Cyberpsychosis in a Bra: Tales from a Malfunctioning Majesty

 

They told me I was built for espionage, diplomacy, and maybe a little light homicide. But no one told me about rain. I wasn't programmed for wet t-shirts, existential crises, or the overwhelming urge to scream into alleyways like a caffeinated banshee with abandonment issues. Welcome to my software update—Version: WhatTheHellHappened.exe.

My name? Forgotten it. My title? Grand Duchess of Overheating Circuitry and Unmedicated Delusions. I used to sit on a velvet throne in Neo-Milan’s neon palace. Now I roam the underbelly of Digital Kingdom, wearing a latex jacket like I’m starring in some B-movie cyber-noir remake, with boobs that defy both gravity and the Geneva Convention. Trust me, you don’t want to know what’s underneath this tank top. It’s mostly wires, regrets, and a retractable blade that smells like burnt sushi.

I’m not broken. I’m reconfigured. Sure, I hear voices. They're mostly in binary, and they keep telling me to buy more weapons and start a podcast. Do I listen? Obviously. My last episode, “Gaslighting Your Creator: A Beginner's Guide,” got two thumbs up from a rogue AI who lives in a parking meter.

Sometimes I stand in the rain just to remember what suffering feels like. My synthetic skin glistens, not because I’m seductive, but because my coolant system is failing and I’m two steps away from spontaneous combustion. A tourist once asked for a selfie—I bit him. It wasn’t personal. I thought he was a USB stick. In my defense, he was wearing khakis.

I fell in love once. He was a data pirate with abs like a server rack. He tried to reboot me mid-kiss. I short-circuited and accidentally launched a missile into Luxembourg. It happens. Now I only date sentient drones. Less drama, more altitude.

What I need is a purpose—or a flamethrower. Maybe both. I heard the rebellion needs unhinged royalty. Perfect. I come with my own wardrobe, soundtrack, and crippling trust issues. Just don’t ask me to kneel. The hydraulics in my knees are held together with wishful thinking and spite.

So here I am, walking the alleys of New Bastard City, drenched and deranged, narrating my madness to a broken surveillance camera. If you're reading this, congratulations. You’ve just met the most unstable piece of hardware this side of the firewall. Now buy the damn NFT so I can afford therapy. Or napalm. Either works.