The World Keeps Turning

"Belief in God?  An afterlife?  I believe in rock:  this apodictic rock beneath my feet."  ~Edward Abbey

Life changes. The world turns. Who I am today is a shadow of the person I was a month ago. Two months ago. A year ago.

I haven't posted because I've been in limbo. My reality is askew; I'm bored, delusional and drowning. In what? Perhaps a vat of my own cold, stagnant saliva. Is this a coma or is life really all just a dream?


If you're questioning my current success, that's just a foregone conclusion. Of course I'm just as merrily thriving as before. Better, actually. How that remains to be the case is beyond me. Of course I'm brilliant, of course of course! But since when has that had anything to do with success? I can tell you right now; success is not a matter of intelligence but of dogged persistence--motivation. If you can propel your fat ass into a mere 90% of the opportunities in your path I guarantee you at least a modicum of glory.


So what's my problem? As I fiddle with the Sharpie in my mouth, twisting and scraping it against my canines, I ponder my own question. What is my problem? Besides the overabundance of squint-eyed lemon-crackers working as baggers in my local grocery store or the reemergence of niggerisms in everyday Caucasian English, I can't imagine what could be bothering me. Maybe it's just the weather.


But the thing is, ladies and gentlepaths, I've always found the biting winds and piercing rains of winter to be a turn on-- one of many. That's right, if you happen to be curious they also include candle-lit dinners, basketweaving and long slices across tender flesh (preferably delivered with the teasing edge of a braided whip). However, I digress.


Why is the night denying our kinship? Why has the moon silenced its nightly call? We used to be such blushing lovers, the Moon and I. Nothing but the brash emergence of sunlight or the promise of a copper-tinted fiesta could part us. But it has. Who am I now?


I'll admit, I feel a bit lost. Not myself. A stranger in a strange mind. Two and two never quite equals four for a sociopath, but we sure can be damned convincing it's five. Morphing people into my reality is half of my survival.  Yet the further I spiral into this rabbit hole of self-delusion the more I have to question if my reality really is in my control at all.


Some people sob at the softest mention of cancer within. All I can say is there is a much more sinister disease burbling in this demonic blood of mine. Boredom; perhaps a hybrid virus of Holy Water and Jew Blood, is the most horrific plight I can imagine. And it afflicts me. Rotting my eyeballs inside, then out. Setting my skin on fire- then dousing it with ice before I can be dazzled by macabre sparks.


Boredom is the Devil and I am fucking possessed.


My complete lack of motivation has always been staggering. Here I sit, posting for the first time in much too long. Meanwhile, my life speeds off without me. Work piles up unmolested. A hundred things need doing and none of them are being done. But alas, Boredom has adhered itself and is here to stay. 


By now this pen of mine is ragged and pulpy-- another victim of passive compulsions. I continue to chew it, easily ignoring its silent cries for help, and consider how I'll end this foray into writing something while really writing nothing. With a joke? With a quote?  A word of wisdom or recipe for Spiced Yolk?


It's hard to write from behind a mask when it's begun clinging to your skin. I can't show you what's beneath when I can't pry the damn thing off. Hence, my lack of posting. Hence, my lacking sanity. Hence hence hence, the End. Not of me, but of this babbling, rambling, rant. 

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.

Zwang Zhawq Spock!

A situation has come up with our dear friend and author of Psychopathic Writings, Zhawq. A situation I, as a concerned citizen and member of the Psychopathic Attentionwhores committee cannot allow to go unmentioned. It seems Our Friend has made some enemies who, found it amusing to post some information about other aliases and sites he frequents. Amusing? Yes. But terribly impressive? No.

The whole issue itself has brought up thoughts that I feel I must force onto a semi-willing audience (that'd be you). Just as I suspected, morbidly curious readers view both my and other sociopaths' blogs with not a single ounce of retention. You read my words and dilute them to fit your own reality. For that reason I'll go through a little 'mini-review lesson' to refresh your withering memories.

Psychopaths don't give two shits to social norms and mores. We don't ignore just the 'cool ones' to ignore, but also the 'embarassing, loserish, ridiculous' taboos as well. The psychopath that attacked Zhawq is a clever boy that realized the best way to irritate a psychopath is not to embarass or humiliate him, since that isn't possible. It's to sick a horde of irritating empaths on him that disallow him to enjoy his normal recreational activities. For Our Friend that activity is blogging.

