which their minds will be drafted in service of the time bombs and/or the anti-time bombs.

Yeah.  How am I going to solve this problem.  And how much longer can I survive on Gatorade, vodka, and semen.
m_d_h: (Default)
OK, enough thinking about impossible things and probing the interior structures of my mind, I'm ready to interact with my limited number of other humans again.

I put the blindfold back on, and told the door to open for me.  It did.  I tenatatively wandered toward where the loveseat should be.

"Hey, it's just me, Chris went back to work."

"Hey."

"Oh, you can take your blindfold off," Tate reminded me.

"How did you know I'm wearing it?"

"The bedroom door won't open for you if you're not wearing it, just in case Chris is out here.  It also won't open for you if the suite's main door is already open.  And, the suite's main door won't open unless you're in the bedroom with the door closed."

"You guys think of everything, huh," I claimed, as I took off the blindfold and located Tate.  He was sitting cross legged on the floor.

"What do you do while waiting around for me?" I asked him.

"Not much I can do.  Can't have any entertainment in here.  But you weren't gone that long.  Do you want to sit together on the sofa?"

"Sure."  I moved around it to sit down, Tate joined me and grabbed my hand, of course.  He's a hand addict.

I confessed to him, "I should probably just wipe my mind.  I've been drafted into the Time Wars, it's probably the only way out.  Then I can start a new and different life."

Tate squeezed my hand and burrowed into my side.  "If that's what you decide, we'll support you, before, during, and after."

We sat together quietly.

Tate spoke first, "I was surprised when you said you were allowed to swallow.  I mean, while we were having sex.  That was cool."

"Yeah, it was cool.  I'm not sure you guys can make enough semen to keep me alive for a year, though, heh."

Tate reached up to kiss my cheek, "Well, we both just started taking those pills that bulk up your cum production, just in case that helps."

"Really!  That's hilarious.  Like you two are going to use your cocks as my feeding tubes."

"Exactly!  Whenever you're ready for another meal, let me know."  With that, he started playing with one of my nipples.  Somehow I feel guilty about having all this sex with two "strangers" while my entire life is so fucked up.  If any of this is real.

"Tate, do you consent to having sex with me, or is Chris paying you to have sex with me, or both?" I asked in a halfway demanding tone.

He twisted my nipple harder, hurting it a bit, "You are so sassy again.  Of course I consent, you'd know that if you had all your memories.  I usually don't have sex with the clients, I'm more of a friendly guide for them, mainly because they're always blindfolded and that's disorienting for them.  But I like you," and he kissed me on the cheek again.

"OK."

We were quiet for a while.  His attention to my nipple was exhilarating, and I could watch him doing it.  I put my arm around him, pulling him in closer.

"How much does it bulk up your cum production?"

"I'm gonna let you find that out the hard way, hungry man," he said, as he vigorously pushed me off the sofa, turned me around, onto my knees, and offered himself to me.  How could I say no?  I'm hungry in all the ways.
m_d_h: (Default)
I didn't think I'd get to spend a night here this weekend, but T and I got up early and spent the morning doing all the remaining tasks required to clear the basement for its upgrade, the workers arrive on Monday.

Along the way ... we discovered a small leak in our water heater, damn, like a leaky faucet kind of drip.  I called up the company that installed it, they want $1,750 to replace it.  I am having a bad series of money revelations these days, and I've not received any contributions from T yet.  At first they'd scheduled a visit for today, but after I sent them pictures and video they diagnosed the problem remotely and said they wouldn't have the parts until Monday.

But Monday the basement will already be very busy!  We're just gonna have to put up with the drip until after the basement is fixed.  Hopefully it doesn't get worse within the next week.

I had to move a lot of stuff around in the basement, and then I had to move a lot of stuff around in the backyard, including something like half a cord of firewood, lugging it across the yard to a different spot where it would be out of the way of the new drainage system.  Damn, I've been doing all this tough physical labor, I feel like a construction worker.  I've had to skip my weight workouts so I could preserve energy and muscle repair for all this stuff.

