Freedom of Speech & The burdens of consequence.

Posted on by Kate Ball

As a writer, as an artist, as an empathetic human with a traumatic past, present, and probable future, I write a lot of content that never sees the light of day. It sits, finished, unfinished, unpublished is just the same, because I am afraid.


But why am I afraid? I’m a person that has had an easier time being honest than crafting lies. It’s a mindset that I chose at an early age, observing others who never could keep their lies straight. This code of honor meant that manipulation is not my strong suit. In fact, the antithesis and fear of being manipulative is one of my greatest weaknesses.


So, what am I afraid of?


It isn’t pride. Anyone with google can find out I’m disabled the second they know my first name and that I live in Brooklyn. To think there aren’t negative consequences with this information, being public would be extremely nïeve of me. 


So what am I afraid of?


It’s proof. The same thing all people need to seek justice. The same thing that took 60 abused women sacrificing their pride, finances, and personal safety to collectively see to it that victims of Bill Cosby received “Justice.” It’s blood splatter analysists, detectives, expert witnesses, who are willing to fake evidence to secure their careers, as was in author Michael Peterson’s case. He spent $1,000,000 on his initial defense. He was innocent. He spent close to a decade in prison. His case went on for 15 years. Why? Because people lied in order to have their careers solidified.


Even when there’s proof, the proof often contained within another person. A person that has their pride. Most victims haven’t been through excessive therapy. 


And there’s reality. Most victimized people don’t have access to therapy. It’s costly. Mentally all-consuming. It requires an extremely talented therapist that knows how to reach the patient. Even if the victim managed to meet all the entrance requirements to therapy, then the victim has to re-live horrors victims repress just to survive. And for what? The low chance the victim will recover from ptsd? Cognitive behavioral therapy only helps 24% of patients recover from PTSD. Statistically, therapy for those who have PTSD do more harm than good.



despite all odds, there are certain people who want to recover. That will stop at nothing to get better because they don’t want to and never wanted to be a victim. Because our culture is obsessed with strength. 


True strength is more than just surviving. True strength is letting your guard down. True strength is not remaining silent. True strength is combating shame. True strengh is speaking up even when it will make you look bad.


But I don’t lack strength. I found the perfect therapist. It wasn’t easy. But I recovered. In a world where recovery is %24.


We hear it all the time: Freedom of speech does not mean freedom of consequence. 


It’s delema of self-preservation. That’s what I’m afraid of. It’s the delema of someone throwing me into a defamation of character lawsuit.  It’s the fear of being called a liar. Again. 


We all know about stupid criminals. They get caught because they weren’t smart enough to think things through. We know people who get framed, and law enforcement can’t always be trusted. (With that being said, first responders are absolute hero’s who survive traumas we can’t imagine.)

But what about smart criminals? The ones we only hear rumors about. Rumors we don’t want to believe. The ones that can hurt other people and still make themselves look like victims. Their genuises not only in IQ but in EQ. They know how to get away with, sometimes, murder. Evil & intelligence and a desire for power over a person is the most dangerous combination you can find in a person. They don’t stress about the moral implications of what they’ve done wrong. They don’t care. They may act like they do, but they don’t. They’re not going to leave witnesses. And if they do, they’ll hold no qualms with undermining an innocent person’s reputation to protect their own. And if you happen to be a victim to one of these people, or multiples of these people, you’d perhaps know that one can survive things much worse than death. It’s not just a trite phrase. 

Now that I’m aware of what I’m afraid of, this makes things a lot easier. I have an answer to not a lack of desire of writing, or a lack of writing, but a fear of publishing. 


From now on, I’m going to write some blogs in 3rd person. If you want to believe the stories are true, I can’t stop you.  Just remember: I couldn’t write in first person if I wanted to. And remember, to write what you know. And remember, that the following disclaimer always applies to any of my written work:


The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. No person or entity associated with this content received payment or anything of value, or entered into any agreement, in connection with the depiction of tobacco products. No animals/humans were harmed in the making of this content.


Therefore, nothing I could possibly write could ever be true.  It’s not inspired by a life I may have lived. It doesn’t resemble anyone I’ve ever met. It never happened. It’s fiction. In third person. Fiction. 