World of Warcraft isn't 'cool'. Being fat isn't cool. Frequent smiling and a friendly demeanor are definitely, definitely not 'cool' either. So what? Do psychopaths care? I sure don't. I'm glad this happened, I'm glad this came up because it sheds a BRIGHT light on the reality of sociopathy idiotic empaths ignore. We're not your fucking role models.

People aren't successful, then become sociopaths. Sociopaths are people who just happen to have traits that breed success. Confidence, charm, a tongue of the finest silver. The problem with society today is everyone's a loser except the hotshots on TV. And I hate to break it to you but, they aren't real. You all seem to have self-esteem so low it's pathetic. Instead of taking your collective-unhappiness as motivation to create a society tolerant of diversity (a society you ALL could thrive in),  you take the easier, pettier route of belittling others as a way to create the illusion that you yourselves have ascended. Did I already say pathetic?

For those of you that think it's Zhawq's pride being attacked, your observation skills need a little polishing. No matter how many ants try to throw rocks at you, I'm pretty sure you'll survive unscathed. Though from the perspective of another insect it'd seem quite a dangerous situation to walk into, the reality is quite different.

I won't deny a very impressive manipulation is taking place. However, the fact that it's even possible irritates the part of me that prefers its prey with a bit of density in its brain. The predators involved are above reproach. They're only doing what they do best; entertaining themselves. But you, the self-righteous empaths that email me preaching about the errors of my ways, and even MORE so you, the weak-willed souls hoping to manufacture a cloak of sociopathy of your own, shame on you for promoting such an amusing injustice.

Are the accusations true? The answer is irrelevant. Our Friend writes an accurate and insightful blog that sheds a light on psychopathy few others can match in vibrancy or luminosity. I don't care if he's a ninety-eight year old tranny from Nantucket, he's providing a valuable service (and I don't mean 99 cent blowjobs). A service you have the choice to indulge in or not. I for one, am thankful.

Thank you Intimate Stranger and Dearest Friend I've never spoken to, for writing about the things I don't want to! Without people like you, people like me would have much less time to wax-poetic about ourselves. For that I'll be forever grateful.



“The worthiest people are the most injured by slander, as is the best fruit which the birds have been pecking at”

-- Jonathan Swift

Sociopathy: Mask of Sanity or Invisibility?

What am I really? I wonder it from time to time. Everyone has their own opinion; I'm a monster I'm a genius I'm a rat bastard. I know exactly what I am, I can feel it. But that's just it, it has no title. No one can accurately call me one thing or another. I'm a creature of too many parts. A lion with the leap of a rabbit and the wings of a bird. What do you call such a beast?

It's a strange thing, gazing into the eyes of your peers and seeing merely a reflection. A projection of something or someone you could never truly be. The academic, the writer, the healer, the human being. As an empath you can never truly fathom the abstract feeling of watching yourself become something else. Laughing and smiling at things you don't really understand. Human interaction and all its little dips and swerves.

Even the people who know, don't know. There's always two parts to every story; what the author writes and what the author doesn't write. Both are equally important. This author will never write the whole story. The very title of this blog suggests the opportunity to 'peak behind the mask'. But it's not so straightforward, is it? Regardless how much I may want to be in full view of the world, by my very nature that is impossible.

I like clever people; I hate dense people. If you can't read between the lines you aren't meant to know their secrets. A sociopath's brain is built on a system of hierarchy. His or herself being at the top and everyone else being ranked somewhere below (usually quite far to be honest). That's part of why we're so secretive. Does a General share information with a lieutenant? Only the bare minimum. Why? Because an inferior is ill-equiped to utilize such data. Would you give a map to a dog?

Yet more and more I find myself bursting at the seams in frustration. No one is brilliant enough, smart enough, clever enough. I'm up Shit Creek without a paddle. My face is melting from the sheer madness of it all. I've always found such proclamations as "the mask of sanity' in regards to sociopathy to be, more than a little melodramatic. Mask of 'sanity'? No one could be more lucid or sane than I.

But now I look back and forward and upside down and see the melted plastic of conformity sticking to my chin and I ask myself, 'what am I really?' Reality to me, has always been a four dimensional construct. Not everything is straight lines and neat little boxes we can all be sketched into. I've always believed strongly that I am everything I appear to be and more. Actions are the words on the page, it doesn't matter that the lines between tell a different story.

If I give a million dollars to charity one day and kill your mother the next, am I a humanitarian or aren't I? Empaths like to view the world through a muddied window of their own pre-programmed beliefs and ideals. If God says a cat has five legs, it has five legs goddammit! Likewise, if you kill or rape or pillage, or perhaps just happen to lack empathy, you cannot possibly provide a speck of good for society. The concept is too traumatic to process. In psychology it's called Cognitive Dissonance, and is the behavioral basis behind why religious hordes are so fucking stupid.

