Sugar Baby Blues

 

Art done by:

https://www.deviantart.com/misiasart     

    Abbey always had a thing for older men; not her, or any of her friends around her really understood where it came from. On several occasions, they would express concern, other times the friendships around her would just crumble. Her parents on the other hand, didn't seemed concerned, or even surprised. From an outsiders perspective, Abbey was the epitome of privilege--blonde hair, blue eyes, a cheerleader with an upper middle class family that had the means to help her pay for medical college. It made no sense that someone like her would attach herself to unstable father figures, but people often mistake beauty with goodness.

    When Abbey was 13, she fell in love with her art teacher, and continued to have an affair with him until she went off to high school. That same year, he went to prison for having sex with an 11 year old girl. Throughout high school, she juggled a relationship with both her high school boyfriend and his dad. They both got away with it, and the relationship with both of them ended when she graduated. Unfortunately, things got progressively worse during college. Her first semester there, she developed an obsession with a married teacher that resulted in her getting kicked out of school, and having to finish her courses online. When that didn't work out and she had to go to a different school, her parents refused to pay for it, so she developed unhealthy attachments to to sugar daddies that ultimately ended in heartbreak. The only person she ever opened up to was her best friend Kristy, who is currently consoling her confused, childhood best friend.

    "Abbey, honey, don't let that geriatric fuck boy get to you! We're in the prime of our lives, by the time we're 30, he'll be impotent."

    Abbey chuckles, wiping her tears with a damp Kleenex. "I just don't get it, he acted as if he really liked me. He told me he was only interested in dating me and being intimate with me, then when we go out dancing he blows me off for another woman! I mean seriously, what the fuck?!"

    "He's an emotionally stunted narcissist that treats women like props, that's it, it's not about you." Kristy was blunt in her analysis, which people either hated or admired, but Abbey appreciated her tough love.

    "Spoken like a true psychologist." Abbey gave a weak smile, she sniffles as she stares at her hands, playing with what is now an unusable wad of snot cotton.

    Kristy looks down in deep thought before sighing, "Abbey, I've known you my whole life and I love you very much, but this pattern..." Kristy pauses briefly to consider her next words carefully, "this pattern has remained consistent since we were kids and I'm really, really worried about you."

    They both remained silent for only a few seconds before Kristy continued, "At the Marsha Ross Institute, they're working on this experimental treatment plan. It's only been used on patience with amnesia associated with head trauma, but their has been a high success rate."

    Abbey rolls her eyes and chuckles, "uh Kristy, I don't have amnesia. Sharp memory? Spelling bee champ? I mean, HELLO!"

    Kristy didn't let her friends generic, cocky, cheerleader attitude distract her. "Maybe not, but I do think their could be something from your past that you may not be thinking about, and this may help you connect the dots."

    Abbey rolled her eyes, "for what purpose?'

    "Uh, so you can make healthier decisions for yourself and move on with you life? Duh!" Kristy replies with an edge to her tone, clearly irritated with her besties stubbornness.

    Abbey looks down at the Kleenex in her hands as she considers the idea, then throws it away in the small trashcan next to the couch. "OK, I'll do it."

                                                                                         ~

    A team of students, a doctor, and a professor surround Abbey in a sterile white room; Kristy stood next to her with a supportive hand in hers. The doctor spoke seriously and directly when regarding the treatment, "Abbey, this treatment will work much like a time machine. Your mind will take you back to a memory that you've forgotten, and probably for good reason. Do you understand that whatever you see, we are not responsible and the memory, as well as what you do with it, will be yours to carry?"

    Abbey felt a pang of fear and hesitation at the possibility of unresolved trauma, which she never bothered to consider. However, if that were the case, better to deal with it now than later. Still feeling uneasy at what she might discover, Abbey responds with a reluctant nod.

    "Are you sure? Once you go in and uncover these memories, theirs no going back."

    "Yes, I understand, I want to continue." Abbey replies with more confidence, but as more of an assurance to herself than the doctor.

    "OK, then lets begin."

