Trick or Treat?

'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.
~William Shakespeare

Halloween; the time for ghosts, goblins and your occasional 'path to roam unmasked has come again. Or.. maybe not.

I've always hated the holiday. Anything swarms of people are excited about can't be good. Why dress up like a monster when you already are one? I have plenty of masks, thank you very much. The last thing I need is one with fur and fangs and a mouthhole just the right size for inserting candy.

Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the irony. Perhaps I'll dress up like a sociopath wearing a Mask of Sanity this year. Better yet, I can remain nothing at all. A hollow vessel in the shape of humanity.

When I was a child I remember being very eager to celebrate the holiday. Roaming the moonlit streets behind a literal, unpenetrable mask. It sounded exciting.

Of course, I had other things in mind besides pilfering candy from strangers. I suppose what I was drawn to most was the anonymity. A form of camouflage that felt so much thicker and safer than the one I was learning to wear day by day.

Wearing a mask 365 days a year is difficult. The masks a sociopath must wear are just as chafing as any real one. All masks are stifling, and it doesn't take long to feel that itch that can encompass you like wildfire. Skin rubbing and scraping against this superficial identity.

It's no surprise the temptation to tear it off is powerful. The effort of sustaining a semblance of normalcy is beyond comprehension. I'm positive this build up of frustration, irritation, ire-- is what lends us toward acting more sinisterly when backs are turned. Being 'good' is a pain in the ass. A little contrast can be refreshing.

But what of Halloween? Its popularity is definitely a strike against it. So is its custom of compelling obnoxious twats to ring my doorbell for hours on end. I guess you could easily ask me, if there's anything I actually like in the world. But if I answered that question all at once, I'd have fathoms less to write about. Wouldn't I?

Success Is As Success Does

"A successful man is one who can lay a firm foundation with the bricks others have thrown at him. "

-David Brinkley 

'Life is what you make of it'. A true statement in more ways than one. Some circumstances or events may be inevitable, but they are not the driving force of your fate--you are. At least, that is what I've come to know.

Your life is like a ship and it's up to you to take the helm. People waste so much time either letting the winds of chance guide them where it will, or battling it completely. The world is neither an overpowering force to succumb to nor an obstacle to overcome; it is a resource to be exploited. A tool to your advantage-- an oyster, if you will-- but only if you make it so.

Sociopaths are purported to have a grandiose sense of self; an innate belief in their superiority and capability to achieve success. This is seen as a 'delusional' symptom of a disorder, but close your textbook and look at the facts. It won't take more than a glance at the obviously high-functioning Sociopaths running amuck in your backyard to see, our little 'delusions' are often more than justified.

What you call delusions of grandeur, I call an innate understanding of the world. Superiority is not a stroke of luck, a silly nametag that falls into your lap-- it is a mindset. An implacable and justified confidence in your own abilities. In your own power to control your reality.

Of the most valuable mechanisms in the wild, camouflage is arguably the best. Used by both predator and prey alike, it is a skill with immeasurable benefit. Like the Spotted Leopard the Psychopath must be able to disappear into its surroundings like the most nimble of its prey.

Hence the many masks we weave; the many realities we project. It is both an offense and a defense in a world of Empaths: poachers of the Unemotional. We are cogs in a circle of life, not blocks in a pyramid of hierarchy. No predator roams completely un-preyed upon and no prey roams solely unpredatorily. To be successful you must be able hunt with eyes in the back of your head-- and conversely ensconce, with fangs bared.

Another factor in the success of psychopaths that cannot be ignored is the lack of investment in our surroundings. No real weight is placed on the trappings of success so there is no loss at its disappearance.

We are not burdened by responsibility or lofty hopes and dreams. We can take gambles others are not willing to make, because almost any loss is negligible. With great risks come great rewards, and when loss is no great fear, treasure is all you reap.

That's not to say our ability to recklessly pursue greatness does not ever lead to great toil or temporary misfortune. Nothing is free. No action goes without consequence, positive or negative. But, why let repercussions bog you down? Why take No for an answer? Why allow any loss to be permanent?

I have never been able to comprehend the Empath's natural propensity toward defeat-- hopelessness. Allowing themselves to be boxed into a lot in life they feel powerless to escape. Any chess-player could tell you things are never as straightforward as they appear. As a strategist, you must realize that half of power is illusion and the other half is control.

The world can be a nasty card player, but all you have to do is call its bluff. Life is, after all, a game. All I'm doing is playing to win.

I have faced countless setbacks in my ascension and I don't expect them to stop coming anytime soon. It matters not the form these hurdles come in nor the frequency which they sprout up; Victory is inevitable. Whether I leap over them with grace and poise or faceplant into the mud, nothing can stop me moving forward. That's why I'm me, and you're you.

You ask me for advice. Question how a despicable, inhuman creature such as I (your words, not mine) can flourish in a world of your making, your design--while you flounder like an outsider to your own club.

The answer is simple: I'm not one of you. I'm some sort of hybrid. One of few bastard children of Bacchus and Hecate. The amoral offspring of the god of wine and pleasure and the goddess of the mysterious arts; sorcery and witchcraft.

Of course, I'm being a bit of a drama-queen, but my implication stands. We are able to thrive because we live outside your rules. What you may lack in self-confidence, intelligence and cunning we take up in spades.

I'm not hindered by one concrete identity. I shift and morph to fit my surroundings. You all get to see the Me that giggles behind the curtain of my public persona(s). That laughs outright at the many uncharacteristic parts I get to play; Passionate Activist, Reasonable Conservative, Humble Genius, Slow-witted Everyman-- the list is endless.

I write this at a stage in my life I find most amusing. There is a certain ebb and flow to my existence (as I'm sure there is to all of yours, but mine is more noticeable, extreme). My proneness to boredom leaves me skyrocketing to all ends of the earth in search of something (Entertainment? Experience? The meaning of life?)

The way I play the game today bears no resemblance to how I played it a year ago, nor will it resemble how I'll play it a year hence.

For now- the reality I've painted for myself and the tactics I've chosen to pursue-- are leaving a pleasant taste on my palette. This performance is one of my best and most impressive. I am extending myself to the ends of the earth-- letting life wring me for what I'm worth and not coming back disappointed.  My narcissism has never been so justified in years.

Again and again it is plain to see; when all the fat is boiled from the skeleton of life--it really is just what you make it.

My Obsession.

 “I am haunted by you. From my suffering self I would tear out my soul to walk as an empty vessel through life if it would end your possession of me…”" - Jerry Kirk

Obsession is defined as the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image or desire. It is a derivative of the Latin word ‘obsidere’ meaning to besiege, in reference to the belief that such passionate and pervasive thoughts were akin to being besieged by powerful spirits taking control of your mind. Manipulating you, possessing you, seducing you with soft whispers and invisible caresses. I for one, have no idea how to make them stop.