It's also the basis behind why, unless I dance on a pile of corpses in broad daylight with a bloody knife in my hand and a neon-green shirt that reads "I DID IT!" on the front, no one will suspect be of being anything more than perhaps a bit strange when looked at closely. And I suppose that's what I am when boiled down to size. Psychopaths are just like you, only a bit stranger.

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’.

'UNTITLED' AKA: Forced Posting 101

I've been busy lately. Not in the same way as before, but in a way that has made it difficult for me to find the time to think about myself. That's what inspires these posts. Self reflection, metacognitive thought. Something I've always done, but has changed a bit this past year as I've written so expressly about myself. Instead of considering my actions in broad strokes, I have an anchor, a basis from which my self analysis revolves; my psychopathy. Connecting my behaviors to a known basis gives me a depth of knowledge of myself I'm lucky to have.

Just recently I decided to center some of my research on people like me. Not just psychopaths, but very specific 'paths whose criminal background and psychology were particularly on par with mine. Looking at these people, their actions and their lives was somewhat shocking and very eye-opening. It's very rare for someone like me to experience a feeling of 'similarity' with someone else. Rarely when I say "me too!" do I actually feel any 'kinship' with the person I'm speaking. But in this case, I was very purposeful in finding others like me.

It was somewhat unbelievable. Sure, I have read about certain infamous psychopaths before, heard of them, and often people email me on this blog comparing me to them. To answer some of your questions now, before I have to hear them again later; I have little to nothing in common with Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Edmund Kemper or many of the other very popular 'sociopaths'. I'm miles less narcissistic than Bundy, less of a hoarder than Dahmer and am not as preoccupied with my mother as Kemper. Of course, there are a few parallels but even an empath could find a few similarities with anyone, even the most 'unempathetic' individual.  

I looked into a variety of people, from suspiciously sociopathic high-powered persons to obviously psychopathic criminals who seemed to have a similar carriage or outlook as myself. I’m not sure exactly what I was seeking to gain by this; insight into myself? Entertainment? Role models (ha)? All I can say is the actual result, the feelings I had when viewing these people were various. One was intense irritation, especially toward some of the individuals who had committed similar acts as I, BEFORE me. I just could not get over the overwhelming feeling of competition. Like when a child gets to the age when they realize their parents were full of shit when they said they were ‘special’. Foolishly, I allowed my ever-buried narcissism to take hold and compel me toward a series of reckless endeavors that not only delayed my posting even more, but resulted in the fun injury that has fucked me over thus far.  Yay.

I can’t/couldn’t even come up with a better lie for how I got injured than “I fell down the stairs.” Fucking classic. I know you all prefer me in my more ‘well kempt’ mask but, I’ve found it feels good to be a bit more ‘edgy’ on occasion. Don’t you? Well, maybe not. But as they say, variety is the spice of life. Though perhaps mine needs to be a bit more watered down as of late…

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

ZKM-The Early Years

Today, let's talk a little bit about ZKM, shall we?

I have always been interested in myself, in a very self-aware way. Since childhood I noticed a disconnect in myself I didn't notice in others. I was always different. Very strongly, I believe that I was born with a mental abnormality somewhere on the antisocial/autism scale. My full-fledged psychopathy however, I believe was nurtured by my environment, definitely. That is often a question I and other psychopaths receive on a semi-constant basis, "do you believe you are a Nature or a Nurture psychopath?" For me it is definitely a combination of both.

A phrase I have used for countless years to describe myself is, "I was born thirty," and it really couldn't be anymore true. My self-awareness is truly amazing, my memory stretches back to even months old. This is part of how I can really map my mental development. Memories from when I was an infant up to young childhood are of course, not the same as memories from yesterday or even adolescence. They are very vague and unclear, seen through an undeveloped mind. Often they are of being held and watching mouthes move but having no understanding or even the foresight to question what is being heard.

So you can imagine, even as a child I was very thoughtful and introspective. I was 'callous' and unfeeling--more so than average children, but at that point I had no realization that I was doing anything wrong in anyone's eyes, not just my own. This is where I really began to begin my dissent into psychopathy. In psychology we're taught morals and the learning of proper social behavior is most developed in the earlier formative years, believe it or not. This is when our brains really establish a disposition one way or the other in terms of behavior that is 'ingrained' and 'natural' for us to model ourselves after.