                                                                                    ~

    Abbey was injected with a drug called Neocortoxine, a muscle relaxant that stimulated the part of the brain responsible for memory. Once the doctor placed a hat on Abbeys head--one that appeared  as if a robot gave birth to a pair of ominous tentacles, all of which were attached to what looked like a mini fridge with a couple of buttons and a light switch; immediately Abbey began to drift as neurostimulation allowed electrical impulses in the brain to uncover what was lost.

    Abbey stood in a poorly lit basement, surrounded by dusty boxes and cobwebs. She remembered this place from her early childhood, her parents had to downgrade after her baby brother was born. Luckily, they only stayed there for about 5 years; both her, and her parents absolutely hated the place. The basement was the worst of all--the musty air made Abbeys allergies twitch, causing her to choke. As she began to cough, two men descended the steps with a little girl traveling behind them. The little girl was Abbey when she was 6, one of the men was her dad, the other she didn't recognize. She was worried that they would see her, but as they approached the bottom of the steps, and all three of them walked past her without a second glance, and her coughing began to subside. She then realized that her experience there is merely palpable, not so concrete. She was--well, I suppose in a literal sense, a ghost within her own past acting as a spectator.

    Abbey walked around the corner to see her 6 year old self, sitting on an old couch next to the unknown man. He was older, old enough to be her grandfather; he had a tall, stocky form with a stern look about him, and a seemingly predatory gaze that never seemed to leave young Abbey. 

   Abbey watched the little version of herself look up to her dad as he gave her clear instructions, gesturing to a video camera. "Now, you're going to be a good girl and you're going to help daddy make a movie, OK? Then we'll go get ice cream!"

    Little Abbeys eyes sparkle innocently as she nodded emphatically, "But first," Abbeys dad stated as he held up a finger, pointed at the burly man on the couch. He leaned back, then unzipped his pants. "I need you to take care of my friend here--just like ice cream."

    Older Abbey gaped at the scene appalled and outraged; the violation of trust, the look of confusion and fear on young Abbeys face as the man roughly grabbed her by her hair, the secrets buried beneath an image of wealth of mediocrity...

    'How could I be so stupid!'

    Abbey jolted from her chemically induced hallucination, then began hyperventilating. Kristy runs over to her friend, taking the tentacle robot off her head. "Whats wrong honey? What did you see?"

    Abbeys sobs uncontrollably, "How could he do those things to me?!"

    "What do you mean? Who did what to you?" Kristy wiped the tears from Abbeys eyes.

    "My dad, he let men do horrible things to me when I was 6 and..." Abbeys bottom lip trembled, "fucking recorded it!"

    Kristy was afraid of this, hell, even the professionals in the room saw it coming; but Abbey needed to address the issues that were ruining her life. From this point on, Kristy could see that things were only going to get harder; not just for Abbey, but for the both of them. She knew that their was a possibility that this may even put a strain on their friendship, maybe even end it. She also knew that it was likely that Abbey may never come back from this, and inevitably blame her like she was currently blaming herself.

 

   As guilt began to rise up in Kristy's throat, she choked out a small sob lamenting the suggestion she had made, then lovingly embraces her. "Shhh, I'm here bestie, I'll be here every step of the way. You're not alone..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blackout Rambles

 

                                                                                        

                                       Strung Out 

                                                                   

                                                           by:    fadeintoablackout

                                                                                                            

                                                                                              

I’m sitting here drunk, listening to music… on the radio! I would never listen to anything on the radio given the option. Yet here I am, sitting here drunk, looking for messages in music I would never listen to on my own; hoping to catch a “clue.” I suppose in this dark, drunken state this is how my psychosis is choosing to manifest itself.

As I sit here by candlelight, rocking back and forth, cuddling my own tortured thoughts; I have no choice but to accept this darkened solitude like most people with no trustworthy family and no close friends. After all, what’s new? No matter how many healthy friendships I have, or even if I’m in a loving relationship, I will still feel alone because everyone does. That’s the price of being human—we all feel the same, and we all cope with it horribly. So the weather for this Valentine's Day was frighteningly fitting—cold, bitter, and lonely; just like February 2020.

