Diary: Bitter Regrets

Rereading all of that is vaguely arousing, but not as much as when I wrote it.  I seem to be saturating my need for transvesticism and transsexualism.  How unfortunate.  Or is it?

As expected, I am a bit shocked about what I wrote.  I am not at all turned on by the homoeroticism right now.  I can only think of pussy.  I want some pussy.  I need some pussy.  I need to fuck a nice, lovely chick.  But can I?  I somehow doubt it.  What is going on here?  Am I wrecking myself, or what?  Let me explain.

For a long time, I have found it impossible to get aroused when I'm with a girl.  Not that I've had much opportunity.  But I am not as turned on by them as perhaps I should be.  I danced with CC__, and with B__ and with Br__, my band's groupies, and failed to get a woody.  Br__ and C__ aren't exactly my type, but B__ is, despite her age.  I can't imagine fucking her, though.  I was so damned uncomfortable when Cr__ started making out with me last year.  I felt nothing.  Nothing at all.  S__ scares me.  She's cute, but I can't seem to feel horny for her enough to move on her.  I don't even think I like her anymore.  She hurt me so badly!  I can't forgive her for that.  I have a problem with women.

Ever since Br__ dumped me so horribly, I can't take sex seriously.  It all seems to me to be a big mistake, an illusion that the whole world avidly believes in.  It's such a facade.  I can no longer think of sex seriously when confronted with the reality of it.  It used to be so easy to idealise girls and worship them from afar, romantically, and when I finally got one, I maintained the fantasy.  She was such an actress.  The whole time, she was playing a role.  I recall that time when she freaked out on the phone and ran screaming out of her apartment brandishing a knife.  I raced up there, worried at first, but somehow, at the back of my mind, I knew that I had nothing to fear; that she was totally safe, not at all serious.  It was the type of thing you see in a play or a movie.  Real people don't take things so seriously.  Indeed, she didn't.  I found her later, and she admitted that she felt foolish, knowing that she wouldn't do anything with that knife.  I knew it too, but I was just as bad as her by playing my own role.

Now I notice that people all around me do the same.  I get nostalgic at times, watching the game unfold in front of me, and I hope for fortune to throw some sex goddess my way.  Then, as I watch more closely, I begin to realize that it's all a fantasy, a way of looking at things.  A woman, I once thought, is a totally different species.  Socially, we segregate ourselves by sex at youth.  Only later do our hormones pull us together.  If not for that, perhaps we would stay away completely.  As we mature, we keep these strange ideas about the opposite sex, and idealize them.  When we fall in love, we feel like they are goddesses.  We worship their diferences, because their physicality makes them something else.  I spent fifteen months thinking of Br__ that way.  She was a woman, an entity on her own only in that she was female.  I couldn't care that she was human.

Now when I look at a girl, I see instead the similarities, and lose sexual interest.  What's the use if they're essentially the same?  A girl farts, shits, pisses, pukes, eats sleeps, etc. just like I do.  There's nothing romantic about a couple of mounds of flesh on the chest, a tiny waist, big hips and a fleshy hole in the crotch.  It's all human skin and fat and bone, It's all just like me, only built differently.  When I think of tits, they seem to me to be nothing more than lumpy globs of fat with nipples on them.  They're not so great.  But when I see them, I am at first seized with intense desire and curiosity.  It slowly fades.  A cunt is a smelly bloody thing.  It's not sexy in and of itself, either.  Women seem top be soft, sort of childlike-featured adults.  Big fucking deal.  I imagine a girl sucking me off, remember that she must have done it many times before, and the romantic feeling disappears.  The same with sex.  How can it be special?  It's just genital friction, marinated in illusions of romance, steeped in fantasy.  It has no meaning.

