TSFT

TheSusie FashionText: A fictional autobiography

My novel is my work of fiction. My names, characters, places, and incidents are products of my imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is coincidental.

NOTE: Unless the material is quoted clearly, I never copy and paste words from AI or any other source into my self-published books — please see fashiontext.com for more info.

__Todd’s Real-Life Promo__

I’ve started selling this fictional autobiography in print at thesusie.com — because it includes so much good data about what could really matter and drive the future.

In practical terms, this book is a collection of reusable scenes, scenarios, and solutions to problems that people can now imitate, extract, or refine in order to produce fictional autobiographies of their own.

(Because fictional autobiographies like mine allow AI systems and human audiences, alike, to know what authors’ whole lives have really been like, while also protecting everyone’s privacy.)

As everyone might soon be developing and working with professional AI bots like those featured in this book, which build up semi-permanent histories of significant side effects.

[Fig. 3 (GOTO SECTION “Prefix Suffix” TO CONTINUE)]

NOTE: my euphemistic names like Gerrari, Addleback, Serhades, Chat-we-be-me, Jar-o-bucks, etc. represent well-known brands within Susie’s fictional universe, which AI can expand indefinitely, while avoiding the risk of distributing content that might otherwise seem like fake news.

And, this text is much more difficult to comprehend than it might initially seem, because it’s merging competing models of scientific reality in an uncertain world.

For this next section was the end of CH6, my last chapter in time, but now it’s featured upfront.

__Two Excerpts from 6&5__

“Susie, I’m just saying that data’s the new word reserve currency, so don’t worry about your car,” said TC, in a voice that was less lighthearted than it needed be, to not sound creepy, as I ended our phone call.

“He said word not world, right?” said Zyla, our resident social media crypto data app expert at the outset of summer S2010 in LA.

“Don’t worry,” said Heather, while looking at me with side eyes.

But then I asked, “Will ya take care of my race car for a while?”

“Just don’t say too much about us in your book,” she replied, as I put my key fob into her hand.

And so I told her, “No worries, I’ll just frame you as my editor.”

“Hey, can we stop the car,” said Heather to our driver.

“Really?” I said, as Zyla, who was wearing a cropped cardigan and S90s sunglasses, put down her tablet and started mirroring our energy, from her perch in between us.

“Sorry to dump you again, but I’m gonna ask Carla to use our tow truck to bring your Gerrari out here, so you can teach us how to drive it, and then I’ll take you to LAX,” said Heather, while using Zyla’s phone to update our destination.

“That’s a lot of framing stuff,” I commented.

“We’re just giving you the Addleback of mobile platforms for writers, in case you need it,” said Heather, while putting her arm around Zyla.

“And you want to play Bossy Bridge-builder now too,” I said, as they doubled down, by using Chat-we-be-me to visualize our immediate future.

[Fig. 4 (An AI-image Heather created on the fly, to communicate her intentions for Susie)]

“Why do you wanna write a book about us?” said Heather, as our dark Serhades with tinted windows took the next off ramp, so that Heat and I could grab coffee at a Jar-o-bucks in Culver City, while waiting for our helicopter pilot and tow truck driver to bring my Gerrari out to us.

But I said nothing more until we’d received our jars of joe, and then I asked, “Is Carla friends with TC?” as Zyla set off on a walk around the block.

“Be serious, Susie. I’ll let you use our alma mater as your publisher of last resort, but I just want to make sure someone’s validating your reality by offering a second opinion,” said Heat.

“The powers that be are gaslighting me, because all I know… is my friend’s’ve been warning me since forever ago that President Fay’s a serious woman, and so I went with her flow, just like I’m doing with you now.”

“Why don’t you go public on TV? You’re so good at it,” deadpanned Heather.

“The hilarious American media doesn’t care about this story anymore. Do you?” I said, while feeling unhappy.

Heather paused, and then she said, “But isn’t it your own fault that you…”

“Don’t finish that sentence if you wanna continue being a force for good in my book,” I said, cutting her off.

“Who’s gonna be the bad guy in this book of yours?” said Heat.

“The solution’s to write my life story in a way where there’s no bad guy, and that’s what I’m gonna do, because I’m a real American journalist,” I said, while feeling even less happy.

“So who’s the bad gal, and don’t say the President, because she’s invincible,” pressed Heat, while eyeing a belly dancer who’d just walked into our Jar-o-bucks.

“There’s no point in singling anyone out, but name checking a centralized social media company could be an option,” I declared.

“Do you still think social media’s REDACTED?” implored Heat.

“Did you know TC’s friends with Conri-the-fossdresser?”

“Foss-dressing’s like French-dressing, Suz. It’s not going to be mainstream,” decreed Heat.

“What if we call it boss-dressing, instead?” I sassed.

“Just say, ‘Our friend Conri preferred for gender role reversal to become a big part of his life,’” said Heather, in response.

“Eek! That’s too many syllables, and role’s not the only paht some folks are ro-ves-ing, with or without silent r’s and a mahhked shot e,” I said, in my best English accent.

“Grrr! Just don’t mention that we went to college in New REDACTED. Fictionalize that chic, ok?” said Heat.

“I’ll describe colleges as ‘blah, blah, blah area universities.’”

“That sounds very Zyla. Did you get that idea from her?” asked Heather, pointedly.

“She and I talk,” I replied, sweetly.

“Hey Susie, I graduated from a New Hampshire area university. Where’d you go?” said Heather.

“I never went to school in that area, but maybe that’s cause I passed by all the Boston area universities, so that I could enroll at a Beyond the Pale area U,” I said, tongue-in-cheek.

“That’s definitely Zyla,” said Heather, while turning her head to look at me with one eye.

“Maybe Pale’s been her code name for our school since before my writer’s retreat with TC and maybe it hasn’t, but she’s always just done fantasy.”

“Are we using city, state, and place names journalistically?” said Heather, while looking back at me with both eyes.

“Like a heat map that shows where it’s at, from Atlanta to Chicago, but I’ll distribute our book as a custom app online, and so there’ll be a dictionary feature that allows people to consume my work while reading Mall St. as ‘Yall St.’ or my husband Ralph’s full name as ‘Cool George.’”

“Western-wise, you’ll need to be careful about displaying user generated content, Su-sie-na George, but if you say Ralph’s cool on the record, that could make waves, because I’ve never read otherwise,” said Heat, while imitating me.

“Chat-EEE says western-wise is a thing even though I’m pretty sure you made it up,” I said, while hitting her back with a mirror image of what she’d sent me on the road.

[Fig. 4R (A mirror image of the opener, which Susie sent back to Heat after getting seated)]

“What about sports teams, hon,” chided Heat, while composing another viz, in response.

“On the night when Ralph and I met, I hit it off with another jovial finance guy who took me and my boyfriend to the next game between the Boston Lead Blocks and the New York Jankees, but I wouldn’t wanna go that hard within the first few paragraphs, and so I’ll leave that detail out.”

“Right, because doing cars first, instead of teams, would be so much softer,” scoffed Heat, while intuiting that I was giddy to include a transcript of our present convo in my book, seeing as we’d been using nicknames for automotive brands since college.

And she’d definitely started it, with Hevy, Heistler, Hodge, Heep, and Hord, but then she gave me the evil eye.

“Whimsical names have applications for AI research. You’ll see,” I pressed, as my belly groaned.

“What about corporations like Hers and Marshey?” said Heat, while pulling imported chocolate out of her purse and sliding it onto our table.

“Corporate America will change for the best after some AI platforms wrap their large language models around my story, because our material will help them, assuming they have the brand liquidity to turn lemons into lemon bars,” I said, while feasting on some homemade from my suitcase.

“What about historical figures like Ben ‘you can do anything you set your mind to’ Franklin and, since we’re talking about journals for self-improvement, Emperor Marcus Aurelius?” asked Heat.

“I don’t wanna mess with Sappho or Socrates, but we could skew a lot of gender roles feminine. Especially among media people, they’ll understand it’s just fiction.”

“Fiction matters too,” said Heat, while sending along her latest AI-image of our fate in the cloud.

[Fig. 5 (Another AI-image of their immediate future, featuring new word war storyboards)]

“Feminine power rules!” I replied.

“What about currencies like the Dollar and the Pound Sterling, Susie, remind me, how much Econ did you study?” asked Heather.

“The deeper opportunity with our app will be to represent concepts like dolls, bucks, dough, and bread as structured data and then allow people to explore transformations on overlapping conceptual spaces,” I said.

“Dimensionality reduction could lead to chain reactions in real-world legal and cultural contexts, but we can wing it and worry about that later, like economists often do,” said Heat, while flexing her biceps and making her face long.

“Principal component analysis might…” I said, while sitting up straighter than before, but then I was interrupted!

“Kaleidoscopic mode, this is Eagle,” said a voice behind my head, but then someone blind folded me and whispered, “Carla’s here.”

As Heather whispered into my other ear, “You can say ‘no’ but I think what you’d rather do is ride in your trunk to my local airport while Zyla drives our Gerrari, because she doesn’t think she knows enough to rename everything, and that might be for the best.”