Everyone acts as if they care if someone is feeling suicidal, but they're full of shit. The only thing people care about is not being inconvenienced—one will say to reach out to friends, family, or a trusted loved one. What if your friends don’t care? What if the people that say they care about you are too preoccupied to care? What if you don't have health insurance and can't afford a therapist? What if psychiatric care, in general, is too triggering due to past experiences? Perhaps that's the universes way of telling me to off myself, just get it over with, you don’t belong. Perhaps friends and loved ones are just people you spend time with to help you forget about the pain of being alive, but they don't give a shit about you anymore than a stranger does. Maybe love doesn’t last forever and empathy doesn’t exist without something in return…

On Friday, February 12, I went to a rave. I had a blast by myself and said nothing to no one—except for a security guard, “Where do I show my tickets?”

The bartender, “I’d like a shiner please.”

And some random guy that asked me what time it ended, “2am.”

Oh, and the guys from the Tiny House Burgers food truck, highly recommend! So yeah, my social life is a total riot…

The problem with human beings is our primitive, tribal instincts. A rolling stone that gathers no moss tends to leave no impression, the same goes for human beings. A stone with “roots” so to speak, shows that it’s hospitable to others, reliable even. We can’t determine if a rolling stone with no moss is harmful to the unit unless it tears through like a wrecking ball (that's right...I'm listening to Mylie Cyrus), the same way we can’t determine if a loner is a loner by choice or had it enforced upon them.

Oh my God, Jlo’s ‘love don't cost a thing’ just came on… Is this accurate? Does giving a shit about someone truly come at no cost? I look at people who have either one person or a small collective of people that seem to love them and genuinely care about them, I won't lie, I do envy that. I don't really know what it's like to be in a stable, nontoxic relationship of any kind and I really want better for myself. I do have one friend I can count on from time to time, but she has a lot of her own personal issues and can't be there for me in the way that I need.

So what do I want? Do I want roots? Is it even worth it? I know every living creature on this planet dies alone, but am I meant to live alone regardless of how heavily it weighs on me, or how much I try to connect with others? I guess the real question is—what am I looking for and how do I want to be treated by another human being?

Quietus

                                                                                   

Love is for fools and emotional puppeteers and I have no time

No patience for mind games

Yet here I am

Bound by caring and burning with need

An infernal bondage

Tied up and left to bleed

I long to cut myself off

To detach myself from your strings

I want to shut the world out

Just so I can be alone

A cry for help

 

                                                     Henry Wallis' "Chatterton" 1865

  "My dear friend, I have been at war with the grave for some time now." Thomas Chatterton 

I don't reach out when I need help, some would say it’s self defeating; personally, I don't think anyone really gives a shit. I’m so used to people who say they care about me get angry and upset, suggest pills or hospitalization when my emotions are an inconvenience to them, or they have nothing to say at all. I mean, what could anyone say? People with depression aren't equipped to help others with depression, those who don’t have similar issues couldn’t possibly fathom the desperation that occurs.

I’ve been stuck in this gaping maw for nearly a month now, whenever I feel as if I’ve pulled through on my own, I end up being swallowed—I stop showering, I eat too much if I eat at all, and just getting out of bed feels like I’m sprinting uphill. The emotional baggage affects my neck, shoulders, and back. I thought about going to therapy, but I’ve been down that road many times before. Without insurance, its pricey and time consuming. Most of the time, you end up going through multiple therapists before you find the right one. I don't think I have that kind of time…

As much as I want to reach out, ask someone for help, it feels like emotional black mail to tell them I’m suicidal; but I feel like I need to tell someone. Yet, whenever I get around people, especially large crowds; I feel lost, alone, out of place—I spend most of my time feeling like I want to jump out of my skin, but what I really want and I try to do is feel comfortable in it. I’m so tired of fighting…

I want to reach out and connect with others, but I feel selfish for even trying. I don’t know who I am or where I fit, I feel completely and utterly worthless. Expecting more feels greedy and narcissistic, I feel like I don't deserve to be loved or cared about because theirs no way I’m good enough. I feel like a mistake…

If anyone is reading this, yes, it is a cry for help; but I don't expect anything from you, I certainly don't want you to feel obligated to reach out and try to help. Theirs no use in feeling just as uncomfortable as I do, I’ve done this alone before and I pride myself in being able to do so, I just hope I can do it again.