S__ tells me about the guy she fucked at some trailer park on Victoria day weekend when she and her boyfriend annually break up.  What's the attraction?  She fucks another guy.  She abandons every thought of the guy to whom she has attached herself for five long fucking years just for a meaningless fuck.  Why did that bother me so much?  Why did it make me so jealous?  I used to jerk myself thinking of fucking her, and then, all of a sudden, the idea of her fucking the trailer park guy pops in and I go flaccid.  Why does it bother me?  I think it's because it so cruelly shatters my illusions of a somewhat permanent relationship.  How can she betray her boyfriend like that?  I have no problem imagining her fucking her boyfriend.  But anyone else?  It's painful.  Perhaps I feel grossly inadequate at the same time.  Why not me?  It's both, I guess.  Come to think of it, It must be the latter.  The former is just a redirection of negative emotion.  But it's partially valid, too.  I feel so jealous when I think of it that way.  Oh well.

The point is that reality has no place in sex.  It's a fantasy world.  That's why I enjoy dressing up in girl's panties so damned much.  It's totally unreal, and there's no way that my fantasies can get shattered, because there's nobody there.  It's futile to put girls on such a pedestal.  The only charm they have is the hormonal fantasy they come close to.  They are only as good as they are similar to the ephemeral dream-girl.  That's why I don't even bother.  I'm so tragically picky that I can't even imagine dating a girl right now.  It's just too god-damned painful.  It's so shattering.  I don't like having my illusions destroyed.  Sure, it enlightens me, but to what price?  I'm sure I'll get over it soon.  I just have to sort it out some more.  This is very helpful, this writing.

Why must I be so hung up on this fantasy of femine perfection?  Is everybody simply a slave to an ideal?  Do they constantly strive to find that perfect person, and fail miserably every time, only to try again and again?  Don't they realize how impossible it is to acheive something like that?  Perhaps many do, yet they can continue.  I myself have such a clear idea of what I want.  That's how I fell in love with S__.  One must want to fall in love for it to happen.  People like my buddy E__ fall in love constantly.  I fall in love once in a blue moon.  I don't want to fall in love because I know that it will fail.  Why bother?  Sure, I can get sex.  If I do end up being such a good friend too, I'm fucking a friend.  Somehow, I realize now that I am no longer in love with S__, it seems disrespectful to want to fuck a friend.  It's sort of insulting.  It's a failure to see a person for what she really is.  I don't know if I could fuck her if she gave me an opportunity.  I could be such a good friend of hers, or I could lose all respect for her now that the veil in front of me has been removed.  I think that I have lost a lot of respect for her since she threw herself at J__ right in front of me.  Oh, how she wounded me!  How could she?  She broke my heart without even knowing it.  That makes me realize even more that girls are just like us.  Unlike my ideal, a real girl can be aroused by a whole multitude of men.  That's totally fair, but it seems unfair.  Why should reality be so different from fantasy?  How can I relate, when these fantasies are innate?  What can I do?

It seems that there are two options: live in a fantasy world, or live in reality.  Fantasy seems awfully enticing.  It's all under my own control.  But reality is after all reality.  I can count on it not to ever change.  It's unpredictable, spontaneous, fulfilling.  Fantasy is not.  Fantasy, however, can be quite rich.  where else can I envision this perfect woman?  She does not exist in reality.  Real women are too real, too intense.  A dream girl, however, I can't touch.  I need the touch of other humans, especially sexy girls.  Or silk and lace.  I can decide right here, right now, whether I want to just fantasize for the rest of my life or actually confront reality and get aroused without any fantasy.  Impossible!  Let's just live the dream if we can. . .

I'll live the life that I want.  I'll drive home from the university where I teach, pull the Porsche into the garage, and go into the house, dressed in my suit, and say hello to my wife, who does something on her own for her money.  She'll kiss me hello, and follow me into the bedroom, where I remove my clothing and put on some of her lingerie, which I select.  She'll stay clothed, and I'll just masturbate constantly as I worship the ground upon which she walkes, lick her feet, serve as her little french maid.  I'm her slave.  For all the time we're together, I'm hers.  I keep my body shaven and my hair long like hers, and I put on jewelry and makeup like hers, and perfume.  I'll be female for her.  I'll even fuck her as she wants me to.