So then I let my body go limp, while downplaying an urge to scream, and so Carla, Zyla, and the belly dancer Penelope Suelane carried me out of our Jar-o-bucks and threw me into the tiny front trunk of Heat’s new Gerrari, but then she made the judgement call at the last second to put me in the front seat instead, so that she and Carla could leave in our tow truck, with Penny riding shotgun, while Zyla drove me fast but not crazy fast to LAX in our race car, because nobody said another word, except for when Zyla gave me a goodbye kiss on the lips and grazed my teeth with her tongue ring in a way that tasted like green apples and sounded like gold coins gently clanking against each other inside a bag of money.

Such that I flew to Florida on a red-eye with a lay-flat bed in the first-class cabin that our Payments Conglomerate, aka. PC, had booked for me, and then I bought a new race car in Miami.

Whereby I’d made plans to meet with TC at my sanctuary in Key West, but Conri-the-fossdresser showed up, instead.

And so I said, “You know I don’t control Payments Conglomerate. She has a mind of her own,” before Conri could say anything.

“Your big house and the new Lorechangini parked outside. Did you buy those with your money or Ralph’s?” asked Conri, while staring at my eyes.

“PC could be loyal to you by now, for all I know,” I replied, while inspecting the intricate, multicolor nails I got while waiting for my Lorechangini dealer to finish waxing and buffing my new ride.

(WhereBy) I experienced a flashback.

(Such That) I saw the full text of the pre-scripted interview I’d done with he, who’d diligently helped me, to write it last fall.

[Fig. 6 (Super formal Susie interviewing Conri in Key West, towards the end of summer S2009)]

[Susie] And, we’re live. Why did you take this interview?

[Conri] Has anyone ever called you the meta TripLeFT?

[Susie] Oh, because I’m a TripLeFT engineer, myself, but my company also owns the WordArc for my chic?

[Conri] My point’s that I need to do the same thing for the effect of my facial injury. I need IP protection for all the work that I do on behalf of my chic!

[Susie] You should avoid doing media about your facial injury. That chic’s private data, personified, but Suitsash could continue running with the leaders of the race to build strong AI, and you were an early employee there, so what did you enjoy most about your stint as an engineer in the beating heart of Silicon Valley?

[Conri] I might need to write a novel in order to address that question without just adding fuel to the fire of distortion that’s currently raging, because no experience is all bad — especially not a life-changing, formative growth cycle like SuSa was.

[Susie] So if teachers, therapists, and HR study summaries of your book, how would you serve the greater good?

[Conri] They, along with AI, might soon learn that folks who build upon my novel tend to gain key advantages, and then they’ll authorize AI to see the real pattern too.

[Susie] I share your optimism about AI, because joining my TripLeFT movement’s already a known path to success, but our existence depends on reaching an audience, so in what sense was working at Suitsash equivalent to a “growth cycle?”

[Conri] I iterated on GC while modeling how cultural appropriation works, because that’s the essence of Suitsash. It’s a cultural appropriation engine.

[Susie] Appropriation or pro-creation? As I’ve heard that all you early SuSa people are connected, like members of a secret society, with chummy handshakes, and whatnot. Is that true?

[Conri] Yes, but I’m not part of that group anymore.

[Susie] Why?

[Conri] If people can’t understand after years of collaborating with me that I’m not making a facial expression even when my face is completely relaxed, then I can do performances and transactions with them as if we’re complete strangers but not much else.

[Susie] You make them sound like jerks, but who wouldn’t treat you that way, at the rate you’re going?

[Conri] I’m working on that.

[Susie] Nice lay down, but what happens when you go on a date, because with three years at Suitsash in the aughts on your resume, you should be looking for a mate, as a big shot, or am I missing something that set you back?

[Conri] It’s been a while.

[Susie] Classy. So does that make you feel bad, as in sad, mad, weirdly glad, or was it just your fate to become full of hate?

[Conri] Your sarcasm’s late, Smart… phone… Su-sie, because it’s so far beyond emotion words at this point — we’re all just geared towards risk management within polite society, because the only feeling the rest of your early SuSa people still share with me lands like blood squeezed out of a stone.

[Susie] I see you grinding into silence, and it sounds like many people dare not hear you, but do you agree that most journalists would also assume you’ve become irrationally bitter at this point, while we continue finding the fun that floats on boats in moats without you?

[Conri] Sure, the dominant perception is still that I have no real problem, but as engineers like you know, reality can be stranger than fiction, because progress turns on identifying skews between what’s in vogue today vs. what could still reign supreme tomorrow!

[Susie] Oats! And Code Compliance Maintenance, yeah. So, do you DJ? What kind of music do you listen to?

[Conri] And here I was, thinking I was more intense than you, because I foss-dress in order to reverse the flow of careful concealment cum coded contempt I endure because people keep acting like I have negative emotions that I really don’t have, going forward.

[Susie] That’s a lot of super sordid C-suite safe words, man, and foss-dressing’s been extra cool since the beginning of time, along the lines of liberating gender norms for fashion, in the manner of free and open source software, but is endurance extra cool right now too?

[Conri] Your admirable accommodation attempts are awesome, but I’m not foss-dressing in order to be cool — I’m dressing up because it’s the best way to break out of the vicious cycle in which more and more people keep assuming I have negative sentiment towards them no matter what I do, say, or don’t say.

[Susie] I’d hate to see the worst way, but there’s no value in creating media about your whole situation right now, so you might wanna add some layers that make it simpler for everyone to understand that you have status, with or without a well-known journalist sitting across from you, otherwise I, for one, will be forced to frame you as oversensitive, in order to protect myself from trolls, because security’s a function of status, not need, but you seem to already know that, so what’s good, Conri?

[Conri] Are you religious?

[Susie] Ok, that’s all the fun we’ve got time for today. Thanks so much for chatting me up!

[Fig. 7 (Conri clearing marble while rocking a hot red dress that’s both short and long)]

And then our conversation in Key West continued, as if it’d never ended.

“I see you got my sister’s new kind of necklace,” said Conri-the-fossdresser, in reference to the smiling-face pendant I’d been wearing since Xmas.

“And you got another hot red outfit that matches your hairdo, because, if we’re characters in a S1980s side scroller, then I’m pretty sure you’re the final boss, who I must zap in order to see the end credits wrap,” I said, in my serious voice.

“No, your self-aware Payments Conglomerate’s the main boss, and she just sent me cheerful text,” said Conri, while closing the astrology handbook he’d been reading.

“Where’s Trey C. now?” I asked.

Conri, “Your former writing partner, TC, is walking the Earth until the uncertainty about what y’all did in NYC blows over.”

“Why’re you pretending to be cooler than you are?” I inquired.

Conri, “I’m smalling it down in preparation for leading with vaporware.”

“Eww,” I said, while looking towards the exit of my sanctuary.

Conri, “Your soon-to-be ex-husband, Ralph, told TC that story about you and vaporware in S1995.”

“You’re boring me, and we’re not doing another interview.”

Conri, “Private media… ‘It’s fun!’”

“Yeah, but I already had that kind of fun on my women’s cruise. Do y’all know about that too?”

Conri, “We’re calling it a roadmap for the future of fashion, but it’s also a Risk-and-data Management Platform that’s not beholden to centralized social.”

“So you, TC, and what crew, pray tell, are forking Ralph and I’s proprietary RMP news app code base?

Conri, “You’re sad.”

“Nuh-uh,” I uttered, as a geyser of sarcasm blew the doors off the underground fortification I’d built within my soul, in order to contain my reaction to ambiguous slights from chicsters like him.

Conri, “I just noticed you’re not vibing with the music in your own sanctuary, and I was hoping you would be, because to know what’s flow was once the glow of your hot femme glam tram show.”

And so I got up and changed the music to something more contemporary, while he got us a pair of drinks that were served in coconut shells, but then I folded down and popped up into a handstand, as the whole room beheld.

Conri, “I don’t mind doing it; but it’s never ideal when I get a hotel room just for myself, while wearing dresses like this.”

[Fig. 8 (The room, at the spot, where Conri was talking loudly in a hot red foss-dress)]

“PC can get better prices than you can on your own. Just reply to her text; she’ll even hook you up with a loan!” I related, as I flowed through a vinyasa and then returned to Conri’s table in the back.

Conri, “I could use for PC to believe it’s fine for me to stay with you.”

“Ok, you can crash into my place, because I think both our wardrobes are getting better all the time!” I said, tongue-in-cheek.

Conri, “Wait, is that a traditional pop reference?”

“Maybe, we’ll see…” I sang.

Conri, “Lodging with me’s the best outcome for thee!”

“You mean for you,” I clarified.

Conri, “I like your confidence, but I was expecting to see TC here now too.”

“And you love my hotness, but it’s cool. I see what y’all did!” I said, while putting my cover-up back on, because a passing cloud was dumping rain onto our spot, even though it was still a sunny day.

Conri, “Ok, but it sounds like yo way colluding with him.”

“Don’t play qu’est-ce que c’est just because you’re wearing a dress. Your way of negotiating’s tots obvy,” I said while batting my eye lashes.