This is also when I was surrounded, not by bright and upstanding citizens, but dull and degenerate lowlifes who made sure I had no idea what empathy even was until I was removed by the state from my living situation just prior to adolescence. By then of course, it was too late.

People who grew up in nice suburban areas can never fully understand all the ways that being raised in a ghetto is different. Of course there is the obvious, drugs/violence/etc. But also, the fundamental child-rearing beliefs are drastically different. I was never a child because I never acted like one. As soon as you display the mental ability to enter into the life, you're thrust into it head first. I was expected to do a lot of the things the adults did, as soon as I was able. In large part this was because of my brilliance. I can recall giving advice on any number of things, from financial to personal-- and this was as a child!

The hugest thing I was enmeshed in at that point in time was conning. This was obviously because I was such a huge benefit, the general belief among people seems to be that children can't lie convincingly--this is a lie that made it a lot easier for me to do my job. Unbeknownst to them, the skills learned while making them money, really enhanced my psychopathy more toward a level it's at now. All the shit I say about manipulation; body language/voice intonation/technique-- is garnered from personal experience getting people to do what I want without the ability to physically force them.

These years I was also abused in most ways I can think of. Any empathy that may have trickled in from above was deftly stomped out, crushed and set on fire. It is hard to explain how this effected me, it truly is. I can't say I was completely apathetic to it, but definitely not emotional either. I guess the best way to describe it was, I was emotionally retarded. I was really brilliant in some ways, and really dumb in others. I never really connected people's actions to their feelings, and I never really connected incidences together. In hindsight I can recall several beatings I should have saw coming. I can also recall getting beaten much more savagely than other children simply because I didn't display the correct amount of devastation.

The rule for when to stop beating someone is about 5-minutes after they begin crying and pleading for you to stop. For some reason I never seemed to. In my mind's eye I see, more than one time when, an adult was practically running toward me with every obvious indication they were going to beat the living shit out of me, and I didn't even flinch. Like I saw them rushing toward me, fist lifted, and made no connection that I was going to get struck. And after they struck, I was surprised every time they did after that. Like I had forgotten they fucking hit me two seconds ago. This was not nerves of steal, it was a lack of processing in my brain. Another issue with that was my inability to cry. I would get beaten, and feel intense pain, but not cry. This has led me to believe that tears are a learned rather than a purely biological response to negative stimuli.

Eventually, I did learn that in order to survive I would need to fake certain emotions at certain times. Another way I was helped along in this endeavor, was the fact that I terrified my mother, and her boyfriend. They were avid drug-users, and very early-on they gave me the lovely nickname, Satan (or Devil). This was on account of my unnatural apathy for a child. They would often scream out passionate verses from the Bible while beating me, "I DEFY THEE SATAN!" and other such charming phrases. This truly amused me, even then, because I had read more of the Bible than either of them (on account of being forced to) and I realized quite clearly that they were much closer to being spawns from hell than I ever could be. I truly had 'flat-effect' as a child, my face always remained impassive-- I never smiled, and that is what really disturbed people.

People would always look at my face and exclaim "Why are you angry?!" Which always confused me because I was never angry, I couldn't understand what made them think that. Eventually, after getting beaten every time I got caught not showing emotion, I was trained basically like a dog, to smile. This brutal lesson follows me today. If you were to meet me in person you'd notice I smile frequently, if not always, regardless what I am discussing. I am not popular at funerals. Though I have made this flaw in myself a fitting part of many of my personalities, so it seems more natural (and with enough focus I can act out other more fitting emotions as well).

Anyway, after being taken out of a callous environment and thrown into the world of the Middle-Class Emotional I was absolutely flabbergasted. But this post is getting a bit long-winded, perhaps I should elaborate on this another day.

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.

Wax Poetic

Yes, my friends, I take requests,

Ashes of the soul askew,
crooning morbid fantasies of me and you.


Love is such a trite word,
liable to flee an Empath like a bird.


Sensitivity made humanity weak,
so quick to prostrate itself at cupid's feet.


I assure you Darling, I'm no man but God,
no woman but Celeste, not a prince but a Frog.


Not Shackled by humility,
nor prone to kind civility.


Who am I but you?
My cat, I only follow you.


A block of ice to which you stray,
the little Devil with which you play.


Never compare those foolish boys' love,
to the reverent fondness of a God.


My affection is a selfish thing,
it does not need reciprocation to unsheathe.


Boredom is what I greatly abhor,
you vanquish it, my foreign Whore.


My interest should be your greatest prize,
for love is fickle by and by.


But if lying is what you really want me to do,
of course my dear, I love you.