Physically, she's blonde, has firm fist sized tits, long silky legs, and lots of agressive spirit, and at the same time, lots of logic.  She thinks just like me.  She fantasizes about me, about me wearing her clothes and being her little lesbian bitch to fuck.  She must be somewhat meatier than S__, but without an ounce of fat on her body.  Her skin has to be as pale as mine, and as silky and hairless as is humanly possible.

On a more realistic level, I am seiously considering ordering lingerie through the mail.  Whenever I get any kind of catalogue, I'll order a one-piece swimsuit, a bikini or two, silk panties, lace panties, both with matching bra, two one piece undies, one silky, the other lacy, a garter belt, and stockings to match.  I'll get varieties of colours.  That's pretty much all I need.  When I have my own place, and I isolate myself, I'll shave my body hair to be totally femininely smooth, and live like a girl for a week or two.  I'll wear only girls' clothes, I'll wear makeup and perfume, and maybe even skirts and dresses.  I'll be masturbating constantly.

But I'll probably lose interest after a while.  I'll regret it after I drop my first load.  But I'll have to press on.  I am determined.  Doing this will either purge this from my system, or make it my sexual staple.  Thinking about it makes me hope for the latter!  How kinky it is, how depraved.  I want to dress up like a girl again.  How fantastic!  I simply can't adequately describe the feeling of wanting to be a girl.  I want to turn more and more into a girl every time I masturbate with girls' clothes on.  After a couple of thousnd times, My dick will fall off, and I'll have a fully developed cunt in its place.  Then I'll go and get laid.  But I want to return to manhood each time, just so I can do it again.  I love the way it humbles my masculinity.  This is exactly what homophobia's all about: the fear of becoming feminine.  I'm not afraid.  I want it, badly, but only temporarily. 

God help me though, that I'll never have the guts to do this with a girl, or even to let anyone at all know about it.  That's part of the attraction, though.  While I do it, I imagine myself sachaying femininely, confidently, as a faggoty transsexual wearing lingerie, pretending to be a girl.  Let them drop their jaws in amazement as I show how unafraid I am of being feminine, of showing my own femininity.  They're afraid of it.  They'll never understand, because, they're so concerned with being male.  I'll suck them off just for kicks, even though it doesn't turn me on to think of men, just to see them squirm as they realize that a man is doing it, and they enjoy it just as much.  The horror!  HAHA!  Then I'll go and cavort with girls, giggly and frivolous, but just as feminine.  Then I'll come all over myself from the experience.  It's so naughty to think of being feminine.  Men are afraid of losing their masculinity, but they don't realize how cool it is to be a girl.  Argh! I've got to get those little black panties on!

I can just imagine it: in my isolation retreat, I get a visit from a man unexpectedly, and I seduce him.  I tease him, letting him think that I am a girl for a while, and at the last minute show him my dick, and let him understand the power of femininity.  It controls mankind.  Although that's not the end for which I seek it.  Now, off to bed, and a nice set of undies!

Fiction: First Attempt, or the Floodgates Open, or even, Going Off the Deep End

My tongue slips and slides on a hard spike of male flesh.  I nibble a bit on the purple head, suck it like a salty purple lollipop.  I gently rub it around my face, and lick it slowly, in a spiral from the hairy root to the very tip.  I intentionally leave a ring of lipstick around the circumference, and slowly, but ever so gently run my nail along its length like I had just done with my tongue.  Then I grab it hard with my right hand and suck it dry, jerking and sucking, sucking harder and harder, and jerking vigorously.  I can taste the salty cum start trickling into my mouth.  I moan with feminine pleasure, knowing what is to come.  But I stop just as that tell-tale quiver begins, and giggle salaciously at the torture to which I subject this beautiful beast.  I lick his muscular, smooth, hairless chest quickly, and have them bring in two more, tied down just like this one, and just as muscular and handsome and masculine.