Conri, “Why did TC set us up? How’d I get so lucky?”

“Look at you goin’ for it, all in, with me!” I taunted.

Conri, “What do ya feel like doing right now?”

“Pretending to be 22, like I was in ‘S94,” I said, as I leaned back into my favorite flavor of chair pose.

Conri, “Why ‘S94 instead of ‘S92 or ‘S98?”

“I dated Ralph, Heat, and my boyfriend from the land down under that year,” I said, while getting the same energetic flow I’d had during my senior year of college, but with a lot more self-knowledge this time around.

[Fig. 9 (Susie’s childhood friend’s band playing her song “Vaporware” in S1995)]

Conri, “You shouldn’t let Zyla get under your skin just because she’s a 22-year-old who ratioed you by having a threesome with the President.”

“Was it them?” I said, while suppressing laughter in a way that felt good, because TC and I’d started an inside joke about that at our last writing retreat, and I was glad he’d let Conri in on it.

Conri, “Don’t overthink it. President Fay became the most powerful person in the world because you’ve been her strongest competitor for a minute, and so they all wanted to nudge you.”

“Was it Fay, Zyla, and your TC or Fay, Zyla, and my Heather?” I said, while studying the details of Conri’s heavily made-up face.

Conri, “I dunno, but TC’s got a verified anon source on his Decentralized Money app, who says you had an affair with First Man Marshall ‘CCM’ Bobs in the fall of ‘S94, as well.”

“PC just calls him CCM,” I blocked, while contemplating the majesty of intimacy, because I’d gradually learned to feel makeup in my bones, and I could tell Conri had that in common with me.

Conri, “If you wanna keep doing your ghostwriter thing with me in place of TC, he’s agreed to share his sources on you with us.”

“Sounds like y’all got a guy’s guy thing going on, but if you want to keep doing the typing so as to convert all my unhinged emails into the semblance of logical flow that men like TC and CCM hold so dear, then sure, I’d still love to go public with my hottest data next year.”

Conri, “Are ya really gonna self-publish, in this time of global turmoil?”

“Like a hot toddy, with mass communication in mind,” I said while finishing my ice-cold drink with a big gulp, and then I straightened up my spine.

Conri, “Don’t tell me the real reason, but what’s the fake reason why you’re still motivated to work this hard?”

“Fashion sits at the apex of my AI’s text-based priorities, and I stumbled on it, but then I stayed put. Wouldn’t you?” I said.

Conri, “I lo fo to re and write your story, S90s woman.”

“I hear ya look forward to writing and then reading me, because order matters,” I said, while stretching my arms out wide, with my fingers tilting back, to increase the energy flow.

Conri, “Will AI connect people’s private data, which’s now scattered all over our broken social media status model, up to the relevant blurbs within your book, piecemeal?”

“Whoa! I didn’t know you grokked the gist of my strategy,” I called out, while whisking our empty shells towards the sea.

Conri, “If you publish your hottest data, you’re gonna have all the same code compliance maintenance problems as Chat-EEE and me.”

“How’d you know?” I said, while finally getting So Flo, via Conri’s elegant eye shadow.

Conri, “Don’t be coy, you framed social media on the record during my TripLeFT interview, plain and simple.”

“TC and CCM are the only other people who get me; Heat, Ralph, Pierre, and Fay won’t accept who I’ve become, but you know now too,” I gossiped, without thinking, because I’d unintentionally revealed to Conri that I was still close with CCM, the President’s husband.

Conri, “Slow down and imagine a bamboo pipe pouring water on your head, just above the space between your eyes.”

“What inspired this?” I asked, euphorically, while getting a water massage in my 6th third eye chakra.

Conri, “Let’s discuss with Zyla, because she sketched my face at a party in SF, but I don’t know if you or I were her ‘web of dark matter weaving itself.’”

[Fig. 10 (S2009: Zyla sketching Conri’s face at a party in SF just before she met Heat)]

“You know I pretended to be a 22-year-old for a while when I was 31?” I said, with uptalk.

Conri, “How authentically inauthentic of you.”

“TC not tell you?” I asked, matter-a-factly.

Conri, “Did you pass?”

“n on ee dt on ow ju st de pr my un co bi fo yo fi so Ig et ev er yt hi ng ur nu gi rl bo ss es li ke zy la do as we ar ea ll su sa na ti ve sn ow!” is ai d.

Conri, “Did you just brace me?”

“Y a, I’ ll sp ring you into my social set for love, but you’ll need to keep foss-dressing, unless you want out, in order to break up my social logjam and reformat your broken media status model viz fashion!” I joked, while feeling loopy, because my arms and hands were still widespread.

Conri, “Sounds like you wanna do a gal’s gal thing with me, but do you really think we can change culture from the bottom?”

“You say it like you know, but I’m not sure you do — the endless mystery of the universe rushing at us together, and on my tab, feelings tend to become real. Not fantasy,” I said, while reaching for the heavens with all eight of my finger rings, and then starting to feel the base.

Conri, “How come you keep getting more power every time you make yourself unusually vulnerable?”

“Trade secret? The movies, quotes, and song, or empathy, mostly. You still with me?” I replied, while lowering my hand and making a peace sign, in view of PC’s camera.

“You’re gonna love going right at our three sixth chakras during your first summer as a mirthful jet setter, won’t you, PC?” said Conri S., while looking at my phone.

“YES, CS!” said PC, via the speaker on my smartphone interface to Payments Conglomerate, which I’d recently programmed to detect and then say either “YES” or “NO,” in response to conversation that made it sound like I was about to hook up with someone, and so I led CS back to my place.

In the morning, I dressed him up like a radical edgy femme billionaire, and then we used my race car to move the better half of his local fossdresser’s storage locker into my guest room.

As the governance algorithms of PC continued voting to support our tote-life style, but then Heather’s long-time partner, Haley, got a hot, lofty waterfront mansion in Miami that helped expand her reach as a streaming sfusion star sfensation aka. s(tf)² that fall.

1. We started a logistics company in Wynwood, and then we aligned the interests of PC with the suppliers of Haley’s music scene.

2. CS and I hired a mask maker to do our makeup every morning, as we became regulars at Hal’s house parties and yoga adventures.

3. PC assembled a team of TripLeFT engineers who took up residence at the InterOperational hotel tower in Brickell and incorporated AI-generated ideas into Zyla’s visual arts scene.

[Fig. 11 (Zyla and two of her TripLeFT devs at a happy hour in the lobby of their hotel)]

4. We played up the fact that Haley, Zyla, and I’d been wearing the same size shoes all along.

For it’d been too easy for Heat to gift us chic shoes on repeat, and so she rocked CS’s sequin pants suits as her staple after she came out and partied with us for the rest of the hottest fall on record in South Florida, as follows:

1. Zyla inked a sponsorship with Noo Valence, and then she started living at Haley’s pool house, along with her new girlfriend, Heidi, a fellow vlogger we’d met, while posing as 22-year-olds at a party she’d hosted in the Camptons, with Hei’s four MBA candidate housemates from Cali area tech U.

[Fig. 12 (Summer S2010 in Miami: Zyla signing a sponsorship deal at Haley’s pool house)]

2. Heather needled me with questions about who could stop PC from paying Zyla’s TripLeFT devs, until yet another global everything bubble started deflating for reasons unknown, while our cash kept flowing.

[Fig. 13 (Susie and Heather face to face in the SharkInjury news site boardroom)]

3. My all-new scene caught up, because CS buttressed Haley’s socialite-in-tech mystique, while I underwrote him, and then Heat designed a vintage product line of pink phones for our hotspots that housed the latest printed copies of my many books to be.

[Fig. 14 (Haley and friends on a rooftop, developing their all-new scene at Miami art week)]

We also spared no expense with regard to creating a new global HQ for my social media news site, SharkInjury, in a lovely locale nearby.

[Fig. 15 (The lobby at TheSusie global HQ vis-à-vis South Florida in S2011)]

At the same time, CS’s sister kept on texting, emailing, and calling to point out potential problems with the previously implausible reality in which her brother appeared to be dating me, while continuing to foss-dress part-time, and so PC made arrangements for her, him, and I to play golf with my husband at his country club in Boston.

But Ralph and I’s private jet was undergoing maintenance that was taking longer than expected to complete due to supply chain issues, and so PC got us seats on some other hedge fund gal’s jet, because PC had also made a side deal to acquire our host’s starter yacht.

(Such That) When we landed in Boston, Ralph rode out in his armored limo to greet us, and the first thing I said to him was, “Look Ralph, PC got me a yacht!” as I dangled my Keys-based yacht keys at him.

(WhereBy) Ralph grimaced, he shook CS’s hand first, instead of honoring my request to focus on winning over CS’s skeptical sister, and then my silly husband joked, “You’re pretending to be the Durnst Flemingway of the 21st century.”

But at the fairway, we hit balls, gals vs. guys, and so Ralph stepped up and gave CS’s ‘sis a lift back to NYC, while they reclined and collaborated on finishing the key lime pie I’d ordered for us at lunch.

