Saturday, January 01, 1994

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.