Not an operating system — rather, a short story by Wells Tower. It’s written in second person and present tense, which reminded me of a Choose Your Own Adventure (of the passive variety, I guess).
Your mother’s fingers graze your sternum, and this makes you uncomfortable. A spray of large and painful pimples recently sprouted there. They throb with humiliated awareness when your mother touches them. This area of your body is a source of worry, in part because, years ago, a babysitter told you that all boys in their teen-age years develop a soft spot in their chests, like a baby’s fontanel, and that you could kill somebody by punching him in that place. The babysitter was quite a liar, you realize now, even worse than you. He told you that in Florida there lived a race of murderous clowns who carried kitchen knives and who would come after you if you committed a sin. He also said that doctors performed abortions by delivering the baby and then putting it in a bucket and letting it cry to death. Still, you are not sure whether the babysitter was lying about the soft spot. The idea of it intrigues you. You writhe away from your mother’s hand.