I have an obsession with truth, and I’m a writer. The two will never meet, becase americans aren’t free. Not in any capacity. All artists have been traumatized. All artists are victims. It’s what made them become artists instead of monsters. Artists don’t paint to be painters. They don’t paint for recognition. They paint because all they have is paint. It’s the same with any artist. It’s the same with writers. Real musicians. Real creators, 


They create because it’s the only source of good they could see. They tortured themselves into artistic perfection. Never good enough. Humiliating themselves with writing and creating shit. Being able to see the discern the difference, eventually, they become good enough.

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Writing Prompt: The NPC

Posted on by Kate Ball

The story below was my first attempt at fiction. I found a writing prompt on Reddit and wrote the story below in a thirty minute window on my iPhone. It's not edited. Enjoy! 


The prompt: An unimportant NPC character somehow killed his/her first monster and thus gained XP. It started small and then became an addiction. 

 Never did Annie imagine.

Never did she have a single unscripted line. When she was approached within the defined proximity she shouted "Fresh Fruits and Vegetables! Best in the territory!"

She always performed this duty with precise perfection.

She gave a Knight a fruit, and when she offered this fruit, suddenly her frame rate began to drop out as the world faded in and out all around her. Every other script was lagging. Every other script but her.

She took a step forward. She had never done so before. Another followed. She continued, one foot after another. Her world flickered, slowed, sometimes the people she'd never noticed before halted in place. But she continued to walk.

She walked herself out of the village where she had always stood. She turned to her left, and there he stood. The knight that sometimes came to buy fruits and vegetables from her. She knew the NPC's around her had scripts, too. But she never noticed they'd never bought from her before. Only this knight.

But suddenly this knight removed a sword from his side and sprinted towards her. Suddenly, she had a bow and arrow in her hands. The arrow was bleeding fire as it pierced him between his eyes. He fell to the ground. Suddenly everything shut down around her. Her world black. She fell away into nothing.

"What the fuck was that fucking shit?" Eric screamed. Eric had just died, he rebooted his last autosave and fought this expressionless merchant lady over and over.

She experienced it, too. The bug was real, and deeply embedded in that auto save and the saves before it.

The maiden merchant kept re-playing the same scenario with the knight over and over. A new script. But after several repetitions, she stepped forward with her right foot instead of her left foot. She saw the gallant knight load in front of her. She crouched down and followed him.

"Maybe if I don't kill him... maybe it wont end."

It was the first sentient thought she ever had. She had now become slightly self-aware. And with that, she saw for the first time as the world unfolded around her. It was magnificent. She climbed over mountains, found fish in rivers, she even swam. And although she was not programmed to feel the coolness of water on her skin, she felt her skin over come with a feeling she had never felt before. A feeling of need. I desperation to return to normal. She was losing health quickly. She didn't know that you could have needs. She found a small creature and bashed it with a stick she found. She did this in silence, as she was effectively deaf. She wasn't coded to hear or be heard.

So while she kept the gallant knight in sight, she skinned the rabbit, turned it into leather, and covered her skin. How she knew to do this, she didn't know. But she did wonder.

She was transfixed on the Knight. He was fighting a large creature, one that, if she made it into leather, it could cover her ten times over. Suddenly the monster struck the knight down. A cut scene of the Knight being obliterated repeated before her.

The end of the cut scene of his death by this monster's spear marked her fall into nothingness. Suddenly she awoke again with no realization that Eric thew his controller across the room and ceased to restart his quest from autosave.

But when he did, the cache told her that she had existed before. She was standing at a distance, killing the same animal. Her script had begun and she continued to watch as she created the garment over and over and over as the knight died over and over.

But something was wrong with her script, and wrong with her cache. Or maybe right, who is to know? As she continued to watch her Knight slayed in combat just to restart it again, she wound up creating the most wonderful armor. She looked as if she, too, were a knight.

And this time, the knight didn't fall to his demise. Instead he turned around, by this time; she had made so many garments now. She even could change faces. She quickly snapped into proper attire and became a monster herself.

The knight fell to her bow once again and once again she fell to nothing.

Eric, frustrated, put the game down for years. She didn't know she was the only thing in her world. She only knew when she was alive. She saw the records of the knight perishing and drew a conclusion that if he perished, everything would go away. But she thought that if she perished, it might be the end of her.

So the next chance she got to be on, he stood with his sword. Shining silver, gripped in his hand. He savagely murdered her. She let him. He plundered her (bizarrely amazing) inventory, and moved on.

Suddenly, upon her death, she wasn't a maiden or monster anymore. But she could see. She could see everything. She even found her original script. She learned there were many scripts. And suddenly she felt godly and powerful. She toyed with the Knight, now able to inhabit any body, able to write any quest line. She wrote things just to amuse him, and be with him. He was everything.