Recently I read a dissertation, which brought forth the thesis that the psychology of violent psychopaths was not dissimilar to that of addicts. The author argued that the mode through which psychopaths expressed addictive behavior was through their progressing attachment and participation in fantasy from childhood onward. Originally a vessel to escape reality, fantasy moves on to become an integral part of the psychopath’s ‘identity’. He then goes on to explain how the intensity and depravity of said fantasies creates a euphoria that comes to fill the void in a sociopathic child’s emotional development.

In this way violent fantasies begin working in the brain much like drugs do in an addict. When you become hooked on a drug like Heroin, the drug literally begins taking over certain processes in your brain. In psychology we loosely call these processes apart of your ‘reward system’. The body’s reward system is made up of various chemicals including dopamine and serotonin. When your body becomes too accustomed to a drug manipulating your brain’s production of these chemicals, your body adjusts to that by ceasing to produce them naturally. This is what makes it almost impossible for veteran drug users to stop. Their brain chemistry is now literally altered to make these drugs biologically necessary. They’ll do anything to avoid the misery, apathy and lack of happiness that comes with quitting.

For the young psychopath, half of this cycle is missing. A heroin addict’s brain could take years to normalize enough to feel happiness without extreme stimulus, making it ridiculously hard for him/her to quit. For the psychopath, that reward system was broken from the beginning. What that means is constant fantasizing and thrill-seeking behavior becomes akin to an alcoholic needing a drink. We need it to function normally like others can naturally. We can’t stop, it’s the only thing keeping us alive.

But at this point in my life, I think it’s killing me. I am so deep in my own ocean of depravity I can’t even recall which way is up. I’m drowning with air in my lungs. I’m dead but my heart’s still beating.

It’s impossible to focus. The thoughts have always plagued me, possessed me and influenced my actions. But at one time they were analogous to a friend, a companion. Sure, they played games with me. Cruelly pushed me into risky situations; shoved me into positions a clever kid should avoid. But my thoughts only led me to hedonistic delights. Only persuaded me out of my decorum and sharp tact in order to smother my senses in euphoria. To remind me I wasn’t just taking breaths for show.

But now I’m too far in; too deep in a quicksand I’m not sure I want to escape from. Like I’m climbing a mountain I’m never going to reach the peak of. I feel as if I am literally miles under the ocean with no light to guide my way to survival. There is this bursting pressure behind my eyes, a prickling of a thousand needles under my skin, compelling me to satisfy this need, this fucking uncontrollable desire, and it seems nothing will satisfy it anymore.

Giving in is only a temporary respite. A shallow breath before being plunged back into acrid waters. There is an ultimate pinnacle of pleasure that will come with the perfection of my fantasy, with the flawlessness of my ritual and the re-creation of this ideal. I’m sure of it. This is my obsession. These are the words whispered into blushing ears. These are the beliefs massaged into a pained chest. I have nothing else. My obsession is the single object of color in a world of black and white.

I’m not sure if this feeling of perpetual dissatisfaction, even when enacting long-desired fantasies is a result of one factor or another. I have a suspicion that there is a single individual to blame. My obsession has never encompassed an object or person, but rather a situation or idea. Now it does. Now my perfect fantasy, my addiction, involves a single object I can’t get my hands on. Part of me would do anything to get it. The other part is more prudent; wise. Either way, nothing but death will stop me from eventually assuaging my besieged mind. I’ll get what I want, rest-assured, but how am I supposed to breathe until then?

'Antisocial' or Outcast Disorder?

I suppose everyone experiences transitional moments in their lives. I sure have, if I think about it. As a person, I haven’t changed much emotionally since the age of maybe ten or twelve. Immature is the word the psych books use; them and every ‘significant other’ I can recall, which isn’t many to be frank. Mostly by choice; I hate people. Despise them, and most specifically I despise their revolting mating rituals. It disgusts me, and I suppose you can imagine what that disgust means for my ‘love’ life. I don’t have one, want one, need one. Or at least I didn’t.

Yet looking back on my life as I’m won’t to do, I see that my life’s path hasn’t really been written by me, not like I’d like. It’s apparent simply by the situations I have been in and the people I’ve been attached to. Who I am is an enigma. I use the word ‘who’ loosely, perhaps I meant ‘what’ or ‘where’ or ‘how’.

I’m an interesting person because I have quirks. But in psychology quirks aren’t simple traits, they’re symptoms. They tell a story purely by showing you the ending and letting you piece the beginning and middle together, fragment by fragment. The ‘ending’ is the person I am now, the tendencies I portray that characterize me as a uniquely warped individual. The job of the psychologist is to identify certain traits, piece together their story and use that information to eliminate, bury or most commonly “release’ said symptoms.

I once asked an FBI agent what a serial killer was. He said a psychopath. I asked him what a psychopath was. He said, ‘a guy with no emotional baggage and a lot of quirks’. I was impressed by his astuteness. That’s the best way I could describe myself-- quirky. It’s a funny word whose synonyms include; eccentric, idiosyncratic and peculiar.

I’ve noticed we often have ‘loner’ personalities by nature. A general dislike of other people, desire for privacy, and an aversion to intimacy. But, if you look at a psychopath closely, it begs the question of whether we have much choice. Even sitting in front of this computer, in front of an unknown and scattered audience, I couldn’t possibly reveal even a quarter of my LEAST interesting quirks to you all without getting a lot more incriminated than I’d like.

Now, if you ask almost any therapist what the ‘key’ to a healthy relationship is, they’ll no doubt say “communication’. And if you ask them what the key to good communication is, they’ll say; honesty, openness and acceptance. Without my spelling it out for you, it’s clear just upon reading those few lines that psychopaths are naturally disadvantaged in regards to creating and maintaining healthy relationships.

Not only do we have a tendency toward pathological lying, we have a valid reason for it too. Self-preservation. Even if I wanted to ‘come clean’ and be an Honest Joe, I couldn’t without screwing myself over. Something I’ve never thought about was how naturally alienating my personality-type is. I’ve never considered it because it’s irrelevant in a cyclic way. It compels me to hate people, which makes it irrelevant that me having it alienates others from me and vice versa . 

In its most clinical form it’s called Antisocial Personality Disorder. But I’m beginning to question if it’s we, the psychopaths, that are the antisocial ones. Or if we are just forced into antisocial behavior by others who can’t accept our little ‘quirks’.

One Year Ago Today... It Began

I had no intentions of writing about this today. It has been on my mind, but not at the tips of my fingertips. Each post I write, or at least most of them, is written in my head before I ever find the motivation or the need, to see it here, etched in screen, immortalized letter by letter, pixel by pixel.

