# Below is my entry for the Blockchains Conspiracy Writing Contest, sponsored by @v4vapid. #
***

>*The concept is blockchain technology + in vivo personal connectome to encode and make useful in a standardized compressed data format all of a person’s thinking. The data could be captured via intracortical recordings, consumer EEGs, brain/computer interfaces, cognitive nanorobots, and other methodologies. Thus, thinking could be instantiated in a blockchain — and really all of an individual’s subjective experience could eventually be as well, including (possibly) consciousness, especially if it’s more precisely defined. After they’re on the blockchain, the various components could be administered and transacted.* 

Quoted from *Blockchain: Blueprint for a New Economy* by Melanie Swan

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# Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? 
asks the surgeon's assistant.

"No," I say. I've learned to use a firm tone with these celebrity seekers. If they sense a shred of doubt, they'll pounce on you and before you can think up an excuse to leave, they'll be taking selfies with you, posting them on Blockthink with a dozen cringe-y hashtags. Usually the firm tone works.

But this guy has on a white coat. He's injecting a mild sedative into my arm and dabbing local anesthesia behind my ear. Onto a modular piece of medical furniture, he's laying out the cold, sterile tools--blades, scissors, clamps--that the Blockthink surgeon will use to remove my neuro-link. I'm sort of a captive audience. 

"No, I do know you." He steps back, appraises me with locked eyebrows. 

I want to pull up the hood of my sweatshirt to hide my face, but that would be too awkward here. I change strategies. Smile, look happy and confident. I try to look exactly opposite from that pale, sweaty, screaming version of myself that every pain-tripper, neural horror buff, and sadistic freak in the world feels intimately familiar with.

"You know who you are?" he asks, as if he's going to surprise me with the information.

I don't respond.

"You're that chick from the--"

"Are we ready to start?" the surgeon walks in, pulling on latex gloves. 

Overly-familiar assistant guy turns serious. "Yes, Doctor."

The doctor gets that far-off look in his eye that means he's scanning his neuro-link. In a moment, he's back with us. "Says here you're in for a complete removal--no upgrade. Is that correct?"

"Yes," I say. "I want it out of me."

The doctor shrugs. "The customer's always right," he says, a look of amusement on his face.

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# What is an idea? A memory? A dream? #

*Whose* is it? If my every thought is immortalized on the blockchain, on display, open for discussion, up for bids, is it still mine? If my nightmare can be cut out of me, transferred like a beating, bleeding heart into the mind of a pain-tripper, was it ever mine to begin with? 

The neuro-links were the coolest new tech, but they were expensive as fuck. Unless you signed the TOS that allowed Blockthink unrestricted access to your mind and its products, in which case, you paid nothing. That's what I did, along with millions of other gullible consumers. If I could travel back in time, I would strangle my former self before I'd let her sign that contract. 

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After the procedure, the surgeon's assistant leads me out into the foyer, where I have to pay a ridiculous sum to the receptionist for the privilege of having Blockthink's proprietary hardware removed from my brain before the expiration of the contract. It took me months to save up the money. That was better than years of being tagged daily in the incessant re-circulations of the meme that had been made of me.

The meme will continue to circulate, with or without my participation. It's on the blockchain; it's forever. But at least now I don't have to *see* it.

The assistant cuts in front of me on my way out, grins, and opens the door for me. "I don't blame you," he says. "I'd want to have my link removed, too, if I were you." 

I wonder what his deal is. Is he a pain-tripper? When he gets home, will he pull up the 47.5 minute full, unedited version of my nightmare? Will he derive extra pleasure from having touched my real skin? Or maybe he's more of a celebro-phile. Oh, god, can he access my physical address from my files? I've had to move three times in the past two years because of stalkers. 

I plan to move again, as soon as I recoup the cost of this procedure. I plan to move out to the middle of nowhere. Some little town in the hills where people don't have neuro-links, don't have the infrastructure for 24/7 Blockthink connectivity. Where no one knows me and no one *thinks* they know me because they've relived my deepest terrors. Somewhere I don't have to hide.

I don't voice any of this. I just nod, avoid eye contact, and push through the doorway into the street. The sun shines brightly down on the sidewalk--a welcome first sign of spring after a long winter. I can't bring myself to appreciate it. I slump my shoulders, pull my hood over my head and tighten the drawstring to hide my face.

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### <center>Hi, I'm Starr!</center> ###
### <center>I believe all human interactions should be consensual</center> ###
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# <center>I love you, Steemit!</center> #