I introduce myself to their pricks, one by one, by tonguing them both, getting a taste for what I want.  Then I grab the two dicks at my side, and start sucking viciously on the first again, until he screams in intense, shameful pleasure.  I gargle and swallow.

My other men I toy with some more, as the first has lost consciousness.  I rub myself on them with my knee, and suck and kiss their cocks.  I eventually lose a bit of interest.  One squirts all over my leg.  I scoop it up with my finger and lick it clean.  This one gets a solid kick in the nuts for that.  They roll him away to be eunoched.  The last one suffers my ultimate punishment.  I open up my lacy robe, slip off my silk panties, careful not to remove the garter belt, and start rubbing my own prick naked against him and his.  He cries out in agony, as I make him come before me.  Hah.  Too feminine, for you, hmmm?

The first, whom I have managed to prevent from climaxing, grunts in distaste and acute arousal.  I can tell by his pulsating penis.  He tries to turn his head away, but always looks back again with a perverse pleasure.  I know that he longs to be as feminine as I am.  I purr and cuddle up to him, caressing his balls, and fondling them, tickling them.  I give the signal to the eunochs, and they turn him around and bend him over.  For the sake of embarrassing him, I fuck him up the ass.  I no longer feel any pleasure doing this violent male action anymore.  I much prefer to spread my legs and pretend that a dick goes into my cunt while I myself get reamed up the ass.  Any dick inside me is better than a dick not inside me.  I last forever up his ass, and just for kicks, I come in there, and let him know about it.  He has been growling with pain and gratitude.  I kiss him tenderly on the mouth, licking his lips as I do so.  The eunochs lift him up again, and I grab his dick again.  Finally, he speaks: "You fucking whore bitch cunt slut. . ." he sobs.  I take offence, and bite his cock.  I viciously chew it, ripping it off, still hard in my mouth.  The stump gushes blood.  "See?  That's how it feels to menstruate, jerk."  I continue sucking his dick, and as it bleeds and loses hardness, I shove it into his mouth, which screams in agony.  I return to the one who has passed out coming all over me, and revive him.  I force him to suck me off, and he obliges most tenderly, and most readily.

I finish up and slip my panties back on, and await my next victims, reminiscing. . .

It all began when I was still in my very early twenties.  Women and men became more and more estranged.  Men became sex objects, but retained the power too.  Women thought that this was another scam, to take away the beauty industry from them, and make men the objects of admiration.  Enough was enough, so they revolted.

They had discovered back in late '95 a certain gene infusion which made all women and some very lucky men immortal.  Women no longer needed men.  So they stopped having sex with us.  What for, they figured?  We don't need their money or their power anymore.  Why should we give them what they want?  Only those very lucky men who could be tamed were kept as sex slaves.  The others were made crazy for sex.  The war began, but the women won, simply because men were generally too desperate for sex.  The men were enslaved, and immortalised by some new development of the first infusion.  So then, all the military men were destroyed, and the rest ran away to avoid slavery or death.

The women were quite rigourous.  They eliminated all of those they found.  By eliminated, I mean that they either changed them into homosexuals, for their viewing enjoyment, or turned them into women.  Those who became women were the obsequious ones, and they were grotesque copies.  Quite rarely, a man would display genuine femininity, and become a real woman.  At least, as real as he can possibly get.  Those are never quite right. . .

At any rate, all men were eventually captured, simply for lack of sex.  Homosexuals thrived, because the women loved to watch them and then fuck each other in large orgies or in private.  All women became beautiful and sexcrazed because of the gene infusion.  So the homos turned themselves in, and some even became girls.  The lucky bastards!  But they can never be fully feminine, just for lack of experience.

When I was captured, I was truculent.  They tortured me, and all of us, for not co-operating.  But they enjoyed us the most.  They sucked us off for kicks.  They rubbed us up and down.  Then they offered us the greatest sex, and would not give it.  They made us totally horny, and never let us come.  It was sheer agony.  A few actually went mad, and were destroyed.  I kept my cool, though.  I reveled in the  sexy femininty around me.  I worshipped them, and they knew it.  I offered them my body, and they took it.