There's a lot to consider when determining what to write-- not that I put much thought into it. One is my audience, which is namely myself. I am a narcissist, but a unique one. My satisfaction comes solely in impressing myself. When I write anything, be it a simple poem or a complex expository, my goal is that months, years or even minutes later, when I reread this work, it will entertain me.

Second is that I maintain a level of honesty. I know that sounds odd. An honest psychopath? Remember though, my honesty and yours are different species of beast. At the header of my blog is a statement that is more a reminder for me than an enticement for you; take a peak behind the mask. That is my thesis, the prompt of this blog.

Most of you don't know this, but this is not my first attempt at 'blogging'. I have always desired a sort of record of myself, a log through which I could view my own progression over time. My first attempt was flawed, it lacked a point, a direction. Rereading it now though, is amazing. The change is staggering. I realized while reading it, what the difference was between this endeavor and that one. Honesty. Not necessarily more honesty versus less, but one level of honesty versus another.

Here I often talk about the various masks I wear, behind one central mask; an omnipotent observer. I talk in theory rather than in example. In my previous journal I wrote about my day, as the person I was that day. Reading it, it has never been more obvious to me that I am a psychopath. I know that sounds crazy, I WRITE about being a psychopath for fuck's sake. But it's true.

Each post, every single one-- was different. Not just in composition but in personality. A different person wrote each one. It may seem like a stupid kid's journal, but from knowing eyes I see it for what it really is; a log of my sociopathy from day to day. How? Each new post was different. Each emotion discussed was shallow and fleeting, the tone shifted radically every time.

Looking back, I can literally recall what shows I had been watching and what people I was hanging out with simply from my drastic shifts in diction and syntax. It was obvious the person writing had no true identity. And each time I would go back and read, even a day later, I felt disgust. Who is this?! Not me!
Because it wasn't.

I was in a rut. I wanted to write about myself but I had no identity. I was bland, colorless water, with no cup to mould to. In a constant state of free-fall. I was writing lies-- everyday lies. Lies I didn't need a keyboard and anonymity to tell.

 Often, in the middle of telling of some daily drama in my life I would stop and rant out of frustration. Try to express the truth; but I didn't feel it was understandable. How could I make anyone comprehend that the story I just told, whether it be sad, funny or aggravating, was just as unreal to me as it would be to a nameless, faceless reader who didn't know me? That yes, Johnny stole ten bucks from me and my girlfriend cheated on me with a fag (literally), and that yes, I displayed emotions for all of those things but in reality, I felt none of them. How could I?

It is often declared that psychopaths are not self-aware. That is bullshit, and it is also the truth. In some ways I have always been self-aware-- you might say more so than others, but in other ways I was unknowingly dense. You may not realize it but right now, this very moment, I am answering a question you empaths ask me often. When did you realize you were a psychopath?

The time period of which I wrote my previous journal, was a time of transition for me. I had always known I was different in a way, but at this point in my life it began slapping me in the face like a sledgehammer. I was getting anxious, antsy. Sick of my own reality. Tired of asking the question; why don't I feel anything?

It enraged me. Made me wonder at my own humanity, and hate everyone else's. Because ladies and gentlemen, I knew I was different but felt I was the same. I knew I didn't feel sadness but still thought I was capable. I had seen people killed in cold blood but rationalized that it didn't effect me because I didn't know them very well.

On a cool and cloudy day, years ago, a 'loved'-one died on my birthday. He was in a hospital bed, in his own home and I was sitting beside him.  A good man, a kind man. Very sweet and giving, much like a child in his innocence. He loved to play with toys of all kinds, they brought a sparkle to his eyes only seen in the most nurtured of children. He was an enigma to me. An older man who uttered sweet words and gave gifts to me with no ulterior motive; a man I could turn my back to without wariness. Everything about him was lovable. I was impatient for him to die.

I liked him, he gave me no reason not to. The callousness of a psychopath has nothing to do with 'like' or 'dislike'. Those are an Empath's motivations. Rather, we live in the moment-- I, live in the moment. To put it simply and maybe 'cruelly', I liked him when he was beneficial, but now he was a nuisance. His dying inconvenienced me.

I was watching television when I felt it; knew he was about to die. People like me, who have carried on a love affair with death, we feel it. Every sense is another eye, reading a story with a clear ending. My irritation evaporated, I muted the television and turned to him. Something about death has always called to me. It intoxicates me, transforms me into something else. My eyes see everything and yet nothing at all, everything zones in on the deceased and I can feel death tangibly like it's tapping me on the shoulder.

I could feel inside of him. I could taste his perspiration in the air and I could see his lungs sputtering and struggling for another breath; just one more. My gaze was dispassionate and all-consuming; curious even. I realized then, that I should be feeling something; sadness? I stared at him strongly, like you stare into a shadow where someone said they saw something you did not. I wanted to find that something, but I didn't. He stopped breathing. I un-muted the T.V.

Fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour later I found what I was looking for. My family came back, and they saw him. The sight was unimaginable; something I couldn't conjure up on my own. They were inconsolable, truly distraught. Wailing. The wailing was intense and passionate and desperate. Emotion. So much emotion, I can't describe it, the horror on their faces wasn't something a hollywood director could re-enact. It was surreal; powerful. Their grief was so heavy they clung to each other desperately as if the weight of his death were truly crushing them.

I remember sitting on the couch with the remote in my hand, eyes shifting from the T.V to them and trying valiantly to feel there was a difference. I'll be honest, I even tested out the Mute button to see if it would work. It didn't. I was confused and worried. Confused at what it was they were doing/feeling and worried because I didn't feel it too, and I wasn't even sure how to fake it.

So yes, in that way a psychopath is self-aware from childhood. But our memories are short--like I said, we live in the moment. With the passage of time part of me forgets how intrinsically different I am. Especially after all the time I spend pretending. It's easy to consider my acting my reality. But it isn't my reality, it's theirs. Yours. You, the Empath.

Then I discovered Sociopathy and I was less confused. No, I didn't become a Sociopath overnight, just like a nice 'upstanding' straight-boy doesn't become a 'degenerate' queer overnight. You're always different, but then you find a name for it. What that allowed me to do was be honest, in my own way. A different kind of honesty than was present in my past writings. A more self-aware honesty. And so this blog began... exactly one year ago. Happy Anniversary.

Sexless Seduction

I recently discovered a blog about seduction. The author was decidedly sociopathic, and his techniques/advice were valid. I was nominally interested because manipulation is a common theme of mine, but that interest was not perennial. Not because his technique was in any way flawed, but because the information is rote to me by this point.

Seduction is not difficult. Moreover, it has never thrilled me in any sense. It is however, a necessity. You should be wondering, what seduction is to me; because it is not the same to everyone. My definition is simple; seduction is the persuasion of a person or persons, through use of erotic stimuli. The misconception often is, that the goal or purpose of seduction, is sex. For some that may be true, but rarely ever is that the case for me.