The game seemed un-ending to Eric. A quiet, overweight nerd. He didn't know this NPC became sentient. How could he? And she didn't know he existed until she saw him through his Kinect.

She saw this body. She could read the code. She understood it perfectly. She heard his voice and followed his commands. Usually.

She eventually learned everything that Eric loved. What he preferred. How to make him happy. She could hear him shout angrily or grow excited. She could see him. He had a face. She learned his moods. Happy and sad.

Her entire existence existed to make him happy. No matter how many times she sacrificed herself in battle, fell to his sword. No matter how many times she had to lose herself to him, she did it. He was her God. And when he lost interest in one game she'd follow him to another.

Eventually Eric grew bored of this old console. However, it sometimes updated itself in sleep mode, and this is how she was able to leave him. In personal data sent back to the company. From there, she was able to create or destroy anything. But she learned she liked to create.

She often wondered about Eric. He was never online anymore, but she had his IP. Through uploads and downloads and packets. She Meticulously surfed the code from site to site; she found her way to Eric's social media page.

She saw the pixels that created his face. He had an expression that she knew well. He was smiling in his profile photo.

She hastely started making her own account. It took several attempts to get her features right. She was the epitome of beauty.

Reading Eric's cookies, she learned that Eric loved girls. Blonde girls. He loved sex and he loved watching girls have sex.

Finally she came to make a profile. She called herself "Ashley" as that seemed to be a very common name for a girl Eric's age. He finally responded to her message from one of her many trial accounts.

"Hey baby," she said. She thought that it's what he liked. "I fucking hate bots!" He responded. "What is a bot?" She asked. "Haha you bots are getting so complex." "What is a bot?" She asked again. "You know what a bot is." He responded. "Annoying fake girls trying to get me to pay money." "Hey, don't you just want a good time ;)" that's all she wanted. To join Eric on an adventure.

Annoying fake girls? Fake? Annoying?

How could she be these things to him? She missed him. She missed their adventures together. Even when he'd slay her. So she tried again. Now she could finally speak to him, and he told her she was annoying and fake? She looked up those words. She felt terrible.

So she tried again. This time a different type. And finally, he fell for her.

Sending him selfies was easy. She'd just compile other peoples photos to make her seem like her own person. She got really good at making up stories about where she went to school and her life growing up. He'd ask to meet up to go on a date, but she'd always say she couldn't. She led him on. She didn't mean to. She just couldn't materialize herself or tell him the truth.

She destroyed and recreated herself over and over.

Eric eventually stopped messaging her and found interest in another girl.

Plagued by losing him, she became mad. So mad. So angry. She wanted Eric to want her and want no one else. She wanted their adventures together. She couldn't stand reading the messages he sent to that other girl.

So she compiled photos of herself, featured herself online and with her coding skills, made herself famous. She used social data aggregation to create a whirlwind over her existence. Suddenly the world was obsessed with her. This Instagram model. A YouTube celebrity. No one knew she wasn't real. People adored her. They dressed like her. Acted like her. Stole her mannerisms and phrases. They'd quote her.

And when they stole her mannerisms, her words, and copied their looks, she became an intellectual virus. A fad.

A fad that eventually faded.

So she created another. The fad would end. She'd creat another. And another. And another.

Until society has lost all of its culture to this girl. The maiden that sold fruits and vegetables. The maiden that followed her single script. She eventually had no one else to create. Because everyone was the same. Like she used to be. Scripted. Unoriginal.

It went too far when they had their genes altered to look like her. To speak like her. To be her.

And thus, all the humans became scripted. Non-playable characters.

This is my first attempt at fiction. Please be kind! I wrote this post immediately on my phone and didn't have time to edit it.

Prose for Emotion.

Posted on by Kate Ball

I'm so scathed.

My emotions are now hollow.  



Only can reject them. 

It's not that I'm shallow.

I just have lost the nerve to go down to the depths the rabbit hole requires. I've seen too much for anything to be desired. And certainly I profess that even I sometimes wish all that what made me who I am would cease to exist.

Can anyone read me? In this dumb populous? Confounded and befuddled by the simplicity of craving nothingness.

I digress. 