I want to want to live, but I’m completely clueless, and I feel guilty for being alive.

I don’t know what to do…

                                                                                    

                                                                 Art by: NerdGhostWaffles 
                                                       

Drinking Venom

Making connections and establishing friendships has never been easy for me, especially when you’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop; the same shoe that kicks you in the teeth with rejection, social isolation, and never ending anxiety. My attachment style has often been avoidant, smeared with a bitter shit stain.

My relationship with human beings is a lot like my relationship with food—I either can’t get enough, I judge others so harshly that I purge everyone from my life, or I starve myself of human contact to the point that I feel ill. I’m vigilant, distrustful, and I’m often weary of what people’s intentions are. I can’t make friends or even date without that voice telling me that I’m a piece of shit, I deserve to die, how narcissistic are you to think that someone like you deserves to be seen and heard?

Lately, this voice has been urging me to slash myself with a razor. At one point, this voice urged me to workout for hours to the point of injury, just so I didn’t have to think about the intensity of my emotions and deal with them properly. All I did was replace one addiction with another, although I felt strong and proud, in reality I was sick. I didn’t even realize it because stereotypically, people with eating disorders either vomit everything they eat, or they’re wasting away on a deathbed with a feeding tube.

I feel more comfortable when I’m fit, but for the moment I’m trying to feel comfortable at 150lbs. so I don’t fall back into old habits. I’m trying to feel more comfortable with being around people, with making new friends, dating—I’m trying to love myself and other people without judgment.

My entire 20’s consisted of toxic relationships and trying to adapt to life outside of an institution, at 30 I want to do things differently, regardless of what the voice keeps telling me.

 

A Confounding Parallel

 

Jackson Pollock: Alchemy

    Recently, I had a conversation with a friend about relationships and how they affect our personal lives—she’s currently in a relationship with an alcoholic and seems to be dealing with the same problems I had in my last relationship; the constant fighting, the abusive and avoidant behavior, as well as the overall instability. Although I don’t regret my last relationship, it was an emotional roller coaster. Being in love with an addict is like being in love with a cancer patient, they love you, but they’re too sick to give you what you need. I realize now, that with Danny, I was simply repeating a cycle that I had grown accustomed to since childhood.

    Growing up my mom had a tendency to feign certain illnesses and encouraged me to do the same, all so she could receive a government check and not have to work for anything. Meanwhile, I was given absolutely no life skills; I was drugged, institutionalized, and surrounded by chaotic environments and unstable people. I learned to shut the world out because alone was better, alone I was safe. All I had to do to escape was daydream and write, so I could fantasize about killing people I couldn’t kill in real life. As I got older and realized I wanted more for myself, my mom would lose her shit and attempt to stifle my progress out of fear for her financial security.

    Danny was the shield, he was the one that had my back and told me that I deserved better and that I was capable. Unfortunately, he was a shield in a sense that a couple of gargantuan, soul sucking buzzards turned him into a Jackson Pollock painting by crapping all over him. This, I believe, really tore Danny down. The instability within the house compelled him to drink more, eventually making him sick and not much better than my mom who pops pills and sleeps all day. I was so angry at him, I felt like he let me down! So for quite some time, especially after he quit his job, I cut myself off from him. I crippled myself emotionally and yet, I stayed with him, trapping myself in this psychologically torturous limbo of being single and being in a relationship. I tried everything I could think of to make it work while distancing myself emotionally, all because I didn’t want to be left alone with my mom and her mountain goat with Down Syndrome.