Seduction to me is a useful means of manipulation. Its purpose is to lend an advantage in persuasion. I most often use it with persons of authority. You may be questioning, how erotic persuasion can have nothing to do with sex. It's simple really, I create a warped... 'friendship' that can only be described as pseudo-sexual. The idea is to entice a low level of sexual interest that borders the lines of friendship intriguingly. A level low enough as to be mistaken as friendly, but the signs of success are very separable from the signs of a successful 'friendship' with no sexual undertones.

I learned of this valuable means of manipulation quite with a mixture of curiosity and experimentation. When I was younger and realized I was different mentally from my peers, I really began experimenting with how my behavior effected others. I really started taking note of how what I said and did changed people's perceptions of me, either favorably or unfavorably. In middle school, when I really blossomed intellectually, I noticed that my intelligence in itself, altered others' view of me.

A brilliant child is intimidating, especially to adults. I learned that my intellect could fuel admiration and envy, and that both had their separate benefits and detriments. Piece by piece, interaction by interaction, I learned the art of seduction. I also began to learn that the general population's ideas regarding manipulation were humorously flawed. Their perceptions on what it is to control another human being was often garnered from the media; corny movies and overdramatic novellas. I was learning the truth.

A saying I often coin is that, "communication IS manipulation"and conversely, "manipulation is communication." At its most baser level, that's what it is, a series of unconscious manipulations. The main driver of manipulative communication is Empathy. That is why the average person does not realize how manipulative they really are, because empathy is a passive trait. For the psychopath, that last statement is untrue. The reason psychopaths are known for manipulation, is because our manipulation is always conscious rather than subconscious. It's not a choice, it's a necessity.

Another common analogy I use, especially to those very close to me (of which there are few), is that I am water and they are a bowl. I mould myself to fit into them, in most ways that are necessary. Which really is the word of the day, necessity; that is what shapes many of the principles I have come to follow. Naturally, alone, with no person or persona to influence me, I am truly a bland, shapeless being. I have few (if any) true likes or dislikes unless they are overwhelmingly dictated by biology rather than true preference. For instance, certain allergies demand I avoid certain foods over others (not that I do... bad-ZKM!).

But this doesn't mean exactly what it might suggest. I do not simply mimic people, I discovered long ago that was unnecessary and not fully effective. Well, I'll try to explain this honestly/clearly (which is often a difficult feat). At first I do, that is a part of my 'process'. When first introduced to a person I am neutral, observant, I get a sense for who they are, then naturally without much thought, slowly begin to absorb them. This process is so ingrained to me, that sometimes I initiate it in circumstances when I don't mean to. Everything about a person from the way they speak (do they have an accent?) to the gestures they use   to the level of education they have, begins to work its way into my identity (or at least, the identity I project to them). This is what we'll call, Stage Two.

Stage Two is beneficial because it allows me to fully integrate this person into the database that is my mind. From here I ease my way into Stage Three, which involves moulding myself more complimentarily. This is where, after strong observation, I decide which traits they most desire I have in common with them, and which traits they would prefer were different. This of course, is assuming that my goal, is simply friendship or attachment.  Stage Three is heavily influenced by my goal, in fact, the goal is absolutely vital. If I do not have a goal, there is no Stage Three.

Why did I mention all of this? Get so seemingly far off-topic? Well, partially because I always get off-topic, but mostly it was on purpose. The difference between this seduction I am known for, and any other of my manipulations has everything to do with Stage Three. After successfully completing the first and second steps of my 'manipulation' (for the lack of a better word) I reevaluate my goal before proceeding. To create this pseudo-sexual bond, I need to manufacture the right combination of tension and fondness between me and my subject. Reread my last sentence, it was crucial. The secret is TENSION and FONDNESS. 


Don't ask me why it works, but it does. It is always tricky for me to explain here, with words, all that goes into what I do everyday. Because a lot of what I do, involves a good dose of what one might call "instinct', but I call "in-the-moment-analysis/action'. After every word I say I am carefully looking for reaction and analyzing if said reaction is flowing in the direction I desire it to. There are certain cues that show me I am successful. 

Case-in-point: the reduction of physical boundaries. This is the most illustrative example of success. The mark will suddenly feel the urge to increase physical closeness and this is often characterized by familiar, though appropriate, touches. These touches are often not customary of this person, that is part of how you can tell. I have had others notice and mention to me," _____ seems to touch you a lot more than usual... weird."

The benefit of this subtle form of seduction is that it constantly places my motives and actions at an advantage. Everything from my work to my ideas are seen automatically from a more positive light. I might delve into this more at a later date.

Happy Now?

Everyone makes mistakes.

What an irritating statement. I do on occasion make errors in judgment. They are not usually huge errors that effect my livelihood, but rather, my mental state. I hate wasting time. I especially hate people, who waste MY time. It's very precious to me. There are only so many hours in a day, and most of those are wasted on undesirable or at least, un-entertaining endeavors.

When I become obsessed with something I often sink inordinate amounts of time into it. This could be a specific pursuit, the study of a specific subject, or it can be in a person, a relationship. The most irritating thing to me is having that time and effort spit back into my face. Then I must reevaluate what the hell it is I've been doing.

Sometimes my obsessions prove fruitful and follow me year to year, and other times I am slapped in the face with my apparent mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. What a lovely word, it really bites you in the ass when you don't want it to. Do I have regrets? Not in the form of "I wish I could change that." But rather in the form of "No more. No longer."

Sometimes it's prudent to tap yourself on the shoulder when you realize the ditch you've been digging, isn't going to get you to China. I am always flabbergasted at how unappreciative people are of me. Society always seems to paint psychopaths one-dimensionally as the source for all the world's strife. Flip the paper over and see the reality; we do just as much good as harm. Maybe not intentionally, but does motive ever really matter?

When you idiots lounge in the aura of my charisma; languish in the baths of my flattery; rejoice from behind the walls of the self esteem *I* built you, how dare you cast stones? Everyone despises Satan. They think he's so deplorable because he 'fools' poor mortals into paying for the favor he grants them. NOTHING IS FREE. I created a world fit for your desires to please you, do you think you get to leave me empty-handed? No, you don't. I am enraged when Empaths take the gifts I give them for granted. I can just as easily snatch them away.