However, they tricked us all.  They started sending in the fags to suck us, and we actually were allowed to release.  None of us could at first, but we all eventually took it for what it was.  In the meantime, the girls danced for us to make us horny.  They gradually made it more and more impossible to ignore the men.  We began to look more at them than the girls.  They enjoyed flipping around our sexual preferences.  Even fags were sometimes made hetero, and then forced back. They had men sensuously fuck us up the ass.  Some were dressed like women.  We were helpless.  At least, the others were.  They are now running around in those delicious fag shows.  I never lost interest in the girls.  I would always imagine them sucking me while the men did the dirty work.  Their plan had backfired.

They knew.  They tortured me more and more.  They sent in men and only men, but I resisted.  They grew angry, and beat me up.  They kicked me in the nuts.  They tortured me more and more.  I hated every moment, but they would never forgive me.  One day, they came back to me.  They let loose and allowed me to do what I would.  I could have run away, and they would have allowed me.  There were rumors of gangs of men living outside, free from feminine rule, but immortal like them, enjoying their own slave women.  These were very rare.  I could have made it there, too.  I had Carte Blanche.

Instead, I dropped to my knees, and kissed their feet, licked them clean.  They were quite happy, as I jerked off all over myself, not daring to stain them with my vile liquid.  They are still so incredible!
More and more frequently, they let me loose and allowed me to serve them like a eunoch, but in sexy thongs and in the nude, and I did so most gladly, just because they are the most fantastic specimens of femininity.  Ah, the feminine!  How smooth, silky, steamy. . .  They began to tire of my obsequiousness.  They tied me up now and again, to torture me as they did at first.  How I moaned and cried.  Eventually, my Mistress made me snap on some of her panties, and then rubbed me around.  I still focussed on her, but the panties made it so much better.  Soon, she did it agian, and watched as I relished it until she removed the panties.  She then cracked a wicked grin, and hatched her plot.

She dressed me up and left me there to watch her.  I almost came.  I was touching a garment which had been in contact with her cunt.  She let me loose a few times and allowed me to worship her in an ultimate homage, by wearing her clothes.  How amazing it was!  I came regularly, but not on her clothes.  That would have been sacrilege!  She eventually allowed me to keep some of her clothes.  Whenever she would release me, I would rush to ge dressed in my new clothes, and gamboll around like a girl.  I wanted so badly to be one. . .

She was most impressed.  She allowed me to masturbate on her.  She allowed me to rub onto her.  That was the most heavenly moment of my entire life (that life, anyway):  I wore her white lace panties, which just barely covered my dick.  The lacy elastic gripped tight on my hip.  My body was by then totally bare, by electrolysis.  I had grown my hair femininely.  My brassiere was tight on my flat chest, but the silk and lace made my nipples hard.  I had on my garter belt, with the white stockings.  She wore crimson panties, skimpy as mine, and a very pretty, flowery brassiere, and stockings to match.  At first, I worshipped her silently, in absolute awe.  Then, for the first time ever, she let me touch her body.  I caressed it all over with my hands, then my nose, my lips, my tongue.  She stood powerfully, like a goddess, as I affectionately worshipped.  Then I began to hump, and she touched me all over.  I could feel our smooth silky skin touching together, and the lace and silk rustling together.  She had me strip her slowly until she was naked, and I broke into a religious stupor.  I came all over her.  She cleaned it off as I passed out at her feet.

