Cigarettes

By Ai Feith

I light a cigarette. Finish it in two (2) drags. It’s been like that since the surgery [1 month, 17 hours, 3 days, 48 seconds, and 5 minutes]. I just pull. Like I always have. But they seem to disappear in my fingers. I only notice it when the burning tip reaches my long, plasticky, fake nails and it sends a shockwave throughout my system (I still haven’t gotten used to it (clearly)). The doctors said that my sense of time would be all fucked up too, but I use my trustworthy, non-Israel supporting, 17 dollar calendar app on my phone. It tells me when I need to go to sleep, when I need to wake up, when I need to shit or piss; it tells me everything. I saw rumors online on Twitter (or is it X, now? (I’ll call it Twitter
(to make it easier for the audience (myself))) that this app was Chinese spyware sent from the same labs that created the CORONAVIRUS19, but it was retweeted (I’ve seen people say reexxed, but that just sounds stupid to me) by one of those accounts that shared the Chinese femdom jerking off/gooning factory videos (that were then retweexxed (is this better?) by the great Jordan B. Peterson, in one of his drug fueled manias (or comedowns, who knows (probably only his carnivore daughter))), so I don’t know if I should trust it. Time is weird, that’s for sure. I wake up and work, work, work, until my phone tells me to eat. I only get hungry the exact moment I get my “YOU NEED TO EAT” notification.
After I eat, back to work, work, work, only stopping for 8 drags of cigarettes. What am I working on? I would tell you if I knew. After the operation, they told me I needed to recover, and that this would help me do that while earning some money, so that I could pay my bills. All I know is that I sit down at my computer and open Excell. The Excell program is connected to an online platform, which they told me not to worry about. So I don’t. And then, all I do is… press numbers. Doesn’t matter which numbers. I just press them. Last week (was it last week? (my phone says it was 123 hours ago)) I just pressed the number seven (7) for the duration of the day (8 hours, with a 15 minute lunch break and a 2 minute cigarette break every 2 hours). Checked my bank account at the end of the day and another 2k SHEKELS (sounds like the currency of a country governed by Sheck Wes (I GOT HOEEEEEEEEES CAAAAAALLING A YOUNG NIGGA PHOOOOOOOOOOONE (I don’t have “HOEEEEEEES” (I haven’t spoken to any woman (besides myself) since the operation, nor am I a “YOUNG NIGGA” (I do have a phone though (just not a “PHOOOOOOOOOOOOONE”)) had gone in.
My mom calls me every now and then (my phone says it is exactly every 43 hours). She screams at me saying “WHY DID YOU DO THAT STUPID OPERATION YOU’RE NO CHILD OF MINE NOW” and then a couple of seconds pass and she’s crying “I FUCKING LOVE YOU AND MISS YOU SO MUCH” and then I have to explain to her “but you moved out of the apartment building, mom… you went to 7325A… why did you do that? you know you would be better here” and then she tells me “MY NIGERIAN PRINCE INVITED ME TO COME HERE, BUT NOW THAT I’VE LEFT 7325B, HE DOESN’T LOVE ME, HE’S GOT ME HOOKED ON PILLS, MARK” and then I hang up, because my lunch break is over and if I don’t get to my desk within 30 seconds of my lunch time ending, they zap my heart and I twitch a bit and fall to the ground, and believe me, you do not want to touch the ground of this place. My brother (who’s dead (shotgun blast to the dome (self administered))) used to collect gay porn magazines from the eighties and fucked up zines from Japan (land of the freaks). So, my floor is littered with cum-crusted ripped pages of fisting tutorials, pre-scat dinner recipes, and loli hentai. Every time I fall, I land tongue first in this paper-cum crust, since I can’t close my mouth (the surgery again, ugh) and I have to taste him. The two years of buildup of dirt on it make it almost impossible to taste, but there’s a distinct JONATHAN flavor to it, that other dirty cum is lacking.
Now that I don’t have a dick [THE SURGERY], all I can do to masturbate is squeeze my balls; roll them around in my ballsack; give’em a nice SLAP (ouch, ouch) once in a while; and hope that that makes me leak something other than shit out of my asshole. Tastes like cum, looks like cum, but it’s not. You can’t impregnate someone with this. The trannies on /t/ would laugh at you and call you a HUN. The pills they give me are supposed to make me not want to put a bullet in my brain, but that’s not working, at all. I jam a fork into my nose every single night (at least what the clock tells me is night) and see if I can dig a little further every time (I can’t, but it’s worth trying to touch my brain). What the pills did do was make my snot purple. That’s it. I now spew purple gunk from my nose. My five dollar a piece napkins disintegrate when I blow my nose into them. Oh, right! and they turned my tits into metal. I now inject some liquid that (((they))) gave me and slowly, day by day, my metal tits increase in size. This liquid makes it so that I lose my hair, but I buy custom made wigs from a BIPOC disabled LGBTQ+ afab trans woman that she makes out of roadkill (people) hair (it’s really good hair, DON’T KNOCK IT ‘TILL YOU TRY IT!!!!).
I let a little Chinese boy come into my apartment every lunch break, so he can fuck me. I do it for free, since he told me he gets bullied at school for being crosseyed (he truly is, he always misses his facials) and that his mom has stopped touching him because he turned 6 last month. I gave him the keys to the apartment yesterday, so today he just came in and jerked off on my face (he came in late, from school, so I was already in my second hour of pressing 9).
Everything changed today:
My phone died. It just died (kaput (gone (no longer working))). I woke up (somehow) and I didn’t hear the stinging, repeating, deafening blip (I fucking hate it so much, I can feel my ears losing sensibility every day just because of it (but the doctors said that that’s part of it and if I ever go deaf, to just do another surgery (on the house (they’re really nice doctors (too bad they’re Russian (this is a pro-Ukraine household, people)))))) of the alarm. I opened my eyes, under my weighted blanket (suggested (given) to me by my doctors, because they suspect I have autism (they offered another surgery to fix it, but my online friends told me that autism is cool and awesome and a-okay and that I shouldn’t try to fix it (even though I have a panic attack if I have to talk to someone I’m not familiar with, or I have to do everything in my power not to isolate myself in my numbers), so I didn’t do it (I probably should have))) and there was peace; no alarm, no ringing, nothing. I crawled from under the blanket (it is REALLY heavy (100 pounds)) and got on my feet, dragging myself towards the kitchen, where I made something
(dinner/breakfast/lunch)(tacos) and I sat down in front of my computer. I opened it and a message popped up saying NOT WORKING HOURS, so I closed it back up and decided to masturbate. Since I had no phone, I had to use my imagination.
After I came, I decided to take some Xanax and sleep and hope that my phone would wake me up (somehow, magically fixing itself, as I flew through clouds of smog, a cigarette in each nostril and web of each pair of fingers (and toes (my dreams are like that (awkward, clumsy, sad))). My phone didn’t fix itself. So I slept. And slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept. I never did wake up, so I’m still here, in my dreams, with my cigarettes and long plasticky nails and fake tits and my wigs. I’m still here.

Ai Feith is a Conceptual writer, Noise musician and Experimental filmmaker, working in Portugal. Previous works include Diagrammatic Writing by Johanna Drucker through Ai Feith, 24/70 Western by Kurt Kren and Matmos @ 2AM. Her focus is in the subjective act of experience of another’s work of art; thus there is a lot of work through artistic appropriation, modification and transmutation. Her creative writing is focused on an overturning of stylistic, artistic and social norms.