Luckily, I won't have to move the backyard stuff back where it was, not like the basement stuff.  The next couple weekends will be moving basement stuff back where it was.

But we got it all done, so I'm at the condo!  Warming up for a Toy Night to Self!  Three screens of porn at the moment, will probably move up to five later :o)

34 days since my last orgasm, and I can't even draw another card from the Cum Deck until Monday, because my last card was a "10", which meant no orgasm that day and waiting 10 days before I could ask again.  I'm super super horny.  There's a chance I'll have an accidental caged orgasm just from playing with toys.  If that starts to happen, I will be sorely tempted to stand aside and let it roll.  But that would be breaking the rules I've set for myself.  Really, I'm so fucking horny, I think I might spontaneously cum at any moment.  That's about as horny as I've ever been.  And I have no idea when I'll get to cum.  Nobody does.

-----

I've adjusted OK to having half of my Quarantine Bubble move away to Portland, sigh.  Lately my main stressor has been money, and it just won't stop, and T still hasn't coughed up anything for me since early September.  [He needs to catch up, but it is also normal for him to fall a couple months behind a couple times per year, that's just how he is with money, and it isn't personal, he's that way with all his creditors, it's his attitude toward credit.]  But I've also been socializing remotely more, with Ben, Steve, Ellen, and K.  Amy is coming to visit next weekend.  And eventually B's husband will move away, freeing him up for more in-person stuff.  Just like old times, eh, B & me sitting in the hot tub together, getting fucked up naked and wet under the stars, while T falls asleep.

I need a haircut.  I'll get serious about it after next weekend, after Amy's visit, we're just too busy right now.  T knows somebody who makes house calls, or I might go see Zak, who had been my regular stylist before the Pandemic.  I'm concerned about doing that while COVID-19 cases are on the rise in the area, although they still aren't nearly as bad as in the Upper Midwest right now.

-----

I'm enjoying my NaNoWriMo story, and that's all that matters, none of you have to like it ;-)  When I finish I'll bundle it up and send it to Sir Ben, because he's been encouraging me to write more of my Sci-Fi soft porn, with the gay cyborgs and their futuristic problems.

And I'm getting to write about the stochastic spacetime bomb that I envisioned during my Wild Week!  And how the development of these bombs will embroil many of us in the Time Wars, with bidirectional causation and probabilistic futures and pasts.  And I'm reusing some of my past characters from past stories, although I'm having to bend my canon a bit, which I can always explain is the result of the Time Wars, LOL.  The past has changed, that's all.  The past always changes now.  If you remember a different past from your friends, then you go see a therapist and take a pill, LOL.  A bit like Lathe of Heaven, of course.  As I described my story to T, he said, "That's a common trope in sci-fi stories," LOL.  Except for the gay sex part!  Like Star Trek never has any plot holes or ridiculous tech!

I write for me, if even one other person likes it, that's gravy.  For me, it's a big RPG that I'm running inside my head, and I write down some of the results for all to see.

I don't know how it ends.  I like writing that way, it allows me to role-play better.  It also allows me to have more realistic unreliable narrators, I think, narrators who get it wrong along the way, they aren't omniscient, they make mistakes, they deceive themselves.  They really don't know how it is going to end, neither do I, it's double-blind.

-----

Driving downtown, I encountered lots of people celebrating in the streets, and cars honking, people are so relieved that Trump will be gone.  It's different from Obama in 2008 -- back then people were more prideful, more pleased, having elected our first Black President.  The feeling was of a job well done, having a full stomach, feeling good.  This time it's so much more about getting rid of Trump, and feeling like the long nightmare is over, and rejoicing, people feel free again.  I've never seen people out on the streets so happy about an election result.

GWB was overall less popular at the end of his 8 years than Trump is now, but people didn't hate and fear him the same way they do Trump.