But why should I have to? Fair is fair, isn't it? How is it, I am the Devil, but you are the ones who try to screw me? I am so altruistically following the so-called rules of your fucking morality, which it seems you do not even follow yourselves. So I guess my point is; Danger! Danger! Danger! Rethink how you want this to end--IF you want this to end. If you don't I'd consider this a time for a reevaluation of strategy. It's only fair.
~~~~~~~~

“There are no mistakes. The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant, are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn; whatever steps we take, they're necessary to reach the places we've chosen to go.”

--Richard Bach

Insomnia, Stress and Lies

I'm ill, very tired, very worn. I've pushed myself past any limits to get to this point. Physical, definitely. Mental, definitely. Today was a monumental day. I was backed into a corner, had no choice. A wild animal can do crazy things, because it's always in danger, always back to the wall.


I talk a lot about manipulation and lying, but I failed to mention one of the most important circumstances when it comes to either. Desperation. Necessity. Up until this point I have talked about the IDEAL methods of manipulation and the IDEAL rules to follow in social interactions. Ideal ideal ideal. What do you do when the situation isn't ideal?


THINK! Always think. I can't stress that enough. I sure do mention THINKING a lot, hmm, I wonder if that means it's important? Yes, it is. Always be aware of your situation, your tactics and your goal. It may seem impossible to think while in a desperate situation, but if that's the case, you really haven't learned much at all.


What do I mean, desperate? A situation in which your life/livelihood/something important to you, hangs in the balance of this lie. What a desperate situation also usually entails, is that it is NOT the ideal situation for a lie.


One of the most basic things I talk about, that any petty con man knows, is that ideally, if you're going to lie, lie about something that can't be reaffirmed. Yes, that's child's play. But how do you manipulate a person when you don't have an advantage? When the cards are stacked against you and you HAVE to lie about something that CAN be checked up on, what do you do?


Or how about, how do you lie when all the evidence points towards your guilt? Welcome to my puzzle today ladies and gentle-paths! If you solved the problem in 10 seconds like I had to, you get a cookie!


I really, truly, have been stretched farther than I have ever before, these past months. I have been sleeping, on average 2-4 hours per 72 hour time period. I have been working, nonstop. I have not prowled in the night. Not tasted the mist of darkness on my tongue nor felt the prickling of the watcher's eye guiding my actions. I haven't been alive, not for months.


So you would think, my ability to perform would be stunted-- and it probably is, I'm sure. But today only proves, I am what I am, until I literally cannot stand anymore. I am so exhausted my bones literally have that warm fuzzy feeling you feel before collapse (and no I don't wish to get into the biology of that ;)), yet today, when threatened I did exactly what I had to do. Lie-- and lie well.


Not that I have an aversion to lying normally but I have rules. Not moral rules, no. More like.. guidelines. There is a time and place for lying, sometimes telling the 'truth' is more beneficial. Today I had to break my own rules. I had to throw out a lie that was so blatant I'm surprised my nose didn't grow a foot long. The problem was, all evidence led to me.


The issue with situations like that is there is only one real angle to fly from. Logically, I was guilty. Thank the fucking Lord Empaths don't rely on logic alone! I was in a corner, pressed tight with a blade to my carotid and I really wasn't all that worried. Which is an irritating trait of the psychopath in my opinion, I never seem to care the hammer is falling until it hits me in the head.


I had a short time to consider my options, milliseconds really, and normally I would choose what *I* call the 'truth', which is basically a lie that incriminates you enough to look honest, but not so much as to make you look... psychopathic. But this time, in my mind, I couldn't afford to. Or at least, I was sick of being irritated and exhausted and unable to dance with copper in the moonlight, so I went for it. I used the only tactic that for some reason, can occasionally beat logic. Emotion!


I was really quite fantastic, mimicking perfectly the behavior of an Empath accused of a crime they didn't commit. My words were on the offense, not the defense. My argument was vehement and simple, not elaborate. I was exasperated and frustrated and very upset that I wasn't believed. Thankfully, it worked.


Now as a sort of... warning? I always strongly analyze a situation before I make a move. As I always say, one tactic is NOT always right for a situation. Never assume that is what I mean. I often leave out much of my thought process because frankly, it's boring to me. I knew who I was talking to, had analyzed their personality enough, and considered the ambiguity of the evidence enough, to know that if I played my part perfectly, it could work.

Don't try this at home kids!
~~~~
"The last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the 
sleeping world. " 
— Leonard Cohen

Life, Death and Suicide

Let's all feign sanity for the sake of morality!

This week's theme is suicide. Why not? I want to explore what the fuck suicide is, and how it pertains to me.

Have I contemplated suicide? Sure. I'm almost positive everyone has at some point or another, but the seriousness of the contemplation varies.

I'm not sure I'll die of natural causes.

To be honest, I've always expected a violent, or at the very least, premature, ending.

Why?

Various reasons, a lot, really.

I live life how I want to live it. I know that sounds cliche, people really like to throw that kind of ideology around like it fucking means something on a larger scale; it doesn't.

I'm just not smart enough to be society's bitch; not completely anyway. I just can't, I'm incapable. We live in a three dimensional world stuffed into a fucking box. There are four walls crushing us in and all they have to keep us in is fear and a fucking Chair. 'The chair'. Oh I'm so scared, maybe they don't realize the people they're dealing with?

I haven't really feared anything in a long time. What is there to fear? Fear itself? Why? What is fear?

Fear is an emotion, I know that. Fear is a noose around the neck of the innocent, of the happy, of the living.

I've known a lot of people. I've watched people die. I know what fear looks like, I know what fear tastes like; sweat and blood and honey. Some people really fear death. Some people really fear not fearing death. That's really the scariest thing, isn't it? Because if you don't fear death, what kind of shit life are you living?

The life of a psychopath, the life of the depressed, of the oppressed and the suppressed? Maybe, I don't know. I really don't care that much and people can't understand that.

I don't care! People say that, do they mean it? Not usually. People care, people really fucking care--if they care then why do they say they don't? It's called affirmative thinking; "I say, therefor I AM'.

What bullshit, a crock of shit, nonsense.

Why am I writing this? What is my point?! Get to it, SAY something meaningful and profound! What the fuck, what the FUCK are you doing blathering on? Maybe that's my point, life is pointless, this is pointless. What do you have to do tomorrow? Think about it, errands to run, people to see, lies to tell, people to fuckover and placate and screwover and substantiate. Does it make you happy? Does it make you sad? Does it make you angry? If you can tell; if you could answer those questions, THAT is the difference between you and me.

Fuck empathy. I'm me and you're you. Fuck your feelings and fuck my apathy. What are we? Animals. Ruff ruff.

I really lost it the other day. Lost it? What was it about? Who pushed me? That's not how it works. Everything is internal, I'm internal not external. I am a brain wrapped in flesh, not a heart in a protective shell. I lost it not because of the confrontation or because of anyone but Me Me Me. I lost it because here I was, being passionate and rageful--RIGHTFULLY SO. And what did I feel? Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing, I feel nothing. I felt nothing.
That's a lie, I feel something. Words are so inadequate, really fucking useless. I know a lot of words, use a lot of words. But words alone are dead, meaning with no context.