    Although Danny helped bring me out of my shell, his addiction got so out of control that everything became a trigger, and therefore isolating. I wanted to do so many things with him—go to shows, go to the movies, travel. It got to the point that we couldn’t do anything together because he was drunk all the time, and going out with a mean drunk was not my idea of a good time. I feel shitty for feeling this way, or for even writing this; but if I’m going to be completely honest with myself, I have to admit that when Danny died, a part of me felt relieved. Relief coexisted with my rage, depression, and of course my guilt. For months now, I’ve felt a sensation of freedom that I’ve never felt before. Thanks to Danny’s support, I’m no longer my mothers cash cow. I guess that’s just how death works, just like love, it brings pain and relief.

It’s really fucked up that this is what acceptance looks like…

                                                             Jackson Pollock: Number 31

Unified by Turbulence

 

Ever had one of those days where you just want to put your fist through a window, to feel a wave of tranquility wash over you as you pick the glass from your arm? Well, that’s basically how I feel everyday…

When I’m happy, I’m angry.

When I’m sad, I’m angry.

When I’m completely content my mind will go a mile a minute at times, taking me to places that I don’t want to go. Although I try to shove it down, it doesn’t seem to fix the problem. With further contemplation in an attempt to provide myself with self awareness, I’ve realized that this is normal. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if maybe… just maybe it affects me more intensely. Given my diagnosis of BPD, a qualified professional would tell me that it certainly the case—yet with all the therapy I’ve done, all the drugs that I’ve taken, and all the progress I’ve achieved through sheer will and dedication; I still feel angry.

This is something that is unlikely to change—I can try my hardest to live my best life, but more than likely, I’ll carry this rage around for the rest of my life. Instead of ruminating and allowing it to crush my spirit, the best thing would be to accept that this is normal.

Anger seizes me…

I’m trapped

I’m choking

I’m dying within this flesh tethered confinement!

I’m just as benumbed to the life moving around me as they brag on their emptiness

as if apathy is something to be revered.

The world is shallow and savage

I feel my blood become frozen as my heart turns cold.

Now, with my baneful eye

I crave war and suffering with the metallic taste of death.

I am no different

I am just as cold

I am just as empty

I am just as vain.

Ramblings from an Angry Widow

 May 25^th was mine and Danny’s anniversary, we would’ve been together for 6 years. I’ve been thinking a lot about his family and the things I want to say to them for cruelly giving me the cold shoulder, I’ve also been thinking a lot about how angry I am at Danny. I’m not angry at him for dying, I’m angry at him for not taking better care of himself—for drinking himself sick instead of enjoying and living life with me, I’m angry at him for all the times he made me feel responsible for his alcoholism getting worse. I’m angry at him for not being more responsible and properly preparing, I’m angry at him for not getting the help that he desperately needed until the last minute.

However, none of this compares to the anger I feel towards Danny’s family. I’m going to end this by making this out to them personally—Dorcas Marsden, you are a gelatinous slob that selfishly chose to sit in a chair and have your children wait on you hand and foot, all because your piece of shit husband died. Your disgusting, weak, and you’re just as bad as my mother if not worse. Danny hated you and his Dad, yet Danny still took care of you when he could, even if it was simply out of obligation. Oh, and lets not forget the fact that you’re the reason he felt guilty about getting to know his biological brother, and even when you knew Danny had cancer you still demanded he make you a cup of tea. You still couldn’t accept the fact that Danny wasn’t religious; when your husband was alive, you spent so much time trying to be the good Christian wife, you wouldn’t even bother to stop your husband from beating your fragile son and then locking him in closets. That worked to his advantage however, when he was 11 years old, he ate his first pussy in that very same closet. Ha! So much for your good Christian household!

Ezra Burns, you’re a sad sack with too many kids and from what I’ve heard, you’re a shit father. You’re a gross old pig that clearly doesn’t even like your wife, you only married her for money and because you didn’t want to be alone after your previous wife died. Perhaps that’s why your dad drank too much and beat your mom, he himself couldn’t stand his cunting wife, let alone stand to be around his aborted disappointments.

