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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!" click I throw the half-eaten salt bagel and clinical
report down on the ashen 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, chinless face is a symphony of agony and misplaced extra-eyeness 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 - hate them. click click 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. click 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 mes' 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. click 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 all of their slutty kisses and hugs
and softfriendships 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 secret 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 more wished to stay unknown in my life. I realize that I've never wanted anything
more than to already have someone like her in my life and seeing her this way would be enough to make me want to kill myself.
click
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