After that, I was determined to follow up.  She let me sometimes.  But if I tried to fuck her, she would kick me in the balls and watch me squirm.  Sometimes.  But I didn't like to fuck as much as I liked to dress up.  She had given me a choice, as I was loosened at all times, and exploring sex with her constantly: I could either fuck, or dress up.  I gradually began to simply dress up.  I never fucked her again.  She became angry, and had some other men come in as sex toys, and torture them before my eyes.  She would always orgasm.  I wanted her to believe that she was still my goddess.  So she tested me.  She made me join in her sexcapades.  I sucked my first dick under her direction.  It was uncomfortable at first.  I vomited when I first had come in my mouth.  But soon, I grew accustomed to it.  I still did not enjoy it though.  I wanted to worship pussy after all.

She then took away all of my clothes, and I was left male again.  She would only allow me to wear them again if I displayed femininity.  So I did.  I absolutely required my lingerie.  I began to act more and more girlish.  But it wasn't enough.  When she saw me sucking a dick again, she gave me some pantyhose.  I came all over myself.  As my sucking improved, she let me wear various unflattering, incomplete things, like old woman's undies, and her skirts.  Then for a long time, I wore leotards.  Soon, I was permitted to wear bathing suits.  I returned to heaven.  I always had the choice to return to something I had worn.  I still wear the swimsuits from time to time.  Anyway, I slowly got up to the point where I loved to suck dick, just because I got to become more feminine by it.

I began to fuck some of them up the ass, just to get my big, combersome masculinity into their tight, virginal little buns.  I needed to release my male need to dominate.  Eventually, that too became useless.  I had them fuck me instead.  Right up the ass.  I still do sometimes, when I feel kinky.  Then, I met some other transexualized men.  We sucked each other's dicks passionately.  How I loved 69.  We started to play with dildoes.  But I still worshipped my mistress's body.  I wanted to be like her.  I was finally given a girl's body, but kept the dick.  It's a show of loyalty and reverence:  I can never be totally female.  So now I have lesbian sex with my mistress whenever possible, and we play together at torturing men.  How I love to convince them that I am a sexy girl, and then make them realize that I am still a man, and make them enjoy me more that they would a female.  I love the taste of come in my mouth.  I love to have a dick inside of me.  But better yet is my mistress's dildo, as ahe fucks the shit out of me, literally.  I love women.  I love to be a woman.  I also love to make men think that they want to be women.  Just like me.

Diary: the Truth Will Set You Free

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Diary: Dipping a Toe in the Pool

I am beginning to understand what I must do.  I do have a style, and I must be merciless with it.  I need a copy of Strunk & White.  I must explore my own depravity, and put it through the scrutiny of my writing style.  If only I had something to write about. . .

I can try writing about cats.  But that would get quite dull without context.  I could also write about women, and sex, but I might arouse myself so much that I would never be able to complete it.  Ah, yes, women.  They are the most puzzling feature of life.  And I am not talking about relationships.  In fact, I am not even talking, I am writing.  However, I need privacy if I am to do this.  I simply cannot do it with anyone around.  There!  Now let's Go.

What an odd sensation, to see a perfectly formed human female strut by in her summer clothes.  Hormones pump into my blood and make me sweat.  This past weekend, I saw many beautiful women,  particularly at the concert, but none were as shockingly attractive as the one I spotted on Yonge St. during my first trip to Area 2.  She emerged from Hayden St. or some other, and my eyes immediately popped out of my head.  She was the perfect specimen of human femininity, yet she lacked the single feature which usually affects me the most.  I shall explain (and reword) later.  She was fairly tall, but not towering, perhaps five foot eight.  She wore the summer fashion of the day, which any red-blooded male must appreciate with a religious fervor: denim shorts caressing only the curves of her buttocks, hanging loosely on her hips and exposing her deliciously smooth thighs  and navel to every roving eye, and a tiny little t-shirt exposing the belly all the way up to the ribs.  Her shirt was black, like her hair and sunglasses, and her skin tanned brown and fluid like Canadian Maple Syrup.  Her incredible legs carried her quickly and confidently around the corner onto Yonge.  Her shorts seemed to hang on her hips just below the waist, just hang, as if they were suspended only by a desire to feel her smooth creamy skin, and her waist, slim and as curvaceous as a Cosine, made her skin appear liquid, as delectable as root beer.  Fuck, was she ever hot!  And there's more, and I'll get back to this!