And Laura Burns, you denied me some of Danny’s ashes even when I offered to help you pay for half of the cremation, I was even willing to give you $1000 just for a couple of tablespoons. I know about all the times you tried to convince Danny to leave me—you respect me so little that when I got on my knees and begged you, eyes clouded with tears; your soul is so full of dust and the ashes of your dead relatives, you wrote me off as hysterical. You belittled me, patronized me, antagonized me—talking to you was like being curb-stomped after being stabbed in the back, then left to bleed out on the side of the road, which I suppose is why you’re going to just drop Danny in a hole with two people he despised, the same way your Dad dropped his dick into your rancid hole when he got bored with your mom. That's right, I know about the accusations you made against your father. It’s pretty fucked up that you think it’s morally corrupt to divide up someones ashes, yet it’s righteous to bury Danny with the woman who gave you life, then took it from you to sit in a chair, right along with the man you accused of rape. All of this you're doing for YOUR convenience! You’re a gnarled, toothless hag and you smell like your moms piss and shit—or is that your vile malodorous stench? I know you have a tendency to soil yourself, what I really want to know is…when your Dad was pumping in and out of you, did he cum inside of you? Or did he shoot it all over your fat ass because he couldn’t stand to look at your “O” face?

All those times you and Dorcas said you loved me, cared about me, and that we were family—when you found out Danny had cancer, you even went so far as to say and I quote, "If you ever need anything, Danny's badass sister is here to help." Then you hugged me, let me cry on your shoulder after shedding a few of your own; it was complete bullshit. You actually cared so little about me, you kicked me out of the house within the same week of Danny’s death because I disagreed with you. You respect yourself so little that even with kidney failure, you chain smoke, eat garbage food, and make little to no effort to care for yourself. Strong people don't need to tear others down in order to feel strong, they do it on their own. You are a dried up, burlap husk of a woman and I hope your death is as lonely and miserable as your time on this planet.

Good Riddance!

THE PICKLE OF TOP OF THE SHIT THAT IS LIFE

In a couple of months, I have to be out of the house my grandparents own. My grandparents are in their 80’s, their health is deteriorating, and insurance on the house keeps going up every year. I’ve been looking at apartments, houses, and duplexes—even motor homes!

Now, I have only one question… Are these places made of minerals that were plucked from the center of the earth, magically transported to the heavens, where they were encased in gold by the Gods?

Everything is so expensive and none of the places I looked at appeared to be worth it! I thought of buying a used van outright and converting it, but I’m not that handy. I mean, how do you build a shitter in a van without a bunch of shit leaking out?

I can’t handle the degrading monotony of working nine to five—I’m neurotic, misanthropic, and I never sleep. I can’t handle spending most of my life in a place that makes me suicidal, I know myself well enough to know that I just wouldn’t last very long, especially when it’s only to pay for some $1200 roach orgy.

I’m not without a plan, but I do know that things never work out accordingly, the only thing that scares me is the uncertainty.

My plan is to get a car, take on more dog walks, house sits, and drop in visits; continue to work on my writing, and travel as much as possible—then see where I end up… Who knows? Maybe I’ll die!!!

EXISTENTIAL FEAR

I’m afraid, as we all are.

I’m afraid that I’m such a mistake that I’ll never truly find my place in this world, unless I’m being used for someone else's benefit.

I’m afraid that no matter how hard I try, nothing will come of my efforts because we’re all at the mercy of our own fate, a path forged for each of us leaving us no choice. Some are doomed shiver alone in the darkest of cold shadows, while others get to be illuminated by the warmth of the sun.

I’m afraid that I’m too weak, too unnecessary, too worthless.

I’m afraid of loosing just as much as I’m afraid of winning, therefore I become too afraid to try.

I’m afraid of being crippled by loneliness.

I’m afraid of being crippled by age.

I’m afraid of being crippled by fear, even though I already am.

I’m afraid of people and their intentions.

I’m afraid of the world because I’m afraid that I’m not meant to be here.

I’m afraid of being alone, yet I’m afraid of getting close to others.