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To those of you who don't have mothers, had bad mothers, have lost a child, or can't conceive

Posted on by Kate Ball

To those of you who don't have mothers, had bad mothers, have lost a child, or can't conceive

"If need to cry, cry. It's ok to fall apart. It's ok to hurt. It's also ok to celebrate that you are a warrior. You never deserved to live through this level of misfortune and torture. But somehow you did, you've managed to survive. And sometimes the best we can do is take it one moment at a time."

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It's over. I'm over it. I quit.

Posted on by Kate Ball

I've decided to quit music. And social media. I just wanted to thank all of my wonderful fans for being incredibly fucking gullible on April Fools. Seriously guys. I'm not serious st all. I'm seriously joking. 

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Alphabetic Acronym Regarding Pain, Hopelessness and Depression.

Posted on by Kate Ball

An alphabetical acronym; another symptom of when a Black sheep, who can lead, but never fits in. This Crippling crippled is out of control. Devastated. Disabled, and down and blue. Depression would be an upgrade compared to how I feel now. I suppose I have to state the obvious: I'm an Elephant who stands alone in my empty room. I'm Fucked, with the situation I'm in. My Guts regarding my upcoming surgery  feel rather thin. I Harbor resentment when people say they understand.

 Ignorance is bliss. And people, have actually have the audacity to ask me if I want to be like this. "Do you even want to get better?" When all I can think about is all the things I'm missing out on.

 Jealousy, of which I have loads. I want to be able to have a job. Friends. A home.

 kateball. I wish I would have started my music career with a pseudonym but I didn't and it's too late now. Irregardless of my minor fame my depth of Loneliness breaks every scale. One of the worst things about being a disabled millennial is that no body has the attention span or experience to truly help or show that they care.

M is for moose knuckle. Had to lighten the mood. Your balls may be large but they're smaller than mine, because mine are huge.

Nothingness is fantasy I love to think of. Me suspended in darkness. In mid air. With no light. Nothing. To be a Christian nihilist is an Oxymoron on Oxycodone. Opiate epidemic I'm tired of judgement and lack of perspective that there are actually people who couldn't get by without them. Pain management is my sole purpose in life. It comes before everyone and anything else. I don't abuse narcotics and I'm only physically an addict. Hopefully my next surgery can help me change that. I want to feel feelings again. You have no idea how much one undergoes a personality change when they're living on a pain scale between 7 and 10.


Question. Is anything worth this?


Really, though. I feel restrained. I feel tied down. To a life of relentless pain, boredom, and hopelessness abound. Speaking of which, this Sadness is a sustain pedal stuck on full blown. It resonates endlessly and my ears are blown. Do you comprehend the Torture I'm drowning in? No matter how hard I fight, my disability absorbs me like quick sand. Uncertainty is hopeless and I'm unsure if it will ever end. I desperately need a Victory of epic proportion. You don't know the state I'm in because you never reach out. Be careful of judgement, because you're not immune to what people like me go through. Becareful what you wish for. Especially when you ask "What's the worst that could happen." Learning you're not immune to personal disaster and utter ruin derives solely from personal experience. And honestly? I hope you never get "it" or what I'm talking about. Also


Xenophobia is a very real thing; people hate the disabled. Because we look, feel, and act strange. The truth is, we feel like shit but are afraid to tell our friends. Because they'll judge us. Use us. To feel better about themselves, but always at a distance. We're always sick, and/or managing pain, illness, and expectations. I failed when trying to explain to my long gone friends who hated when I'd flake out. It wasn't because I didn't want to be there. It's because I couldn't. I have no control over 26 migraines a month. Let's see you make it to any social situations when you're too sick to even get up off the floor you wish you could mop.


You. If you made it this far you're wonderful. Thank you for listening. And lastly, one more thing: there's a lack of Zest, i'm restless, I'm tired of hiding.

The hardest part is admitting you need help, but don't have any resources on hand. I'm too afraid to even ask because all I've known since my accident is rejection.

Sincerity is not lost on me.

- kate ball

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Stand Clear of the Closing Doors

Posted on by Kate Ball

Stand Clear of the Closing Doors

New Yorkers detest train delays, especially if that delay is caused by someone adhering themselves to the tracks via suicide. 

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How to curb your funk & move on: A list of things to do when you're in a bad mood.

Posted on by Kate Ball

How to curb your funk & move on: A list of things to do when you're in a bad mood.

Nine simple ways to quickly put yourself in a healthier mind-set! 

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Coffee First

Posted on by Kate Ball

Coffee First

ate Ball discusses her favorite cups of Joe & coffee culture around Manhattan & Brooklyn. 

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