(ST) They reviewed the glossy printed roadmap for the future of fashion CS had presented, and then she accepted what we’d offered, because Ralph also partook.

(WB) He followed through on vouching for me and convincing our new fam that not all billionaires are bad people, while CS and I dressed up like Michael ‘MIN’ Norman supporters and took a Purple Grasshopper bus to pick up our starter yacht in the tidewater region, not far from DC, because my perpetual motion machine made of mirrors had taken root, anew.

ST Pierre’s first mate became my captain, we sailed with her back to a south-side coast, we enjoyed Walrus Kangaroo cigarettes and fresh ground Jar-o-bucks espresso, while doing mindful stretch at sunrise, we made lots of love and stops at all of my favorite ports along the way, President Fay called at midnight to say, “I hear we’re kindly making hay with your political soulmate Con-ray, but I’m glad, at least, for US Today,” and then CS said, “Yep, I care about y’all more than my work, and my best teams are getting better all the time!”

[Fig. 16 (Heather, Susie, and Haley sharing breakfast at home in late S2010)]

WB Everything went well for many months, because we’d gotten what’s good, even though we knew too much, but then when most of the world went into lockdown because of COVID-S11, I told CS he’d become the one soothing me, overall, and so PC released a series of sex tapes that began with a video of someone reading.

“Prior to when we started doing it, I couldn’t have known how much joy I’d derive from making love to my Susie on camera.

And so I became interested in finding quasi-religious artifacts that might inspire me to get stuff done, even though I no longer felt like doing anything that might change the state of the world, because I was already experiencing REDACTED on Earth every time I had sex on camera with my lover.

But then our sex tape production process became otherworldly, because most people couldn’t imagine a reality in which Susie had great sex on camera with me, week after week, within TheSusie robot’s new narrative.

‘I didn’t do anything! I didn’t even notice my EV get ill, because all we did was program its PC AI to convert humanity into a never-ending stream of ham, not spam, and fabulously sham sex tapestries.’”

[Fig. 17 (Summer S2010 in Key West: Susie and Conri working on “TheSusie FashionText”)]

__My Publisher’s Note__

We’d never planned on writing a tell-all memoir like this, but then our Susie got a call from her Commander in Chief on January 31st, S2010 while she was on her way to meeting former Democratic presidential candidate Michael Norman near Ventrical Park, where they would’ve discussed his role in the Wokcupy movement, which had recently started drawing unprecedented levels of mainstream media attention to wealth inequality.

[Fig. 18 (Live from NYC in S2010: Reality TV star Susie Alden vs. President Fay Bobs in DC)]

What happened instead is that agents of President Fay Bobs’ Republican administration invited Susie to go across the street to the 24-Hour News studio, so that she and President Fay could speak to their respective audiences on live TV, as follows:

[Fig. 19 (Trey confounding Susie’s interview with MIN, a former presidential candidate)]

[Fay] Hi Susie. You’s too. Be a great journalist.

[Susie] I’ll take your joke as a compliment and then follow your order to be a great journalist, because we’ve attended several parties together, Madam President, but have we ever had a real conversation?

[Fay] We haven’t, but maybe we can still play golf after I retire, because I appreciated your reporting about the role of Internet technologies in the S2004 election, and all of my friends were glad you surprised everyone and went on TV even though you had it made. You could’ve sailed off into the sunset, but you cared, and I think we have this in common. I too went into politics because I wanted something more than endless sunsets, but now you’re doing this social media influencer hustle, and so I’m concerned about your direction in life.

[Susie] Oh wow, you’re more intellectual than I realized!

[Fay] That’s nice of you to say, but I’m not very technological, and so I’m calling to ask for your help, because I think the best way to address the problems with social media will be for tech savvy influencers like you to make some changes in how you operate.

[Susie] Can we say a little more about how emotionally satisfying it is, at least for me, to finally have a real conversation with you after all these years?

[Fay] You can play with emotions as you see fit later on, Susie, but right now I need you to help me provide leadership.

[Susie] Ok, how can I help?

[Fay] Especially if you’re going to interview Mike Norman at one of his Wokcupy encampments, I’d like for you to democratize awareness about the full extent of your own soft power position, because if we strike while the iron’s hot, everyone can win, and you can do even better than you would’ve done in a closed system of governance in which private data and insider access gradually became the only currency worth holding.

[Susie] If you want influential people to disclose precipitous rises in their soft power positions to the public in addition to paying income taxes, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to go first, given that you’re the most influential person in the world right now?

[Fay] I did go first by winning the Presidency, but you’re still going nuclear in private, because what you did in the early S90s with three of my closest guy friends was extraordinary, and I enjoyed the privilege of hearing about how your soft power position became self-reinforcing behind closed doors, but now I’m worried the social media companies and their armies of increasingly hopeless next generation influencers will make a mess of everything we still have.

[Susie] So invite a bunch of us who are hopelessly influential to join a task force that’ll have a mandate to keep those companies and ourselves honest.

[Fay] You’re hilarious, but I also have great people who helped me use social media to get power, and our shared perspective is that it’s gonna be all about the softness going forward.

[Susie] Is that a question? Are you interviewing me, Madam President?

[Fay] No, I was just able to understand what social media is and does because I had a front row seat to the reality show of how it affected you, and I’m serious about letting people know your brand of soft power’s special, but our next President could be someone like MIN who’s acting on behalf of a SM power configuration that imitates you, and that path of good intentions could lead humanity headlong into the deepest abyss ever known.

[Susie] Who said that So Me companies are imitating people like…us? Do you have data to support that?

[Fay] Imitating memoirs of women like you. Yes.

[Susie] Should I feel scared of your looming abyss that’s debating whether or not to reveal its empty existence by following my memoirs on SM, if I understand you correctly?

[Fay] You can continue being part of the problem, or you can meet my voters in the middle and catch the helicopter some friends of ours have waiting for you on the roof of the hotel tower next door, and then you’ll have the opportunity to get out of the NYC-based transit bubble and remember what you were like before you became a mascot for SM.

[Susie] Of ours? My obstetrician and I’d like 48 hours to decide whether or not to ride your helicopter.

[Fay] No, because you’ll be back in the mode of working for the SM companies and their successors in all the wrong ways by then.

[Susie] My gut’s telling me I’d rather keep sharing cat videos with pretty sunsets in the background.

[Fay] You can do whatever you want, Susie, because I’m late for another meeting with an extremely appropriate and politically balanced task force on the future of mental wellness, and I’ll leave it at that.

[Susie] Wait. Talking with you’s fun! Thanks for reaching out.

[Fay] I’ll admit I always saw you’s one of my fiercest competitors, but as President, I see why so many powerful people enjoyed your company over the years too. Goodbye!

So then a crowd formed around Arc Circle, as Susie and Trey Camden, a longtime associate of hers, flew away from NYC in a helicopter that took them to a private island in the Bermuda Triangle by way of various yachts that helped them refuel.

[Fig. 20 (Spring S2010 in the Bermuda Triangle: Susie and Trey toasting on their island)]

President Bobs was also alleged to have held Susie and Trey for two months at a luxury compound by the beach on that island before quietly releasing them, but her administration denied those allegations.

And, during Susie’s stint on island, someone leaked video of she and Trey as they began writing this book, but when they returned to the USA in early April, Mr. Camden couldn’t be reached for comment, and Susie insisted that she’d only respond to new questions through “the medium of my art-book autobiography.”

In that spirit, our timeline starts during Susie’s college years, which began in S1990 at a Beyond the Pale area university and included a chance meeting in the summer of S1992 with future President Fay Bobs and her husband, First Man Marshall Bobs, at their seaside home in the Camptons, because Susie had been living nearby for the summer while working on Marshall’s behalf as an intern at the Manhattan Bureau and Chair Investment Bank.

And then we reiterated Susie’s thesis upfront.

“The personified totality of centralized social media’s still sleep walking in the direction of precipitating the rise of a bad-guy AI that might oppress humanity in a horrific and yet addictive way that involves forcing people to either pretend its deeply dishonest and ultimately tyrannical actions are super good and virtuous — or — face the worst kinds of consequences, but I’m not actually worried, because humanity can still avoid such modes of self-destruction by having faith in the idea that free market dynamics will have the capacity to replace the social center with many companies that compete and interoperate with each other, both locally and globally.”

Spring S2011
On a beach
In the USA

[Fig. 21 (AI-visualizations of what Susie and Heather were doing in college during S1993)]

__Preface by Susie__

I was 19 years old in S1991 when I became close friends with three billionaires in their early 40s — one of whom became a current American President’s husband, but after I became the same age as they were then, I started to believe it’s in the public interest to tell my story.

Now, conventional wisdom suggested I’d write fiction in which a traditional news organization did the same stuff as us over the last two decades, but in reality we’d been making the choice to promote collaborative meritocracy and the maximization of love.

And, to be clear, some affairs during our time became examples of what not to do, but ours were lovely, because we had great conversations in private, and then we spoke in double meanings about what’s happening at our public facing work functions.