I’m afraid of simply being human.

I’m afraid, as we all are.

Corrosive Empathic Psychosis

It was Christmas Day and little Tiffany’s parents sat in the living room as she passed out presents, her blonde curls bounced and her face lit up with a smile, like the glimmering Christmas lights loosely strung around the small Christmas tree. The smile slowly began to fade as she noticed that her gifts were stacked into a large pile, creating a maze that left very little space for her and everyone else to move. Meanwhile, the extended family members that grew up with nothing only received socks, underwear, and a few food items.

The voice in her head began to get louder as she sat down, cramped between the exuberant amount of gifts and the couch. She felt trapped and claustrophobic as she began to open the gifts, feigning Christmas joy. Her pretty blue eyes started to water as the voice began to bellow, “you’re a piece of shit! You’re a waste of space! Who the hell do you think you are?!”

Tiffany began to panic, yet she said nothing out of fear of upsetting anyone. She felt overwhelmed as she felt everyone staring at her, judging her. Tiffany’s thoughts raced as an invisible hand wrapped around her neck, keeping her from saying what she really wanted to say, so instead, she screamed. She grabbed her hair and screamed louder than the voices that told her she was worthless, making her appear spoiled and unappreciative. Her family gaped at her, stunned by the sudden madness happening in front of them, angry at the screeching brat they maxed out their credit cards for.

Later that day, everyone went home and the pathetic princess tried to apologize to her mother, who was already too stoned to care. “You have to remember that there are children who don’t have what you have.” Her mother's words and slurred speech created a familiar, lonely void that Tiffany’s heart always managed to fall into.

Tiffany went to her room, cuddling with her self-hatred, noticing the only thing beautiful in her life were the expensive inanimate objects everyone mistakes for love.

The End

Empathy (From the POV of emapthy as if it were human)

Agnes Toth

Empathy

http://www.agnestoth.eu/

Your vicious tongue filled with venom and lies twists and twirls its way through my brain.

You revile me odious tales and malicious piety

Your cruel, shallow nature makes me sick of you!

Not only you but myself, because I am unworthy.

But YOU are unworthy!

You're greedy, lazy, and mediocre.

You're so talented but vague.

Just like everyone else, I love you and I hate you.

I long to be a part of you.

Hello society!

Hello World!

Do you remember me?

Yes, you do.

Though I hardly doubt you care...

Fat Emo

My entire childhood and some of my early adulthood, I was always the fat girl. I'm very proud of how hard I worked to be in such good shape, but sometimes I wonder why I don't eat myself back to morbid obesity. I don't know why I was completely ashamed of myself! I ate my emotions and "cut" them off  (i.e. self-mutilation), leaving my brain in a dopamine-induced food haze. Of course, that didn't last! It was always followed by shame; not just because I ate too much, but because I lacked the will and motivation to do anything about it. Then after a series of profound moments and unbearable boredom, I decided to better myself.

I want to see the world and meet different people (Yes! This misanthropic nihilist wants to meet people!), try exotic foods, and learn about different cultures. You can't do these things lying in bed all day. Not to mention, I really hate hating myself. So, I got up and decided to do something about it. Naturally, there is A LOT more to this story! Perhaps one day, I'll write about it in my autobiography. 

Long story short, I used to define my self-worth based on how I looked. I've been fat my whole life, within that same time span, I've also been a misfit. Eventually, I learned how to cake on makeup and do my hair in an attempt to either draw people in or push them away. I thought the only way to be valuable was to look valuable. If I didn't look like what I perceived to be valuable, then I deserved to be alone. How petty! How moronically artificial could I be to not remember the rot that inevitably sets in?!

Do people treat me any differently now than they did when I was fat? Yes, very much so! Are they nicer? Not really...

No matter what I look like, I'm too different to fit into a traditional mold. I'm too aware to be blind to the fact that beauty is nothing more than quality mating, innately making you a more titillating conquest. I used to want kids, I also used to pretend to love them (Kids are annoying). However, I already decided in my mid-twenties it was best not to reproduce. For that reason among many others, theirs no point in being valuable to anyone but myself and those who value me as a person.