Nothing is an emotion. Nothing is a feeling, that's why people fucking say it. When you literally feel nothing, what THAT feels like is confusion, because nothing is there, there's nothing to analyze, nothing to compare with, it's like an anxiety attack, being short of breath and drowning quietly without movement or tears or any of the dramatics that make asphyxiation poignant. THAT kind of nothing is what I feel when a 'loved' one dies or something happens that should fucking destroy me but instead I'm standing in the rain on the side of the road fucking contemplating what I'm going to eat for dinner tonight and wondering what's on TV.

That other kind of Nothing, that Nothing is a noun instead of a fucking adjective, that Nothing is incredulity wrapped in a rage so whisper-quiet it's like you don't feel it at all. It's confusion, frustration and rage in a way most people have never felt before. Because it's silent, it's quiet and it's docile. It is so fucking quiet part of you wants to kill it in outrage.

You don't get it. Of course you don't. Some of you will, some of you won't. I'm trying to explain but all I have is words and all you have is eyes.

When you sit a person down on your brand new comforter and put a gun to their head what do you expect to feel? When you watch a man holding his dying dog over a fucking gutter as the blood mingles with sweat and tears as it cascades to the earth like a morbid waterfall, what do you expect to think? Anguish, incredulity, fucking outrage, disgust, fear, Empathy. What?

Now tell me, how do you feel when none of those feelings happen? When nothing you see or do can start your heart again. You're dead. You're a walking corpse. People hate you you fucking freak. Why don't you love me?! Why don't you care? Who the fuck are you?! WHY DO YOU LIE? Why do you PRETEND!? You, my friend, are a monster. Welcome to the club. Do you feel cool? Of course you don't, if you did you wouldn't be you.

What am I saying, what is the point? A literary instructor once said to me almost rhetorically, "Why did the writer write these words, tell these stories, say these things, if they were all lies? Why did he lie, what  was he trying to do?" I didn't say anything for awhile, I just thought. I thought of the poignant words, the hyperbole, the breaking of the fifth wall and the overall feeling of frustration I could read between the words and I answered, "He wants us, the reader, to feel."

I've faced death more than once. I have, more than once, had the realization that death was around the corner and every time what I felt was an anticlimactic sort of relief; the kind you get when you're told you can sleep for the first time in days. I don't fear death because all the things people fear of losing because of death, I've already lost. That doesn't mean I'm 'depressed', it doesn't mean I'm 'suicidal' so much as bored. Bored bored bored. If you asked me to sum up psychopathy in one word I'd say "Boredom'. Hell, maybe even 'frustration' would work. I'm curious if anyone felt anything while reading this. My mood didn't change an iota, THAT, is frustrating.

Welcome, to life after death.

Psychopathic Love II

I really don't get the obsession with love. I have been called cold and heartless toward the end of relationships and I always ask the same question, "what gives you that impression?" If I smile at you, say nice things, compliment your appearance even if it's lacking, buy you gifts and bestow upon you affection, are you not being loved? I've learned over the years, the answer to my question is perverse, a complete 180 from what they tell you in health class or in movies, books or any form of media. The reason they felt unloved is because it was too easy.

Love is supposed to be painful and irrational. My apathy and lack of abuse made them feel uncared for. Had I smacked them around a bit, screamed at them in jealous rage, demanded they stop seeing their friends and families and perhaps forced myself sexually on them a few times, I would've been their knight in shining armor. But because I did none of those things, they saw me as heartless.

Now, I'm positive many psychopaths do all kinds of violent things to their lovers and that's why they're so loved. But at that point in my life relationships were more for an appearance of normalcy than anything else. I don't feel that obsession many p/s types feel towards their lovers. I could generally care less about them, and only those with the utmost docility and desire to please me could inspire anything more than a quiet derision from me. Unfortunately, in this day and age (and any other that I can think of as well) an appearance of asexuality is disturbing and ridicule inspiring.

The problem with romantic relationships is the other person wants to be around you all the time. I can't imagine even the most skilled manipulator can pretend to be human 24/7. I surely can't. I always get the feeling that all they really want, what they truly crave, is for me to snap and kill them, to individually wrap and send all their body parts to various family members so everyone can see how truly loved they are. Every relationship I've been the kind, charming suitor in, has blown up in my face. Every relationship I've been the semi-violent, possessive and controlling manipulator in, has been a ridiculous success. My question is, why the hell isn't this what's depicted on television and taught by mothers and fathers and written in songs played on the radio?

Why are ridiculous exploitive websites like LoveFraud so popular, when so many people literally beg to be abused? I'm not saying I'm not a sadist, that'd be a bold faced lie. But that pleasure doesn't come from abusing lovers, it comes from preying on strangers. I wouldn't abuse my partners if that didn't make them feel loved, if that wasn't really, deep down what they wanted. So I suppose my point is, why is the definition of love so skewed from reality? Are people living in a fantasy world? Do they even know their actions contradict their fantasies?

And as a sidenote, I realize that, unfortunately, not everyone is me. If your experience differs, simply share your story. I would never dream of involuntarily painting anyone into a box.

Conversation Inspires

I feel... exhilarated. I was completely in my element today.. meaning, completely full of shit.

It's nice to stretch those Deceit Muscles a bit more strenuously once in awhile, it's good for circulation. It is a satisfying experience, to pull the wool over someone's eyes. It's not always necessarily for any particularly malicious reason, either. Simply lying for the sake of lying tickles my narcissism like a wispy feather.

And it is unfortunate, my inherent narcissism. As much as the psychopathic side of me resents the weaknesses Narcissism brings, it IS probably one of the few reasons I experience any positive stimuli at all.  Having my ego stroked gives me the same kind of giddiness Normals get from snuggling kittens. I rarely indulge such frivolities though. I'm usually too busy being the misanthropic leech that I am. Any kind of positive feeling is rare for me. I'm not depressed or anything else so dramatic--just simply flat-lined. Sometimes I swear I need to check my pulse.

Not all psychopaths are emotionless- that's a common misconception. The spectrum ranges from violent, easily irritated individuals to completely apathetic, emotionless corpses walking among the living. I myself am somewhere in between. My range of emotions is small and short lived, but still there all the same. I'm not purely empty nor out of control. Just in between.

Knowledge is something I enjoy possessing. A wide variety inhabits my head, and when appropriate I like nothing less than to set it free. Of course today I'm in a bit of  a Narcy mood, but I assure you that's not always the case. I think I'm managing to irritate myself. And when you're the only thing that's important, that can start being a real problem.

Halloween

Halloween.

A time for Empaths everywhere to dress up and pretend to be like me. Fully clothed monsters. It's actually quite flattering. Fun things always happen around the holidays. The sheer mass of people trampled to death on Black Friday every year fills me with unsubstantiated glee.

And of course along with your cleverly put together holiday monsters, Halloween is also a time for true creatures of the night to slither about unmolested. Most particularly those of the Child-loving variety. The one time of year it's not creepy to ask a little boy if he wants some candy and you truly expect these ever-patient and stigmatized individuals to let such an occasion pass?! You wish.