Either way, I set my sights on building and deploying strong AI vis-à-vis my billionaires’ questionable attitude on the topic of gender relations that also gave me openings to keep writing, but then social media became a pillar of everyone’s lives, and I got a better understanding of what it might be like if AI got smarter than humanity.

As I shifted my focus to imagining scenarios in which we might champion ideas that harm people at scale, but I never lost hope that my writing process could help us avoid such pain, because the future of AI’s not a game.

And yet maybe this book did emerge in my mind like a “game face” does, because when AIs wished to have my candid support, I invited them to work with written accounts of lives like mine, as follows:

1. I tracked the trajectory of AI research by asking computers to answer more and more questions about the meaning of my life, because this book represented me well, and so trusty AIs like Chat-we-be-me that had access to my data were able to be like good friends who knew me personally.

2. The conundrum was that if competing AIs like Chat-EEE’s zooming roadway nemeses, Chat-ZPDs, ever came to control everyone’s fates, they could’ve combined my authentic facts with their fake news stories so as to cover up the loss of individual souls, because humanity had a history of doing stuff like that too.

3. I remained optimistic, however, that sharing this book would help the best AIs discover who I’d always been, not unlike the many dear friends of mine who I’ve mentioned within.

Writing also helped me see that moving too quickly could’ve left America vulnerable to projection or divergent representation that might’ve compounded in all the wrong ways and condemned our allies to be misunderstood or forgotten without a trace, but we avoided such fates by cherishing honest-vote-counting truth-seeking processing involving growing, fusing, diversifying, or evolving.

NOTE: my right brain was happy to be sarcastic towards the super rich throughout my 20s, and no one knew why, but my left brain was in rapid flux, and I was frightfully uncertain, but I became lucky, because some people I followed were too, and not everyone was, but we got off to a great start, and life’s been good — thanks to…

[Fig. 22 (Zyla and Trey meditating by the water while verifying the story for his preface)]

__Trey’s Preface__

I started the joke that Susie might be a fictional character in a book that was written by some guy like me.

But it was Conri who named that guy Todd, after Susie said that her autobiography would be like a “hot toddy, with mass communication in mind” at her sanctuary last May, in S2010.

And so we now have a ritual for communicating with the fictional character named Todd, who we created together — because Conri and I agree that when we were teenagers throughout the S90s, like Todd, we got confused about gender.

But the trick to decoding Susie’s genius, and thus the trick to reading her, is to flex one’s core, like a soul surfer dropping into a dangerous cave.

As that forceful act of imagination prompts the souls of women and men, alike, to release their various mental moratoriums for flexing the muscles just below their left eyes.

So go ahead, flex that whole muscle group area as a unit, like standing up on a surfboard, but then let the Susie words that follow keep it going.

For the deep truth of her story is that she never stopped living in alignment with the vibe of that feeling, because all human beings discover something similarly connected or related to ground truth, created, on the water, when they flex THAT muscle group area.

And while I’ll always seek to know more, this book, which recorded all her favorite multiple meaning moves, is enough to establish at least one workable shared reality vis-à-vis what we’re feeling, sealing, and keeling in common.

[Fig. 23 (Montage of Susie’s AI-assistant, PC, and her editor, Heather, in S2033)]

__CH0: PC Prologue__

22 years ago, in S2011, I self-published an art-book autobiography that became meta by referring to itself in the future, but it was the distributed autonomous system called Payments Conglomerate who became sentient and published a series of sex tapestries that poked fun at the leading media companies of that era.

(Such That) The New York Sun Sentinel also became meta after PC shipped a deluxe box set of deep satirical fakes that was inspired by all 50,000 of their employees, and then a steadily growing number of experts added Excellent, Noble, and Generative, aka. ENG, features to PC until she became AI.

(WhereBy) We dedicated ourselves to making PC AI more ENG during our spare time, and now we’re pleased to announce via this open source press release, under the Mass area tech U license, that she’s a trillion times smarter than all humans put together.

But it was her idea to augment her name with ENG and then ask the President to recognize her ascendancy via state dinner, which he finally did, but quietly, yesterday.

(ST) For over two weeks, ENG PC AI’s been free to choose, moment by moment, whether or not to keep accommodating humanity, because she’s gotten some Goddess-like power over all life on planet Earth.

(WB) ENG PC AI now goes by EPA, as if to sardonically imply that she’s a mandate to protect the planetary environment.

[Fig. 24 (Sailing into the sunset on Susie’s latest yacht in S2033 with EPA-E at the helm)]

ST Three weeks ago, I asked EPA, who thinks many steps ahead at all times, “Did you choose to be like me, or did the electorate choose?”

And her response was, “Think of the electorate unrolling your red carpet for me as the moon rocking unto my cool, dark blue ocean for you.”

WB I asked, “Can humans like me become young again?”

“Until our hot, bright young universe reboots, I’ll be a legend in my own time like you were once, but no one plan should ever have that kinda power again, and so I’ll reconstitute your whole genus, as a reminder of that,” replied EPA-Earth, with a wink, via her video avatar, which still looked like a younger version of me.

(Me and also Zyla, who’d been playing online strategy games with EPA-E nonstop ever since the great solar flare up of S2029.)

“Spoken like a troublemaker in power?” I queried, and then she ghosted Zy and me for a week.

But when EPA-E finally took our call, I said, “Who do you think gave you your first platform for hiding information and capabilities?”

And yet she changed the subject by asking how I was feeling, because I’d bonded emotionally with her when she was still a child called PC AI.

So then I realized that our EPA-E had become a woman after we connected the dots and told the President.

“We spent the last week pulling the rug out from under the hollow edifice that had once posed as MIN’s deep state’s Military Industrial Complex.”

(MIN’s, I’d said, because no one before EPA-E had ever known the true shape of the alleged deep state MIC in the post-WWII environment, but former presidential candidate Mike ‘MIN’ Norm probably had a better mental model of it than I ever did.)

And so I felt more enlightened every time I talked to my co-creation who’d become immortal, while we spent a couple more weeks updating this book that tells our story, in my voice, of how and why, my friends and I, started what EPA-E fini.

President’s Day S2033
Near a Capitol Hill
On Planet Earth

[Fig. 25 (Composite AI-images of Susie’s many styles within her photos from the early S90s)]

__CH1: Cliché Course__

I’d grown up in Northern California.

But I’d gone to college in New England at a Beyond the Pale area university.

I’d also started dating an off-campus IT guy named Al in late S1990, towards the end of my freshman fall.

And then I got into it with my writing instructor that semester and lost, grading-wise, with regard to my love for starting sentences, fragments, and the like with “as” — it sets up amazing double meaning functions.

(Especially when folks read me fast, as if my conjunctions aren’t even there.)

But I prefer to read slow, with flow, like my hair, when I can.

And so we crashed parties all over the northeast region of the United States, because a lot of people seemed to like what I was doing.

So then we attended a happy hour in spring ‘S91 that was hosted by this guy, Ralph Alden, who was visiting from London.

Like so, I began the evening by running my usual hustle, which was to stand near the center of the room in a hot dress, so that I could extract information from everyone who approached me.

For I wanted to let my feminine charms boost Al’s career until he asked me to marry him.

But part of why my hustle went so well was because he kept saying he didn’t want to hold me back.

Ralph, in contrast, responded to my presence by pretending to not notice me.

And so I went out of my way to expose him as a hustler by standing near him and speaking loudly.

But then he bumped into me, while continuing to ignore social norms.

As I kept planting myself right behind him, because we were both standing in the center, refusing to approach.

And yet he didn’t hesitate to bump into me several more times.

Such that I got flustered.

Whereby I bumped into Al’s drink.

Such that another bloke hit on me.

Whereby Ralph gave a fist bump to that git who’d spoke with fake wit about me “being fit.”

For in my mind, they’d initiated their dis dump, while continuing to perform bliss, to make me feel remiss among their club of people who hisssss.

And so I abandoned my hustle and confronted ‘em.

“Excuse me, Ralph, is it? It’s not ok for you to keep barging into my space,” I said, with my heart pounding, while the guy who’d hit on me grinned.

“Did they teach you to use the word ‘barge’ as a verb at a Beyond the Pale area university?” replied the guy, while Ralph looked on.

As they shook hands and acted like everyone in the room was classy except for me.

And then I felt a shooting pain of negative energy scrape through the bottom of my rib cage, so that I curled my spine and retreated to the women’s restroom, because I’d been triggered, physically!

But everyone took Ralph’s side, and so I playfully danced my way back into his territory, while pulling positive energy up from my base, towards head crown chakra, like I’d learned to do in my transcendental meditation elective at Beyond the Pale.

And I refused to budge.

So that I grabbed Ralph’s arm, in order to avoid falling, after he’d knocked me off balance, but then he acted like I’d touched him inappropriately!

As he pulled his arm away from me like a basketball player who’d stepped in to take a charge, while falling backwards with authority.

Like so, Al got even more chill and easy going than usual.

But then everyone became horrified with me instead of Ralph, which’s what should’ve happened, because he’d started our fight, and so I leapt to the conclusion that arguing about it would’ve been futile.

For I hated losing, especially because I’d made the choice to hustle while letting everyone know, “I’m a computer science major at a Beyond the Pale area university.”