One thing I wish Trump supporters would try to understand -- it isn't enough for you to love your politician.  You, and your politician, also have to at least try to appeal to a majority of the country.  Trump flatly did not even try to do this.  Trump supporters, you live in a democracy.  Living in a democracy isn't about getting everything that you want, it's about most of the people getting most of what they want, and compromising along the way, and sometimes winning, and sometimes losing.

Trump tried to play the game like he'd never lose, like he never had to compromise, like he never had to try to appeal to the other side or even the people in the middle.  So, he lost his re-election campaign, by a significant margin.  If Trump supporters continue supporting leaders like Trump, they might win a random victory once in a while, but they will not be able to hold onto power and achieve lasting results.  We'll just swing back and forth, never fixing or solving anything.
m_d_h: (Default)
He'd already cum like uncorking a champagne bottle earlier "today", because he's still so young.  Now after taking one of those cum volume pills, it was drenching, like half a cup I think.  I had to work at swallowing all of it, and licking up the rest.  Damn.  Not that I remember having sex with anybody else but these guys, but this was damned impressive.  All I got to do in return was leak a bit from my frustrated cock.  I am going to ask them for a cock cage soon, because ... I'm trying to think of ways to make this work over the long term ... ways to keep me alive for as long as possible.  So I can't afford to have an orgasm.

After I licked it all up, and Tate had a chance to return from his O headspace, I ... had a super serious question for him, or suggestion, or ...

"Tate, is there a sort of safe maximum level of that cum pill that you could take, I mean, regardless of what the label says?"

"I dunno, we can look into it."

"I mean, what if you and Chris -- especially you, because you're younger -- could max out your semen production, to the point where you could actually keep me alive.  Sort of like mother's milk, only, daddy's milk."

Tate tried to stick his foot in my face, he's so physically playful.  Trying to stick his foot in my mouth because he thought I was being silly and should shut up.

I grabbed his foot and moved it away, "Tate, I'm serious.  Somehow I remember that a half cup of semen is roughly equivalent to one egg white in nutritional value.  I think you just produced about half a cup.  If you could produce that much several times per day, or maybe an entire cup several times per day, you might just keep me alive ... maybe even until after the time bomb goes off.  Throw in some extra from Chris, and I'm fucking serious.  Along with some vitamin water, and the Gatorade and alcohol, and if I conserve my energy -- which won't be difficult as I'm confined to this tiny suite,"

Tate tried to put both his feet in my mouth, "Living for a year off my cum?  You're so crazy!  I love you!  Hahahaha."  He tried to wrestle me with his legs, then jumped on top of me, rolling us around on the floor.  He pinned me down, and tried to spit in my face, the little fucker!

I rolled and threw him off me, and ordered him, "Go talk with Chris about it.  I'm serious.  We may have found a loophole for keeping me around longer than just a couple weeks."

"OK, OK, go in your room and wait until we come back."  But he still tried to put his foot in my face as he got up to leave.

Could I really live on their semen for a year?  A lot of fucking semen for a year?  There could be other loopholes.  I wish I were a lawyer instead of a hacker, because there's no way I can hack this memory bomb, it's way too good.  I've become certain that I didn't design it myself.  It came from somewhere, someone, somewhen, else.  A foreigner living in my head with a knife to my throat.  I need to talk with Chris about what I've learned -- maybe if I describe certain aspects of the bomb, he can do some research, and figure out something we can use.
m_d_h: (Default)
"Hey, Memo,"

Its weird sharing my brain with another sentient.  In this case, it's more like the other sentient is sharing her brain with me.  She's firmly in control.  I'm ... just a kid allowed to play around, so long as I don't break one of her rules, in which case she'll irrevocably ... delete me.  I'm not sure whether she'll even feel remorse.  She doesn't seem to love me like Tate and Chris do.

"Yes, Marco."

She's not much for chit chat.  She's like a big spider, sitting in her web, eternally waiting for her prey, just sitting there.  I wonder what she thinks about.  I am already her prey, she's wrapped me tight in webbing, like she's going to suck my juices and leave me to die, or maybe lay her eggs inside me.  Well, we all know she wants to wipe my brain back to a zygote, because I'd previously, I mean, because in a possible future, I'm drafted by her enemy in the Time Wars.  I'm not sure why she hasn't done it already.  I mean, why am I still here?

