(First-timeness) Photographic virginity^[ME1] and frigidity. Regret after regret after regret. The one that got away^[ME2]   – from life, from me.

I would give anything in the world to bring him-you back for one day, one hour, one minute. To tell him-you how much I miss him-you. To hold him-you. Hug him-you. Cry into his-your chest. Never let (you) go.

               testingcheats true

               death.toggle

                                                         death disabled

               testingcheats false

 

I fear I’ve lost the only one capable of loving me. I fear I’ve lost the one love of my life. What else can I do now but follow him^[ME3]   you?

 

 

[SELECT ANOTHER FUTURE] Best Friend                     [SELECT ANOTHER FUTURE] Boyfriend^[ME4]

 

Do soulmates really exist? The wandering two halves. The tied red thread. The call and response. The sun and the moon. Light and shadow.

What if they do, but mine is gone? Left too soon before it could even begin. What do I do now?

Did I really lose the love of my life? Do we only get one? Would or could I ever want anyone else?

 

modifyrelationship [YourFirstName] [YourLastName] [TargetFirstName] [TargetLastName] 100 LTR_Friendship_Main

 

I got chills when I made your sim. Digital facsimile. Digital Ghost Love Story^[ME5]. Did I get it right? Does it matter? No, you’ll later say to both. You gave me permission to cheat our friendship. One of the prompts was [Joke about Old Times]            It felt real.

In the first hour, you almost burned alive. I rushed and ran and extinguished you. Saved you^[ME6]. Got to be the hero for once. Saved you. That felt as good as the first kiss. What base is saving a life? Holding hands afterward was awkward.

Just like your Sim and others I created, I almost set myself on fire. Mishap in the kitchen. Paper towel ablaze.

In hindsight, I should have known not to blow on it. I had only fed it, grew it. In hindsight, I should have just waited. Or turned the flame off. A gas stove and a spill. I tried to be quick. Impatient hubris.

 

My Sim in digital scorched blackface flashed in my mind. Black pin. Black paper. Black blood blister.

Another flash. Not of what will become of me, but the shame of having burned down my mother’s house, starting with the curtains she so lovingly made. How fitting that I was also reading Black Paper.

 

 

Black zip tie. Black baking tray. Orange paper turning black. Black spider.

In hindsight, I wonder why I didn’t make a sound. Because I was alone? When dad did the same blunder when mother was still alive, she went hysteric. I don’t remember his reaction because hers engulfed his.

 

The house felt so empty that first year. Black hole. Black void. Black spider.

In hindsight, time is fluid, relative. You can do anything in stopped^[ME7]  time. Sitting in the massage chair, I looked down to see a spider there on my right hand. I could count the frames passing in the moment. I shrieked. I swatted the spider off of me and into the void. I somersaulted backward off the chair’s arm. I ended the shriek.

But how many seconds would it have been to break the tie to pull the pin to aim at the base to squeeze the lever to spray and sweep?      To burn?

No witnesses. No marks. Not even photos. A conscious effort not to photograph.

 

hindsight was the working title for one of my projects. The file names still read hindsight-#.jpeg^[ME8]. Part of my statement (still) reads:

In hindsight, much of my work is devoted to my self-hatred. My personality alters it into nostalgia. In hindsight, I’m devoted to making myself suffer; I’m high on my own depression. It’s my normal, my familiar. But in hindsight, too often does the artist make art about suffering. Too often is art equated to suffering. Too often does an artist suffer, and is expected to suffer for the art. It’s hard to break the pattern. This is a project, as well as a psychological practice, a wish-fulfillment of positivity, and a necessary shock to the system. In hindsight, I must become like water.

 

(Still) Jumping at any large black speck in my peripheral. In hindsight, maybe you were trying to forewarn me. Or maybe just paying it forward for saving you then. Out of all of the Sims I created, we-ours were the only two that developed a Looming Dread, Fear of Death^[ME9].

 

 

“Angels watchin’ over me,” my mother would sing putting me to bed. The Fear of Death would also (later) pass on to our-their (digital) son. Digital me soothed him, sang him to sleep. This little light of mine.

 

 

After being extinguished safely in the sink, I could finally discern my mother’s handwritten note extending the PASS acronym. I misread my mother’s “Spray” as Pray. An orange quality of light flashed behind me.

 

 

 

My right hand still smelled like ash.