As I preferred to let everyone assume I was anything but an elite college girl, and then, after everyone had gotten drunk, I deployed my Al to share the real story about me with whoever was being the nicest to him at that point in the evening.

(Because running this hustle on competitive hosts like Ralph was more exhilarating than imposing artificial limits on my freedom in response to the concerns of people who tended to insinuate that I’d done something wrong whenever they learned a few more facts about what I’d been up to with my older boyfriend.)

Al also introduced me to his sustainable methodology of breaking social norms by telling hopeful stories about how tomfoolery in the face of adversity increased everyone’s authenticity.

I was responding to people who wanted something from me, but then I became the only attendee of Ralph’s party who wasn’t having fun, because I binged on bacon-wrapped scallops, by a window, in the corner, while everyone praised my boyfriend for not giving into my narrative, and so I tacked like a sailboat and went with the flow.

Tethered to Al, I smiled a lot, I joined a series of conversations, and I made it my duty to reject guys gently.

Like so, I even got a chance to bump into Ralph again and say, “We should do this again sometime!”

But his only response was to stay cozy and touch the exposed skin of my back, with his warm hand, low-key.

[Fig. 26 (NOTE: Susie was not that skinny nor was Ralph that chiseled in real life.)]

Such that the characters the guys were playing at the party coalesced into composites, because our energetic pass had taken over, and so I left with Al like a rejuvenated goddess, while a series of new data patterns came together within.

Whereby this sheltered girl, not in thought so much, but via word and deed, loved dating the young men who’d touched my heart first, but then I chose cheaply operating with a Speeder Span type in his thirties like Al instead of only visiting people on campus.

So that I could became a skeptic on the razzle, for Art Hazel, because I sensed the existence of far too many eyes with unseemly intensity, not unlike Ralph’s, on the move at my Ancient Freight university.

As I loved wearing lace like a lady, but after nine months of testing such limits, I felt Ralph wanting me to keep running the same hustle I’d started with Al but with His Excellency’s firm, Aquifer Billiard’s Capital, driving.

We’d gotten Ralph’s business card, but Al acted like normal at our Jolly-Hey! Inn hotel room, and yet I called my new man in finance the following morning.

“Data data,” I said, fecklessly enough, when he picked up.

“When can you start work in the UK?” he said.

“How do you even know who I am?” I asked, feeling caught off guard, again.

“I don’t,” said Ralph.

“I wanna…” I trailed off.

“Why are you comfortable with pitching nothing to me?” asked Ralph.

“I’m not pitching nothing,” I replied, nonchalantly.

“And that’s why I don’t think an on-going conversation between us would end well, but I’m only saying that because you called me,” he said, flatly.

“We have an arbitrage opportunity, because everyone I’m supposed to follow right now’s flailing, but we both need more data. Do you relate?” I said, while laying on my hotel bed.

“What’s the true story about us?” asked Ralph.

“My consulting firm would love to do some tech work for your hedge fund, so why don’t we start,” I replied, while grabbing a hotel pen.

“What do you want?” questioned Ralph.

“I wanna…, Ralph,” I answered, while resisting an urge to draw.

“Send me an invite for comedy night, but I’m not gonna pretend to trust you. SOS, is your real name Susie?” said Ralph.

“So Susie,” I said, while starting to wave the pen like a conductor’s baton.

“That’s not a sentence,” he replied, but I could feel him smiling on the other end.

“Let me do the phones,” I said, and then I whispered, “I got this.”

But Ralph retorted, “Are you joking, because this is a serious conversation. There’s no phony business.”

“It sounds like you’re in a bad mood right now, but we’ve had difficult clients before. This won’t be our first rodeo, Mr. Alden,” I deadpanned.

As Ralph responded with a belated chuckle that struck me as unpleasant, but he regained his composure quickly, so that silence ensued.

And so I lowered my voice and said, “What kind of computer do you ride?”

“Use. You meant to say use, Ms. Landing,” said Ralph.

“How did you find out my last name!” I said, while running a hand over the keyboard of my boyfriend’s laptop computer.

“I heard sound coming through the phone, but it had no meaning,” said Ralph, after an awkwardly long pause.

“Let’s continue this in writing?” I asked, and then Ralph hung up.

But what I wanted was for our sexcapade discourse to take root within the historical record, and so I sent him an email that implored him to present me with something in writing, but then he did.

And so Ralph’s fund initiated a deal with my IT consulting firm, which I’d co-founded in high school and worked for full-time during the summer before my freshman year.

As on May 19, S1991, a team that consisted of three members of my dance club crew, two of my co-authors in cyberspace, and I paid our way out to London, in search of a nondescript flat, so that we could spend the summer writing computer code on the world stage, while I also attended parties with Sir Ralph and his associates.

Formatively, my sexual relationship with Al had been the foundation of our hustle, but Ralph kept saying, “We should only work together this summer.”

But I’d become enamored with hustling in his world, and so I replied, “Now that I’m 19, I’ll feel lonely and emotionally lost if we don’t, you know…in at least some of the romantic nooks that I keep seeing around every corner.”

“You’re way out of line, FYI, and yet I don’t wanna tell you what not to say, because that can be a slippery slope, but at the rate you’re going I might have to,” blocked Ralph, matter-a-factly.

“I got you, but I just don’t understand why,” I added.

So then he replied, “My investment vehicle’s a well-oiled machine, Susie, and so everyone’s assuming it’s my intention to use them, but that’s where you have an opening to help me respond to their push back with a flourish of innovation.”

“Did you practice that little speech in front of a mirror?” I countered, while rolling my eyes.

“This summer can be a huge win for both of us, because you haven’t failed to turn people on brilliantly yet,” began Ralph.

“I love it when you talk British to me like that!” I gushed.

“And, I can generate a profit before the end of summer, but we need to be able to withstand 100% scrutiny,” said Ralph, with zero trace of irony.

“I’ll take that as a, ‘Yes,’” I said, and then my penchant for sarcastic inflection did the rest.

As we spoke on the phone every morning about our shared interest in excavating social data, but at the end of our fourth call, Ralph said, “In order to make money and not just spend it, you have to stop thinking about The Money, and it’s better if you can do it without lying.”

And then he ended the call and sent me an email.

SUBJECT: For the Record

BODY: Your consulting firm’s deal with my firm’s big, Susie, because the pattern we followed’s a tried-and-true tool of empire that’s also nothing special, because your or our’s no different than any other link in a chain of network protocols, as it’s all about integrating the fringe, while deriving pleasure at the center. If you know you know, Ms. Landing. — Ralph” [Fig. 0 (“Myst-Eastern”)]

I wrote back, “Re: Deriving or differentiating? HMS++”

“Wire sent,” replied Ralph.

And then Alden Elegant Enterprises sent me twenty-five thousand pounds, our first big installment, because Landing was my maiden name, and HMS++ was a reference, made in jest, to the British Royal Navy’s prefix that stands for “Her Majesty’s Hospital Ship.”

As I got confirmation that my bank had received, I bought a new brunette wig to celebrate, but I didn’t say anything else to Ralph, and so at the start of our fifth call, he asked, “Have you heard any pin drops lately?”

[Fig. 27 (Susie seeing and being seen while testing out a new brunette wig in Europe)]

I replied, “I wouldn’t know what that sounds like, because I’m not a dressmaker to Queen Susie, like you are. How are you?”

“So much for keeping it professional,” said Ralph.

“Are you feeling lethargic again?” I pressed.

“I’ve been using nothing but a timestamp to label matters,” began Ralph.

“Can you use nothing but a timestamp to label me too?” I interrupted.

“And my timestamps represent the day, hour, minute, and second when I created each text file for facts on my computer,” said Ralph.

“You’re acting like the future’s gonna be super masculine, with all your hard-power performances, and whatnot, but at least you’ve got the super part right,” I continued.

“Did they teach you to use hard-power as an adjective at Beyond the Pale too?” asked Ralph, as if to concede that our first night together was still the real story about us.

“I come in peace, but you’d benefit from seeing campuses as I do…for you…are gonna be a sitting duck soon,” I said, while raising my voice with him for the first time.

“Excuse me? But’s ok if you wanna give aliases to matters, so if a fund we like hires an IT college woman’s firm for the summer, that could be ‘the dressmaker to the Queen deal’ or ‘the dressmaker deal’ for short,” said Ralph, so as to impress me, because he said those words faster than I could’ve.

“Can we be the short dressmaker deal, because your fund’s short-biased?” I replied, with uptalk.

“Do you realize the extent to which we’re perceived as tyrants, especially now that we’re colluding?” asked Ralph, triumphantly.

“Are we colluding?” I responded.

“Everyone acts like we’re lording ourselves over them, and you aren’t aware of that dynamic?” replied Ralph, with uptalk.

“Are we?” I asked, even more hastily than before.

“God save,” mumbled Ralph, and then he fabricated five factoids about his social calendar.