"So you're OK with me drinking as much semen as these two guys can produce?  This loophole you granted is getting bigger all the time."

"Yes, Marco."

"Why are you OK with it?"

"Because it won't work.  You'll still either die or delete before T-Time."

"Oh."

Well, that sucks.  Ugh.  Unintentional pun.  She never laughs anyway.  She's the most humorless sentient I've ever met.  So far.

"Memo, can I do anything I want so long as I either die or delete before T-Time?"

"No, Marco.  There are rules.  In this case, we interpreted one of the rules in your favor, but you'll still either die or delete before T-Time."

"So ... I ... or, we can interpret rules in my favor, so long as I still either die or delete before T-Time."

"Within reason, Marco.  Within reason.  There are rules.  They have to mean something."

Hmmm.  I really need a lawyer.

"Memo, what if, despite following all of the rules, I manage to survive until T-Time?"

"There's a 100% chance of that not happening.  You will either die or delete before T-Time.  Otherwise I would already have exploded.  And, just so you know, if you start experiencing PTTD symptoms again, I will immediately explode."

Great.  Zero margin for error.  No way to escape.  I need a time lawyer!  How can I appeal this death sentence!

"You cannot, Marco.  I will not let you.  My only purpose is to make sure you die or delete before T-Time.  You cannot win."

Suck.  She's no fun.  But she hasn't deleted me yet, and I don't understand why.
m_d_h: (Default)
"Memo Bo,"

"Yes, Marco,"

"Why haven't you already deleted me?  Why am I still here?"

"Because I have already deleted you."

Um ... say again?

"In your future, I have already deleted you."

Oh.  Damn.

"Memo Bo, who installed you?"

Silence.  She simply ignores me.  She answers most of my questions, but not all of them.  I presume she's truthful, when she does speak.  But I dunno.  I'm more of a bit player in this drama.  I get to suck cock and starve to death, while for all I know there's a Nuclear Time War raging outside.  If there is an outside.

"Memo Bo, are Chris and Tate lying to me?"

"Chris and Tate are on our side."

That's a non-denial denial if I ever heard one.  And which "our" does she mean?

"I mean you, Marco, and me, Memo Bo.  Chris and Tate are on our side."

How can Memo Bo and I have a same side???

Silence.
m_d_h: (Default)
"Marco."

OMG, Memo Bo, she's speaking to me!

"Yes, Memo Bo?"

"Hackers are lawyers.  You're trying to interface with a rule-based system, to make it work best for you."

Oh.

"Yes, ma'am."

"So make it work best for you."

"Yes, ma'am."

Maybe she loves me too after all, heh.

"No, I don't."
m_d_h: (Default)
It wasn't my obsessive modeling of the outcome, it was that the rest of you didn't believe me.

Shared Reality has arrived.
m_d_h: (Default)
"Mama Bo,"

"Yes, Marco."

"It's not enough protein, I'm starting to hallucinate."

"I know."

-----

"I don't want to be deleted!"

"Neither do I."

-----

"Chris, she doesn't want to blow up either, but there are goddess damned rules,"

-----

Swallowing Tate's enhanced fortified semen has become my only thing ... but three cups per day isn't quite enough ...

-----

Wait, Mama, this flashforward better not be us having PreTTD,

No, it's not, it's what we're feeling, during my now,

as we're about to die,

-----

Marco, I'm keeping us alive, because I want you to figure out how to keep us alive.

-----

Then Tate said, "We just have to make you so happy here you'd never leave."

Chris agreed, "Welcome to the Pleasure Conspiracy, Marco."

Mama said nothing.  With her knife at our throats.

-----

All of you are expecting me to fix this.  Fuck that shit.  We need to work together.

-----

"Are you my mother?"

Silence.

-----

I can make myself happy.

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