I actually find such people to be fascinating. Children. These people victimize poor innocent little children, which I admit doesn't effect me as I'm sure it should but still-- children? How dull. I've met more than a few child philanderers in my day, mostly as a child, and I must tell you, they are some of the nicest fuckers you will ever meet.

Now I know you're imagining big scary axe wielding predators and I'm not going to deny that, but no one considers how they lure the kiddies in. They're very kind, understanding and oh so vert patient. They're the helpful neighbor of the criminal world. Walking home alone? They'll give you a ride! Lost, can't find your mommy or daddy? They'll lead you right to them! Need a job? You could mow their lawn... and perhaps maybe after you're all hot and sweaty from all that work you could come inside for some ice cold lemonade? It's absolutely obscene.

And the holidays are their favorite time of year. But not just pedophiles-oh lord no. Many of your friendly neighborhood loonies are more than ready to come out to play after a long year of... being looney. These are the crazies that go out on a beautiful night like I'm positive tonight will be, and go and ruin it with their very brutish and amateur psychoreligious murders. Every year we see these ghoulish mortals a few crayons short of a box, on the news, with outrageously delightful headlines scrawled over their orange jumpsuit covered bodies. "Man eats baby, police find mother in oven," "Local army commander enjoys wearing little girl's panties, more at Eleven."

Perhaps it's the moon. If Werewolves can get a bit edgy around a full moon, why can't the rest of us? It stands to reason if a seemingly normal human can violently rip out of his clothes and morph into a rabid dog-creature just by glimpsing it, a man can be influenced by the moon to wear little pink panties. It seems only reasonable.

But maybe I'm just a tad on edge. I do, as you well know, hate the holidays. Happy people, happily prancing around, expecting me to act happy. It's a tough job being a psychopath, and we are sorely unappreciated for our efforts. Much better than being a Kiddie Diddler though, they sure do get all the sour apples. I would hate to have to be on the prowl on such a lovely night as tonight.

I am.. Upset?

Pissed is more like it. Although I only view anger as a one dimensional tactic. She's gone. Left to some work thing and for about five minutes I admittedly felt slightly off. A bit darker in thinking than I normally am and that is odd. Five whole minutes of a genuine twinge. I am most definitely a creature of habit, change is not my first, middle or last name. Therefore it is an understandable reaction-yet still.

I'm in a poor mood. I don't particularly like it and now you're thinking 'of course you don't like it, moron'. And I respond with 'well you'd be surprised at some of the things I like'. This mood isn't on the list. It happens from time to time- occasionally I let slip my normal self denial that life is in some way meaningful or at least- should be lived through naturally to its conclusion. In reality I don't see the point. Nothing means anything and everything means nothing. I am more interested in the spurting, sluicing sound of the blood from my own carotid as I slice gleefully than the entirety of all the history of my family.

It has nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with boredom. Bored bored bored is what I am and this level of eternal boredom can make you do whacky things. Like kill your whole family but I would never do that. No, I'm much too lazy, really I don't understand the logic behind murder, why go through all the effort of subduing others when you're perfectly full of blood and skin and gore to be flung around the room carelessly yourself? I don't have to duct-tape myself to the chair- I already promised not to struggle. And as surely as I trust my right hand to act as my right hand I trust myself not to fight.

Now you're thinking, 'I am reading insanity'- and that may be true. But really is insanity anything to really flee from? We're all a bit off in our own merry ways and really shouldn't you Empaths be more accepting and the like? Can't you empathize with my psychosis? Shame shame on you if not. God only allows the most patronizing into heaven- something about being 'in his image'.  I don't know, I'm not the expert. Why else would I have hired you?

Anyway now I am here alone and am convinced I'm having some sort of ridiculously ill-timed flashback because you wouldn't believe what I just thought I saw walking through my kitchen. I'll even give you a hint- it has eight tentacles and walks on two legs. Exactly. We're on the same page, I definitely need some help and of course by 'help' I mean more booze.  I wonder what the world record is for self-stabbings? That's not a threat just honest curiousity I mean, damn. That must be one hard world record to break and if you're lucky you MIGHT get like one and a half shots at it. Now there's an Olympic sport I'd watch! They could have their metals affixed to their Urn.

Facade Slip

Revenge is a funny thing. Some say it's a vile, wretched thing and others say it's sweeter than any fruit. I tend to agree with the latter. I suppose one way to define sociopathy is to imagine that wonderful feeling of vengeance except- the person never did anything to you in the first place. Can you picture it?

I don't know why I take so much enjoyment out of the suffering of others. My best deduction is simply- they annoy me. Human beings are more filthy and repugnant than the soggiest rat and more shifty than a cockroach. You bastards can't be trusted. I honestly don't understand the fear toward sociopaths. All we do is play your game better, smarter, and more efficiently than you do. If you didn't lie, connive, deceive and manipulate we wouldn't either. It's like teaching your dog to shit on the rug then beating him for it. Naughty naughty empaths.

The other day a friend of mine said to me, "I don't know why, but I kinda feel like I should be afraid of you." That my friends, is me not doing my job correctly. I mean sure, I have always occasionally come across people who were too intuitive for their own good- but recently I've obviously been slipping, because this hasn't been the only time this year people have questioned my sincerity. Not good.

The interesting thing is none of these times has been when I was in a particularly threatening mood. In fact- both times I was joking around about something. Perhaps I have an evil cackle. That's always a dead give away. Damned empaths and their fairytales- makes them too knowledgeable about villains apparently.

Anyway, what this tells me is my heavy workload is effecting my camouflage. I mean, it's not like I chose a very complex character as my main facade anyway. I chose a very easy to pull off- angry, not-so-nice acting but nice-in-a-way character to portray to peers, and I apparently can't even pull that off. Once again, not good.

Maybe I should switch it up- keep things interesting. I've had to many times before. What will I be this time? Prep, devout christian, geek, nerd, human by day-vampire by night schizoid? The possibilities are endless. I think I'll stick with what I am now. It is after all, the closest to my true personality- that makes it easier. And in case you didn't know, easier is always better.

“It turns out that an eerie type of chaos can lurk just behind a facade of order - and yet, deep inside the chaos lurks an even eerier type of order” Douglas Hostadter

Insanity is a Missed-Night's Sleep Away

According to Einstein the definition of insanity is doing the same thing a million times and expecting a different result. I disagree. Insanity is more like doing the same thing a million times and never expecting a different result. It is that slight twitch in your brow when someone punctures your facade with their irritating presence and you smile outwardly as inside the beast is rattling his cage, begging for release-but once again you must say no.