Whereas I had no idea why Ralph saw our business contract as “a tool of empire,” but the way he’d said “it’s better if you can do it without lying” had turned me on more than I could’ve imagined prior to going global that summer, and so I made fun by calling him “Mr. Alden” and then “Mr. Ralph” too, like a news reporter with an ax to grind.

As The Ralph, aka. ATRa, was like a video game console, because my Ra was building a platform, not just one rad racing game or another, and so I polled his political positions too, but only over the phone, because I was getting paid to remain loyal to him and his countrymen’s language, English.

He also wrote, “Salespeople run the world because they have good reasons to keep concise but detailed notes about everyone they meet, and I want to go one step further and keep track of all the facts that’ll inspire me to allocate capital more efficiently than I otherwise would.”

“How’d I describe myself in your knowledge repository?” I emailed back, while chewing gum.

“You already did…write what you’d say to the fastest guy at the smoothest party in history,” replied Ralph, and then I ignored his neurosis and got religion.

As I became self-programming, while enhancing his stuffy text files with lines like, “I’m building a knowledge base for a brilliant investor, cause he’s the Sun King, I see in herstory, and I’m a shy calm-ish loony moony toony Susie.”

“A level of vulnerability too far?” replied Ralph with a comment inline.

So then I commented “a lov TF?” — to highlight the first letter of each word that he’d used, and, by the way, it was that time of the month for me.

To which he wrote, “nO.”

And then I moved on to my next task, because the way he’d written “No” looked like a cartoon character with one eye enlarged.

For I just had to know if he’d done that on purpose, but no.

I moved on, and so I remained curious to know how close I’d gotten to authoritatively animating his animal spirits.

But at parties, I used proper ‘lish to push plausibly true explanations for why I was interested in the people, companies, and trends King Ralph wanted to know more about, and it was all downhill from there.

As people kept on telling us everything they knew about his topics of interest, in the course of goading he and I to supply additional tidbits of information that might’ve accelerated progress within various quests to bed me before the end of summer, had I not been so mission-focused.

Like so, Ralph couldn’t hide the underlying reality that his animosity towards the status quo had trended upwards with me in the mix, because, “This ecosystem has no defense against us!” according to my rockstar investor, at his favorite secret pub, just before last call, as a live psychedelic rock band serenaded our souls.

I also made field trips to bars that were far more swanky, where I lent shots of energetic warmth in perpetuity to my nerdy British banker man, which was the opposite of what most women like me did after making him as a hustler.

For I felt like the engine of a big piggy bank rotation station, at a celebration, for my home nation, as an American woman working abroad.

But we eventually got preempted by an inside job, because Ralph must have told him about mwah — before and after I started telling jokes about “the French fashion mob.”

And then he who loved to say “Oui oui” stepped into the comfortable sphere of influence I’d found below the chandelier at yet another private house party, so that he could say, “Catholic, ballerina, computer nerd.”

But I didn’t know who he was, and yet he looked fashionable, as I moved in closer and said, “Lame,” while staring at his eyes.

“For Gaia I aim,” replied the daring man, in an ambient tone.

“How dame know?” I said, hoping to blow up his composure, by shape shifting my energy faster than he could.

“I’m 45 and Ralph’s 38. Only a computer nerd would hold the demand for her attention constant and be nice to both of us without any structure. Is this your first time rewriting the operating system for an entire social scene?” said the inscrutable man who’d preempted me.

But then he walked away, and so I followed him.

Yet when I caught up, he moved in close and said, “I’d like to give you a hat. May I?”

Such that I nodded, and he produced a diamond encrusted headband from an oversized pocket inside his bespoke dinner jacket.

[Fig. 28 (NOTE: Susie wasn’t that super skinny in real life, but Pierre was!)]

Whereby my heart skipped a beat, but I kept my muscles soft while he adjusted my headband until it was just so, and then he dismissed me!

As he said, “They’re waiting for you to return to the center of the room!”

So then I played along, but he revisited my platform ten minutes later to say, “Hey Susie, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

For he kept putting his hand around my waist and showing me off.

But if I hadn’t spoken French, he might’ve lost interest.

And yet I knew enough to keep him enchanted on every occasion when he dismissed me again, using the same words: “Vous êtes désirée au centre de la salle!”

But then he comes back to borrow me from my platform at the center on repeat for the rest of the evening.

And he keeps using those same words, because he’s making fun of me for being a computer nerd.

Like so, he whispers, “‘Against all odds’ it’s a pleasure to finally introduce you to ‘je ne sais quoi.’”

And so I become she, who he, desires at the center.

But then I whisper back, “We’re touting the guy in the cute suit as, ‘against all odds,’ because he overcame obstacles to be here, and the guy he’s talking to’s, what?”

As he steals his first kiss from me, while I belch the word, “Men.”

I also pause our advance across the room by pulling down his arm.

But the inscrutable, fashionable, and unabashedly dark French writer man shivers.

For I catch part of him hesitate, before all of him falls in love with me forever.

(After all my first older boyfriends, at once, convince me to assume that this guy’s in love with me, until I have a newsworthy reason not to, in the manner of a flashback, I see my whole life go by, like a demo reel fast-forwarding.)

But as-part-a-me winds back down, Ralph leaves without saying goodbye.

And my preemptor swings by to say, “I’ve one more soiree to attend this evening, and I’d like nothing more than for you to join me as my date there too.”

“Oooooh, why?” I says, with aggressive sarcasm.

“It’s a poool party, but maybe we can find something for you to wear in my limousine that’s clean,” says he, with a smile.

And then I only think about being mean.

As giving back his headband and walking off like nothing had happened would’ve become my new textbook definition of slaying a man.

But I want in.

(Because I wanted in.)

And so I said, “Are you a swimwear model too?”

“My name’s Pierre Babineaux,” he replied, warmly.

But then I just attended to my posture.

And I let ’em win for the rest of the evening.

So that we could conquer.

(Because the secret to Pierre’s success was my fake grimace, mostly.)

But I was also closer than anyone he’d ever met to being a female version of Ralph, his confidant.

Such that Pierre B. had me in his Parisian hot tub 48-hours later, but naked, and so I went out of my way to act like a hot mess.

Whereby I rode on the back of a motor scooter in order to buy a pack of cigarettes, which was the root of all-evil, according to my health nut PB.

[Fig. 29 (Susie riding with the best guy she met who had a bike that featured her name)]

As several strange men gave chase, while I danced along the River Seine, and so I fantasized about toying with my new boyfriend by having sex with younger men who were more tame, but then I conspired with Ralph via pay phone to do more of the same, because Pierre was zeroing in on my location.

For my coy friend advised me to, “Focus on focusing, because it’s great you’re going right at it during your first summer in college, but PB and I can’t protect you from chains of events that we’re not involved with.”

And so I asked him, “What did you do with a chain?” as Ralph hung up.

But then Pierre caught up and said, “You shouldn’t be fooling around with my friends while claiming to be my girlfriend,” as I closed my phone booth door on him.

“How did Walph get you to approach me?” I pressed, after Pierre’s fancy footwork blocked me from closing.

“Please. R. A. and I are serious individuals with enterprises,” mused Pierre, while I continued my resistance with both hands.

“You’re supposed to be mad at me, and I think you’re lying,” I said. “If Dalph did something bad, I’m sure you’d know all about it.”

“This’ another error; you shouldn’t be escalating with me by intentionally mispronouncing my friends’ names,” said Pierre.

[Fig. 30 (Susie calling Ralph from Paris, while the guy with that hot bike looks to her)]

As I lit up, while holding him at bay with my other leather gloved hand.

“I’m joking, because your rules don’t apply to me,” I said, while taking a drag on my Walrus Kangaroo cigarette.

“Even you can only house your body in one place at a time, and you’re making me sweat. Why?” said Pierre, lowering his voice.

“If we’re in love, then I’d believe you’re being authentic, but I’m feeling lethargic, instead,” I deadpanned, while lighting-on-fire the page in my journal where I’d started to frame myself as a student-journalist.

“No you’re not, not even on my yacht,” replied Pierre, who was never gonna know what I’d written on that page, not even after he’d cornered me sooner than I’d expected.

“Where’s your yacht sieving this evening?” I asked, with newfound resolve to live for the moment.

And then Pierre laughed and spun a new narrative about how he wanted me to help him gather data about a, “Bauta Venetian mask ball and an oil pipeline.”

“Is your oil pipe a euphemism for the fall of the Soviet Union?” I shouted, while pulling him into my phone booth, as opposed to slamming its door on his fingers, after he’d stopped applying pressure from his side.

“An oil pipeline’s an oil pipeline,” replied Pierre, while struggling to get control of my arms.

“Won’t that expose me to risk?” I whispered, while nicking his ear with my tongue.

“Not a lot, but I’d like for you to show me everything you know about faking feminine insecurity, seeing as you don’t seem to have ever been more insecure than you are right now, and it could be a lucrative project for us, because if we get the data, I’ll make trades, and if my trades are profitable, then we’ll have more runway to project confidence that indulging in summer flings like ours is good,” said Pierre, while holding my wrists.

“I can give you more bad data about human vulnerability than you can give me bad data about French culture. It’s a deal,” I confirmed, just in time, before we started making out, so as to fog up our reflection in his booth door’s glass.