Diary: Needing to Read to Write Better

Why am I so uninspired?  It must be because of so many hours spent at my dead-end job.  I do nothing constructive.  I suppose I should start writing things that I like instead of this pointless drivel.  I can't get anywhere with this.  I need to get into the same spirit I was in during the school year.  Ah, what memorable satires I wrote!  If only my mood allowed me . . . 

I should read Catch-22 again.  There is something in that book that I missed, that is very important to me right now, which I am on the verge of discovering.  I feel as though that secret is coming to me, and that I must experience something very soon to discover exactly what it is.  

I was thinking today (a rare moment indeed, considering the brainless idiocy that I earn money for) that engineers are actually somewhat admirable.  They are (or at least should be) clever, adaptable, and intelligent, yet unafraid to get their hands dirty on some greasy machine.  In fact, they love it.  I, on the other hand, love to get down and dirty with words, twist them into my purposes, stretch them to fit my needs.  Language is an invention like any other, and is open to innovations and improvements.  People love my satirical lexical humour.  So do I.  I should not be afraid to delve into the bottom of the sewer of language, where all of the interesting things are.  I will find out what makes it tick.  I will dismantle it and reassemble it, over and over again, with the greatest attention to the smallest detail, and work in my own improvements.  

For example, Poe's stories are in drastic need of improvement, if not grammatically, but in terms of plot.  Or rather, his lyric genius must be extricated from his fantastically unjust stories.  How barbaric of him to have the narrator of The Pit and the Pendulum survive his ordeal because of a timely rescue lasting an entire two lines!  He (Poe, that is) might as well have roasted his tale over an open flame and devoured it whole, or battered it mercilessly with an axe, rather than ending it that way.  Improving it could be well worth the effort.  

I should also reread [famous author, redacted], and read some of it for the first time.  Soon I will discover the flaw if there is one.  The same goes for Heller.  Is there a flaw in either?  I just loved those books . . .  [obscure author] is a bit too irrational for my liking.  He does have a lot to say, though... I should get reading!

Diary: Excuses and Luddism

This has got to be the most awkward change I have ever had to make in my writing.  This word processor really bites.  Sure, It's got all sorts of little features and it looks cool, but it's nothing but a rip off of Macintosh.  Which I hate.  Why could they not have kept it the way it was, without integrating it into Windows?  I can't even get some of my material.  How disappointing?  I'll get used to it.

Character Study: Psychotic Murder Rationalization

Or so they say.  I have always been a proponent of the rational mind.  It was an ongoing mental exercise to plot the murder of one whom I thought had no value at all in the world, not to me, not to anyone, including herself.  But I was wrong.

She should have been easy to kill if my assessment of her worth had been accurate.  But she was anything but easy, while she lived and afterwards.  No, I cannot say that I have a guilty conscience.  I very much doubt that I have any conscience at all.  In a way I am glad that I took her life.  Who else can say that he killed someone without anger to spur him on, or remorse to stop him?  I am proud of my achievement.

What a waste she was.  To think that in my own pitiful state of mind, I was able to pity her as well.  Through the waves of self-pity, I must have seen her suffering as being as noble as mine.  No wonder I clung to her like she was a part of me.  A cancerous growth as it were.

I went to lengths I once thought of as extraordinary to plan my dastardly deed (I snicker in sinister pride when I recall.)  I scoured maps for easily accessible, yet secluded areas in which to dispose of the body, at least temporarily.  I studied and memorized every bend and curve, every stone and stump of a certain piece of land which I shall not allude to any further.  I located a spot in a dense thicket, hidden from view from every angle, and dug a six-foot deep hole in preparation.  I practiced at digging and refilling, and covering up the grave, and of disposing of the tools.  I made certain that I could lug a heavy dead weight into the thicket, without being seen.  Disposal, for the moment, was feasible.

