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"One's-Self I Sing", a poem by Walt Whitman, part of his collection Leaves of Grass, is not about masturbation. That is one fact I will never forget. I had labored under the impression that it was for approximately 34 minutes. That is the span of time between when I read the poem for the first time in preparation of my 3rd period sophomore literature class and when my sophomore literature teacher, Mr. Wings, informed me in front of the whole class that I must be some sort of genetic freak for even suggesting such a thing. To drive the point home he made me stay after class. He nailed my testicles to his desk and then forcibly felated me with a rabid mongoose. At the board of education meeting, it was decided that Mr. Wing should be promoted to school principal. That was when I decided to drop out.

I wasn't the first he had done this to. I certainly wasn't the last. It only took me two years to save up for the black market testosterone generator. It has done a decent job, though it does need to be recalibrated. Recently I have started getting off on fantasies of office supplies.

It wasn't all bad. A few of women I have managed to talk into having sex with me think the scarred, shredded flesh that used to be my scrotum is about the coolest body decoration they have seen.

Although not all have reacted positively. From the moment I saw I her, I knew that she was the sort that went to bars to hook up with lower class men in order to get back at her rich daddy for protecting and spoiling her for her entire life. Back at her "place", a scuzzy little studio that I'm sure made her feel like quite the boho the two or three nights a month she actually spent there, she wasted no time in yanking my pants off. At first she just stared. I was fairly certain it wasn't because she was impressed by my girth.

"You know you don't have any balls?" she finally managed to squeak out.

"Yeah," I responded, going into the whole sordid story. Most of her sort go to schools where the worst punishment is getting their butts paddled by some horny teacher. So, to her, my teacher's actions seemed a bit extreme. At least, that was the impression I got when she started to vomit on her credenza.

Call me uptight, but vomit really kills the mood, so I decided to make a discrete exit.

It was a cold day according to the nipples on the militant naturalist standing near the doors of the train. One of her hands was holding on to the strap, while the other clenched a high voltage tazer. She was scanning the occupants of the train, daring anyone to look at her nudity as anything but pure, innocent and wholesome. Fortunately for me, I captured her image on my screen visor when she first got on the train. As soon as I get the testosterone generator recalibrated, she will be a regular part of my masturbation rotation. I then set about downloading the latest offers on bulk paperclips.

As I have done most days for the past few years, I got off at the Market Street station, which is conveniently situated just across the street from Cortexicon where I have been working as random access memory. My days from that point on until I get off work are pretty much a matter of ritual. I grab a methspresso at the vending machines in the break room and then head straight to the RAM office on the second floor. I take off my screen visor and put on the company databurst goggles. I settle back into my chair and the data starts to flow. At first, I get standard readout, usually company mail offering well wishes to the latest executive to jump ship for a better job and the latest young punks promoted to replace them.

Some of RAM do not take these messages well. They got into this department thinking that if they processed just a little bit better than they other RAM, they would quickly get promoted. They quickly learned that RAM either does a good job or doesn't do a good job. If you do a good job, they get kept right where they are, because good RAM can be hard to come by. If they do a bad job, they are fired, lobotomized to maintain the security of company data then promptly passed around the executive offices in a farewell assfucking just before being tossed off the top of the building.

But I don't mind. Being RAM is easy, pays well enough and beats actually working for a living.

Once the messages have been read, the databurst starts. The goggles send a neuro/optical signal through my optical nerves into my brain. Once the computer achieves whatever it thinks it needs to do, it sends a signal to my brain to send the data through my nervous system to my fingers. The port gloves then pick up the signals and send it back to the system.

On the whole, it isn't much of a strain. While it is true that the nondisclosure agreement I had to sign when I started does give the company complete ownership of all thought I have while on the job, I don't exactly have to many thought while working. It isn't the sort of atmosphere the inspires reverie. On the whole I thought I had it pretty good.

This day, however, my ritual was interrupted. On my way to the RAM office, I was stopped by Mr. Dale, the new RAM manager.

"We are instituting a new performance review policy," he said when we got into his office.

"Oh?" I was not terribly interested. I processed more data than the rest of the RAM and that was what RAM is for, isn't it? Or so I thought.

"RAM performance are judged on three main criteria, data processing, independent thought and blinking."

"Blinking?"

"Yes, blinking interrupts the data flow, in fact that is where your greatest weakness lies."

"I'm sorry," was all I managed to get out, as a growing sense of unease came over me.

"Well, you should be. According to out statistics, you blink way too often."

"But I still process more data than the rest of the RAM."

"And you have less independent thought. But we are truly disturbed by the level of blinking. And that is why I am afraid we will have to let you go."

"What?!? I'm the best RAM you have."

"Not according to these blink statistics."

"But..."

"No, I know what you are going to say. You feel that your data processing rates should be the only criteria on which we judge you. I understand why you may think that way. But as much as we may like to, we simply cannot give in to the desire to let the ends justify the means."

"I don't think I..."

"Yes, I know. By procedure is important. If it wasn't important, it wouldn't be there. It is what separates us from the animals."

"Look, I'll gladly..."

"I'm sorry, I would love to chat, but I have to take an important conference call."

The next thing I remember is waking up tied to a gurney in the lobotomy office. The clock on the wall showed that an hour had passed. I would have thought that my frontal lobes would be hacked out and I would be have my 'roids diddled by upper management by then.

"Nice screen visor," a voice said.

"What?"

"And," it continued, "I can see that you have a Hormolex Series C testosterone generator installed."

"Yes."

"Well, the thing is I am feeling generous. I was thinking that instead of wasting my time hacking into your skull, I could just take your screen visor and testosterone generator and take a tidy profit on the black market."

"Why wouldn't you just lobotomize me and take them anyway."

"Okay," she said, finally leaning into my field of vision. "You got me. I just really don't feel like wasting my time cutting out a chunk of your brain. I just bought a new dildonics system and cutting you open would just take time away from it. But if you want to keep your brain, you need to work with me."

"What do you mean?"

"Well most of my patients don't just hop off the gurney and skip off to find a new job. Once I have removed your tgen, I will need you to act like a drooling, brainless moron. That is about the only way you are getting out of here with your brain intact."

That was it. What choice did I have? I either let her have my screen visor and my tgen and leave with my brain still in my skull or I let her have my screen visor and tgen and leave her with my brain scrambled. I agreed.

Removing the tgen only took a minute or so. She had obviously done this before. Next thing I know she is calling in the security guards to wheel me upstairs for my "bon voyage" from upper management.

I kept our deal. As I was "lobotomized", I couldn't look around to see what was being inserted. It is probably better that I don't know. I made the mistake of relaxing just a bit too much with the Vice-President of Acquisitions and shit on his desk. I'm not sure if this pissed her off or turned her on, but her ministrations became a great deal more vigorous.

Finally, I was dumped out in the hall, drool down the front of my shirt, blood trickling out of my crack and my pants around my ankles. I decided that I had fulfilled my end of the deal and decided not to wait to be thrown off the top of the building.

On the train I sipped a methspresso and tried to figure out what the hell to do. The problem is, when you are uneducated and have no testicles, there aren't too many job opportunities.