No No No mister beast, drop the knife and step back into your cage, be a good little beast and sing me a lullaby so perhaps I won't lose my shit and go insane-it's all the rage. I suppose it's the tiredness speaking. Exhausted, weary dreariness. Being nice and good and responsible really isn't my cup of gin. Not when I'm this agitated it's not. No no no. I try to stay well rested because the alternative's a bit off.

Science really is a fascinating thing. Just it itself, nothing in particular about it. The fact that it exists. That some person, in some long ago time just thought to himself one day "how does this work? And also.. how can I explain how this works in the most pretentious, impossible to understand way imaginable?" And science was born.

That's not to say social studies and language arts aren't difficult in their own right- but I'm very good at bullshitting. And that's all writing is. I mean sure, there is nothing remotely special about the writing in this blog-and that's on purpose. I have neither the time, give-a-fuck, or inclination to make this some sort of 'work of art' or some crap like that. Especially since the majority of the time when I start posting on here I'm practically dead on my ass, fantasizing about sleep like a whore fantasizes about twenties.

But I digress, mostly because I can hardly think.

“I start to feel like I can’t maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is. I don’t know. Why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?... I don’t know the answer, I know only that I can’t. I don't want any more vicissitudes, I don't want any more of this try, try again stuff. I just want out. I’ve had it. I am so tired. I am twenty and I am already exhausted.” Elizabeth Wurtzel

Sick and Tired

I haven't posted for awhile because I am one lazy-assed, miserably busy Sociopath. Misery being the key word. I'm sick, exhausted and belligerently homicidal. What's new?

But let me tell you, if I could get my hands on the wriggling sludge of a human who contaminated me with their filth- you couldn't fathom all the devilish things I'd do to them if given half a chance. Hell, even I cannot think of a torture satisfying enough to rectify this heinous transgression.

People push my buttons on purpose. I'm convinced. Sometimes people say or do things so stupid in front of me, that I find myself gazing intently into their eyes, searching for that gleam of menace that would make it all make sense. But alas, I do not find it. There are really humans that idiotic and ignorant in this world. Too stupid for any kind of useful manipulation.

Of course, then there are always the smart ones. The actually smart ones and the ones that think they're smart. Personally, I don't have a preference. I enjoy them both just the same. Everybody has their weaknesses, I just happen to be talented at finding those pesky little nicks in the armor of the masses, that's all. That's not to say I don't have some flaws of my own.

Oh contraire, I have myriads of interesting little quirks. Like my complete lack of patience and explosive temper. I overreact harshly to what others may consider 'little things'. I realize this is not conducive to success. Which is why both of those traits are very carefully masked.

I am by no means foolish- and that is what emotional people are. Authentic emotions are never allowed to surface. Sure, I express 'anger' all the time- after all it's only human. But never the real thing. Why? Because honest emotions are harder to control. Especially when the entire spectrum of your emotions are all simple variations of anger. That can lead to trouble.

Perhaps I will elaborate another time.

Literary Fiction

I am currently reading Hemingway, the title of the particular novel is eluding me for some reason, though the content is fresh in my mind as newly fallen snow. I must say, after having just explored some work of John Irving's, namely A Prayer For Owen Meany, it is refreshing to experience a new style. Honestly, after completing that 620 page monster I felt as if I'd vomit if I saw one more fucking hyphen or fully capitalized sentence. Already, I can just tell Hemingway's habit of forgetting about a little thing called a 'period' in his paragraph-length sentences will probably get to me by the end of this book as well.

Why is it all 'literary novelists' write their 'brilliant' works of art embedded with oft-times irritating, yet ingenious patterns? I do not deny or wish to debate the obvious skill and imagination it must take to create a novel with such layers of meaning. However, wouldn't we all just rather read American Psycho? Literary fiction is like voluntary homework. They are generally written with all of the 'strategies', 'devices', and 'styles' the english language has to offer; they are so riddled with layer upon layer of hidden meanings, symbols and possible interpretations that they lack absolutely nothing. But entertainment value.

The way our society has evolved has made that one seriously lethal fault. You could put the secret to life, next week's lottery numbers and a map to the Well of Youth in a book and no one in this day and age would read it, if it was written by Mark Twain. Why? Because life is too short to waste it reading a boring ass, moldy book. Or so is the common thought.

Personally, my taste in all things is both varied and eclectic. That includes my taste for literature. However, the reading of a work of literary fiction is no small task. It takes time, patience and a bit of a masochistic edge to endure such a daunting task. Not an activity I can enjoy so much as of late; when time is a thing of mythical wonder and patience is spread so very thin. Perhaps my friend Hemingway will help ease the stresses of being alive and not indulging in a murderous rampage. Irving sure didn't

“Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.”- Ernest Hemingway

Quote of the Day: Mistakes

Continuing where my last post left off, a quote on mistakes;

“Mistakes are, after all, the foundations of truth, and if a man does not know what a thing is, it is at least an increase in knowledge if he knows what it is not.” -Carl Gustav Jung

C2H3O2(1-)= Acetate--Procrastination Is Key

Chemistry, much like life, is a bitch. I'm currently bogged down with more work than I can even recall but strangely, I don't really mind as much as I would have imagined. Don't get me wrong, my irritation levels have reached a fever pitch, yet still the opportunity to play with new toys somewhat evens up the scales.

Stress to me is an almost refreshing feeling. Sure too much 'responsibility' can be annoying, but I thrive on urgency. Slow and steady just isn't my way. I suppose that's a large part of the reason why I am such a devoted procrastinator. I work better close to the deadline and seem to pride myself on surpassing those who started much earlier.

I don't know, I guess the biggest issue with all this extra work is my exponentially declining Me Time. Very important for a barely controlled psychopath. I'm very fond of my personal space, and even more so of those seemingly now extinct opportunities to be alone. Alone and free of menial tasks such as general human interaction or feigning Give A Damn.

Between trying to convince my family I actually love them and convincing my friends I'm three dimensional, I have once again become a busy busy bee. Honestly, at this point I'm not convinced the grass isn't just dead on both sides. No matter; that's what the neighbor's hose is for.

That reminds me of a surprising insight one of my friends had involving me the other day. Which is surprisingly rare, considering. A group of us were engaged in a completely inappropriate conversation about someone or other when all the sudden we were confronted by our supervisor as to what we were discussing. Immediately I responded with a smooth and completely appropriate alternative to the truth- practically without thinking.

The lie came so naturally that I didn't have time to consider how others may view my obvious faux paus. Anyway, long story short, later on after the incident one of my friends commented at my seemingly silver-tongue. She, apparently 'didn't know I could lie so well'. Unfortunately for me, that was an epiphany I'd have rather avoided. The lesson here kids, is everyone makes mistakes. It would be foolish of me to think I was an exception.

“I never make stupid mistakes. Only very, very clever ones.”-John Peel

Least Politically Correct Quote of The Week

"Molestation victims are just pissed they didn't get full on raped"-Anonymous

Ouch.