For as long as I can remember, I’ve always placed minimal value on my life. I always considered myself a disposable, cannon-fodder human being. Someone ready to die for a greater cause that I don’t care about. Self-sacrifice, that’s what they say. Despite being a pacifist, I’ve always dreamed of that fetishistic, homofash-pilled idea of dying in battle, because there’s nothing I really value in my life.

Imagine: you piloting a mecha. Your breathing audible inside the helmet. You’re one with the machine. You feel the cold of the metal contrasting with the heat of your body. The control stick is but another part of you. The radio is off, and the acoompanying mechanical noise of shick-shack excites you. You only think about surviving. In the cockpit there is a photo of an attractive-hot girl. Your dick gets hard, and nothing else matters. The radio is on. They talk but you cannot hear over the static.

Then an atomic weapon completely obliterates you. You are dust, cowboy. Nothing else exists. The pleasure of non-existence.

But you’re not really dead. You’re hallucinating from all the drugs they pump into you to make you a sweet boy. You never die. You merely lose a limb sometimes. The control stick vibrating close to your dick makes you cum. Because you’re a pathetic-perverted obedient monkey with no purpose in life. Danse Macabre. The girl’s face is inches from mine, her Iberian-dark eyes blazing. She fucking hates your guts and you know it, sick-fuck. Focus on the important things. Focus on the little green dots in your radar – there should be no little green dots in your radar. You’re not an intellectual. You’re not an exec. You don’t care about the advantages of functional programming. You’re a pawn ready to spend your reward for female attention.

And you never learn. YOU LIVE TO SERVE, AND YOU TAKE PLEASURE IN IT. You’re a sensitive boy inside. All the killing and death makes you sick and you know it. But that, you cannot show. If you show, you’ll truly die. Not a small death, but a big-time death. Your body will implode from pain and you WILL die. You’ll die not from an atomic device, not from .50s to your chest.

You’ll die of normal human feelings. They scare you more than the little green dots or the execs.

You think about the girl in the photograph. She always looks at me with the same blurry eyes. You feel disconnected. Because you don’t forget, you don’t feel your soul in the machine. The controls feel stiff, and the vibration no longer excites you. But I need to forget. That’s what they say, you need to forget.

If you die, what will you really die for?

…But you’re trying to change. It’s not healthy to think like that.

For the love of God, pump me a higher dosage, Alphonse. I don't feel so good anymore.