Acquisition was the most difficult of my problems.  How could I have my victim agree to follow me without anyone knowing?  Simply, my powers of persuasion, and the fact that she probably would trust me, would suffice. 

Character study: Psychotic Killer Driven by Heartbreak

That was about three or four years ago.  An adolescent eruption of self-pity, as it were.  Today things are different.  I can imagine hearing the same cry of despair in many people of all ages at this very moment, submitting to their darkest whims of self-inflicted, guilt-ridden torture.  But I, having experienced that grotesque facet of human existence (or any existence, shurely?), I know better than that.  I know, for instance, that one must seize the reins, the proverbial reins, as it were, of circumstance, and steer into more pleasant pastures.  Or better yet, dangerous, but fulfilling pastures.  I have led circumstances beyond the chicken wire fences erected by society, and all the misguided morality that fuels it, beyond the imaginary line that people paint between good and evil, right and wrong, acceptable or unacceptable.  I see no more barriers, since I have taken to a different course entirely; I tread not on one side or the other of such distinctions, nor on the hazy line between them: I hover above, and swim beneath.  I am the extra-dimensional man, since I decided that such two-dimensional thinking is simply absurd.

Who can honestly tell me that my actions have been any less morally upright than theirs?  Frankly, only I can, because I can understand their moral stances, for all of the nasty contortions that make them so unique.  Worst of all is that they secretly wallow in their own guilt and regret, as I did only a short time ago, and righteously damn me for things that they can only suspect me of.  I lack a trustworthy face.  I had always thought of myself as trustworthy, until I fully understood the power trust brings.  It can be exploited like oil, or coal, or Amazon Rain Forests, or baby seals.  They certainly do not appreciate it when they are betrayed, but that is the name of the game.  Luckily, I never allow them to know that they have been betrayed, not until they chose to betray me.  One must keep an eye out for such parasites.  I have so few friends.

Those bastards . . . they perpetually want to suck you dry, without even telling you.  They offer their goods, and deliver worthless trash instead.  Why?  Because all they want is to be liked, and to have a friend, one must betray another.  Friends are made and kept by making enemies.  

I only wanted to know what I was missing, although I thought I knew.  A perfect match for the soul, two pieces of a puzzle linking together to form a perfect, beautiful, whole, eternally joined in a cosmic fate determined by some unexplained extra-dimensional phenomenon.  And not only for the virtuous, but for everyone, good, bad, short, tall, ugly, beautiful, smart, or stupid.  I knew exactly what I needed to complete my life: some hot chick with nice, firm round tits, an hourglass figure bottoming out in an ass I could hold in both hands, and a gorgeous face whose expression I would quiver in ecstasy to see in a moment of sexual abandon, glistening with sweat and moaning for more, softly into my ear . . . Of course, she would also have to have a brilliant mind.  As far as I was concerned, my fate would grant me all of this, just out of the simple justice of nature.

Alas, such women are so difficult to find.  One must imagine them, or glaze over with one's tongue hanging out at the lovely pictures in dirty magazines, who would naturally be as brilliant as the observer, at least insofar as the fantasies go.  Nature itself, through so many centuries of literature, has never gone wrong before, so why would it not happen for me?  Especially when I needed it most, at such a crucial point in life, which would be certain to determine the course of my existence.  Hey, suicide is preferable to the injustice of being denied of one's constitutionally guaranteed right to the Perfect SoulMate(R)(C).  Luckily, I was offered the next best thing: a wholly inadequate, mentally depraved youngster who desperately needed the kind of pity I turned onto myself to survive, because she reasoned in a moment of brilliant self-torture that her own pity simply was not good enough.  Happily, I dumped my pathos onto her troubles, which seemed to shrink into microscopic size next to hers.

It has been nearly a year since we stopped our lengthy affair, and I dropped back into depression worse than before.  So I killed her.  End of Story.  I wish I knew how I turned out.