POINT-COUNTERPOINT: ONLINE-OFFLINE

NOTE: This piece contains adult themes and language. If you are easily offended, you may wish to skip it.

ALIEN-HAND SYNDROME
by Jerry Purves

Alien-hand syndrome is defined by uncontrollable actions of the arm and hand that seem to have a purpose. It is usually associated with acute focal lesions after a stroke or surgery of the corpus callosum. It has been described in chronic dementiating diseases such as cortico-basal degeneration, Alzheimer's disease, orthochromatic leukodystrophy and Marchiafava-Bignami disease.

"No fucking shit, you cock-sucking bastards!"

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I throw the half-eaten salt bagel and clinical report down on the ash coffee table and sputter in anger at the force I've just displayed. My mind and right arm seem to have lives of their own and I am usually just the puppet at the end of them as opposed to the other way around.

My grimy face is a symphony of agony and misplaced extra-eye-ness that makes me shy away from company and the bathroom mirror. There are no butt-ugly aficionados for my kind of face. Not in my crowd. They jeer and leer at me in all of my chinless, bug-eyed glory. I feel their eyes on my back and it hurts. I hate that I hate them.

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It's like when my fucking bitch mother used to try to soothe me or make me laugh when I was rightfully irate at her. I'd want desperately to see the shock and displeasure in her eyes at my hatred of her after she'd slap me or make me eat five more bites in front of her adult guests, but her look was usually one of amusement and mischief. She'd take only five to ten seconds to make me laugh and that chain of ridicule started my whole hatred of females.

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I knew that they were all that way. No matter how badly CosmicGirl, LadyShady, Grimshaw and the rest of my online ladies tried to make me feel otherwise. I knew that meeting them would disturb the "daddy-always-hated me" and "I'm-not-really-into-spankings" from them. They would become a part of the crowd of disapproving faces. They would disintegrate into what the world was to me: smooth faces, made-up and oblivious.

But not me. I'm all raw ends, frayed and exposed. I was not made for the world as I hiccup and tick. It would unsettle and unnerve me to have to face them with bug-eyed optimism and find them as inwardly ugly as my crowd was outwardly to me. And as ugly as I know myself to be.

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So, I read my medical reports and secretly know that each hypochondriacal note is perhaps a clue to my misfortunate existence. Every time I notice "labored breathing" or "sweaty palms" I know I've made it to another level of illness. I am beginning to understand why my hand is not my own.

How else to explain my loathing of the females online with their slutty kisses and hugs and soft friendships and still my right hand seeks out my groin in anticipation of those kisses, hugs and softnesses. My belly arcs starting with my pelvis in anticipation of seeing a message from one of my ladies. Whole storms rage in my body in eager abandon to chemistry. Yet, I secrete a hand to myself as if I don't realize it is there. Like it isn't my own hand stroking my software to invoke the hardware demons.

I am firmly convinced [while LadyShady tells me about how much she would love to meet me] that I've never in my life more wished to stay unknown. I realize that I've never wanted anything more than to have someone like her in my life but that seeing her this way would be enough to make me want to kill myself.

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©Tonya Judy

Tonya Judy is currently writing to more closely hem absurdity as a concept and obscurity as fact. Tired of east coast firing ranges, ski resorts and dive bars, she will soon be relocating from Vermont to Idaho with her cat, Kodiak, and anyone else who wants to tag along.

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