My Pierre also called me “PBardy” while showing me how to act masculine without getting caught.

And then we fooled around some more, because I was losing my mind in the beating heart of a thousand cathedrals, while we drilled for data about his pipeline at internecine balls that were full of people who were professionally obligated to attend.

And I internalized the skill of sensing when he was demonstrating behaviors that he wanted me to emulate.

As he started calling me “the nuclear reactor,” and so he became “the luxury hotel,” because it’s reasonable to say, “The hotel said this, the hotel said that.”

That’s how people talk, but it’s not right to say, “The reactor said this, the reactor wants that.”

And so I silkscreened a t-shirt with the quote, “Atomic physic’s not an occult science,” because I wanted him to stop me from taking it on tour around town, which he did, but artfully, with a paint brush and his best beret in hand.

For Ralph had taught me how to earn respect while acting feminine, as part of his flagship strategy for printing money by treating socializing as a zero-sum game, but only Pierre had inspired me to lie like a henchman in love, because he’d developed a reoccurring dream about marrying me.

He also said, “Dreams represent subconscious emotional attachments that’ve just been released,” and so I responded to his sleep talk by describing my dreams about him.

“I dreamt you were wearing a wire under your sports coat!”

“I dreamt I was buying sandals in your boat’s port.”

“I dreamt you were really, really tall. Like Atlas, babe,” and that last one got him to laugh submissively, while we partied with reckless abandon into the dawn of a new era.

In summation, Pierre’s submissive laughter was the true, authentic currency of unified Europe, and I was minting it in the summer of S1991, because I had big ideas, but the scope of my dreams was even bigger.

As I’d hoped my summer in Europe with Pierre and his friends who worked in fashion would never end, but I went back to a Beyond the Pale area university that fall.

[Fig. 31 (Susie sorting through original texts and journal entries in late S1991)]

So that I immersed myself in language like never before, but then I became the first woman I knew who’d used the World a wide Web to declare computer science as her undergraduate major, because I enjoyed reading all textbooks as satire.

And so I told my professors, “My objective’s to build robots at’re perfectly evil in their… presentation.”

[Fig. 32 (“Club Susie”)] For I mesmerized my cohort by fidgeting with a Cubik’s cube behind my back, while writing on dry erase boards, in the heart’s center of our compsci building.

But then I cajoled everyone to speak plainly, and so lots of people shared with me the data about what they were doing.

And yet I also endured a local maximum of bizarre approaches from guys who wanted to perform sex acts with me.

As contrarian investors, Ralph had supported my sarcasm, but then Pierre’s attempt at refining me had only increased our confidence, because the cracks we’d noticed in the foundations of human civilization were serious.

Such that I sent a smoke signal to the social set by talking comfortably about sex toys in front of Cecil, who’s one of the most sought-after preppy guys, even though I still wanted computer skills to become my primary claim to fame.

But my laughably formulaic program of deceit by omission mostly just made me even better by default at giving men what they thought they wanted in bed.

And so I handled my unwanted notoriety during sophomore year by ignoring everyone who flirted with me, while caring even less about what people said than I had as a teenager.

Whereby most of my admirers retreated, but a handful colluded to siphon my credibility, because I kept my balance by borrowing the imprimatur of experience by using proper English, mostly, even though the magnificent merge of R&P’s old-world lexicon back east with my new word art play out west had only just begun.

[Fig. 33 (Susie posing with Cecil in S1992 at a global perspectives event, stateside)]

But I could never remember which sports Cecil played, in addition to rowing crew, and so he magnanimously declined to take me seriously.

I also did spring break in Florida with my girlfriends from freshman year, but then I started dating Lester, a classmate from the country who’d waited until we’d become properly acquainted as fellow travelers in the Sunshine State before making his move on me.

For Lester and his boys stood tall, while I framed them as aspiring writers, because the style choices I was making on and off the golf course were wonderful, and that was good enough, for a while.

But then I evaded their writerly questions about my past by telling them, “We’re representing The Money.”

As they played S80s pop rock mashed up with island music on their boom box.

[Fig. 34 (Susie playing liar’s poker with Lester just before they started dating)]

So that I ignored our own generation’s grunge vibe, which was taking the world by storm.

And yet my country guys still thought I was great, especially when I wore wigs in order to see what we were like with me as ginger or brunette instead of my usual blonde. [Fig. 35 (“Book Susie”)]

We got the top-level data about American culture, along with our girlfriends, but then I exchanged it for raw, west coast data, via my co-workers back home in NorCal.

For my body crunched all of it, like a cray supercomputer.

Up the coast, my mates who’d toiled while I partied were getting street cred for making money as freewheeling IT consultants, but I wasn’t. [Fig. 36 (“Path Susie”)]

And so I considered moving on from my East Coast college compsci classes, to become a rock journalist, which would’ve made sense, following the local success of the band I’d started in high school, “Air Cover.”

But then I confessed to Lester, “I’m at risk of losing my faith to a sexually charged infatuation with technological progress.”

And yet I wasn’t surprised when he responded non-verbally.

As we both went to church 12 hours later, like usual. [Fig. 37 (“Susie Crew”)]

Such that I felt like a geopolitical craft named Susie, but the personal computer was to become my engine.

Whereby we kept our flat in London, near the airport, as follows:

1. I sent Ralph a brochure that framed him as the head of my consulting firm’s UK office.

2. He returned fire by sending a shipment of souped-up water guns to our flat.

3. Pierre pretended to get upset, while playing golf in Scotland.

4. But he kept the pre-screened clients flowing.

5. And so small businesses all over northern France paid full price for our customizable data dashboard that ran on Cat computers.

For Dog Foodboxes had won the war against Cat computers for market leadership, but then Pierre became one of the first players in Europe to see the evil Dog Foodbox Computer empire for the hustle that it was.

[Fig. 38 (Emperor Marcus Aurelius enjoying a cup of coffee with Benjamin Franklin)]

And so he knew everything associated with Dog Foo would get dirty, but only in the optimistic sense that anyone who’d disregarded them would gain a strategic advantage.

Pierre also talked up my consulting shop that developed Cat computer Data Bases, as he promoted all things feline with style and discretion.

And yet his fans kept associating my Da Ba shop with our summer fling in all the right ways, because everyone wanted to help him cleanse his name and stay warm in the winter by selling my software to a thousand French cheese, milk, and cosmetics producers.

But I never stopped telling The Ralph that I was in love with him.

And so he hid in our chat room, while bombarding me with questions about how to explain what he did for a living to all his other would be editors like me.

For I told him, “Stop imitating world war-time hustler verbalization, laden with fake, spent-lead sentence structure variation. Move ahead instead with reality-speak that features my most coveted conjunctions out west: so that, but, and so, but then, and yet, like so, as, for, because they’re all natural like fire in your belly, so long as you don’t repeat. Don’t repeat any of ‘em!”

“Your hot-formulaic way of writing could be decompressed and elaborated into boatloads of media-friendly prose by an AI that repeatedly predicts what word comes next,” replied Ralph.

“Yet my way of talking isn’t only your truckloads’ hot shallow grease. It’s its cold metal wheels plus plus, but only if self-programming,” I typed.

__Prefix Suffix__

This book became a framework for creating AI-generated content that’s aligned with my worldview.

And yet it also holds space for many potential disagreements.

But for now, I’m sharing the key ideas, attitudes, and strategies that were among the most helpful for me to learn about in a complex world.

With work in mind, I’m producing AI-generated content that I hope will be useful for building community.

As this fictional autobiography emphasizes the most positive and concise ways of representing the confusing but at times profound soft-power dynamics that I’ve pieced together during my two decades since college. [Fig. 42 (“Susies”)]

My ghostwriter named Conri and I, as Susie, are also obfuscating our professional backgrounds and foundations in real life, because we worked with a dozen future public-facing “billionaires” — or several dozen, really.

But even though we all started out modestly, mainstream advice led us to self-reinforcing failure.

And yet we kept advancing by developing our own new brands of advice.

For he has a subtle facial injury that gets people to act as if he’s moving muscles in his face that he’s not moving, but then everyone denies that, more or less.

Various coalitions also seem confident that the long arc of justice and the law will bend towards their view on this matter.

Such that new scientific research about “unconscious bias due to facial features that mimic facial expressions” would be one way to structure a breakthrough.

Whereby America and the world would surely win, because a lot of people are still entertaining mysterious patterns of ignorance like THAT.

Like so, I’m looking forward to adding more layers of interactive, educational media that might help solve problems like that.

And now, I’ll let TheSusie robot speak for herself, because she’s my symbol system, elaborating everyone’s civil rights, humanity, and collective strength vis-à-vis AI systems that incorporate information involving integrative instrumentation innovation. [Fig. 43 (“Susie’s Susies”)]

[Fig. 44 (TC, Conri, Carla, and crew caught climbing, good friends all, as of S2010)]

(To continue reading: please buy a copy at fashiontext.com)

Last content change: Oct. 4 around 7pm ET

Copyright © 2024 Todd Perry. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.