I'm not going to lie, I enjoy looking at men and women with beautiful parts. Regardless of my shallow tendencies, it doesn't diminish the fact that those individuals are people with thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, and insecurities of their own. Being beautiful doesn't make you special or unique...it just makes you lucky; and more often than you might deserve, you get lucky!

Vanity is dangerous and potentially self-destructive. We're more than the pretentious layer that society expects us to be; the clear, colorless human beings that make our idiosyncrasies less terrifying and uncontrollable. We constantly change and transform, we grow old and then revert to stardust. We are different, yet we are the same. As an act of self-love, I vow to be less of a superficial twat goblin!

    

Anxious mutterings and False Pretense

 My anxiety with people overwhelms me. Every day I'm anxious about being social and opening up out of fear of how people might try to hurt me. It's not about what they think, it's about what they'll do. Does everyone feel this way?

I'm not perfect.

This is important because just like everyone else, I put up a front. Does everyone really do this, or am I just a fake piece of shit?

I'm.Not.Perfect.

 Nonetheless, I smile and I laugh trying to make the best of this mortal coil. This place is so fucked up, I force myself to talk to people and I do my best to interact; despite the fact that deep down every day I want to die. Does this make me crazy? Am I chemically imbalanced, or am I correct when I feel like I'm not meant to be here? I've personally never met a human that wasn't on some level mentally ill! I continue to smile and I continue to laugh, pretending that nothing is wrong. I do this because I don't know how else to cope.

I'M NOT PERFECT

Ramblings from a woman who can't stop menstruating

    Sometimes I feel like feminism is a joke. I hear the #metoo movement and I feel the burden, the weight of every woman's suffering being unheard or undermined. In a lot of ways, women bring it on themselves.

    For as long as history has been recorded, men have ruled the world. Very few societies have been recorded as egalitarian(aside from slavery of course). The ancient Celts fought equally on the battlefield; men, women and even children fought side by side. Vikings, both male and female; had equal say in what happened in their communities. Not to mention, rape and attempted rape were punishable by death! Personally,  I think a more suitable punishment would be castration and having your balls removed from the sack. Unfortunately, you can't get everything you want!

    I hope that one-day things will change, but women don't have each others backs the way men do. In most societies, men set roles for everyone to follow because they're predominantly in power. For women, that role is a cook, a clean and a caregiver. Once that role is fulfilled, it is believed that there is no room for anything else; not even her own wants and needs. Being pretty is clearly an advantage in snagging a suitable husband. I used to weigh 300 pounds, so I'm aware of the clear distinction in which women are treated according to how they look. Most women are too "stuck in their role" to say anything.

    I'll admit my responsibility by remaining silent. I was at a party once and a guy brushed my waist with his hand, and all I did was walk away; feeling like I could've done more. Several times I have walked down the street, harassed by males to frightened to leave their cars. Of course, their's nothing I could do about that! However, there are the ones with the balls to try and talk to me and ask for my number. I want to be rude, but fear makes me smile and politely say no thanks; making me appear as if I lack authenticity.

    The point is, women, take it out on each other. We make each other apologize for someone else's actions. We are told to take responsibility by covering up, shutting up and walking on eggshells--or else, we're asking for it. We don't take each other seriously any more than men do. So, we remain silent and simply wait to bleed.

    Is there a happy ending without semen everywhere?

 

My Own Worst Enemy

I've got words racing and pushing their way to my tongue on a razor's edge.
They bleed and pour out uncontrollably.
They want to be free like birds in the summer green.
They lay their bodies in the fresh cut grass as they bask in the suns misery.

I've got emotions slithering through my body and soul. It eats at me in the form of a parasite;
like a leech draining me dry, or an amoeba eating its way through my already corroded brain.
They are hungry and ravenous, and what's even more frightening is they can't get enough.

I've got loneliness weighing me down. It sleeps and dreams, then wakes up looking for a companion. I am that companion.
So it's true when they say misery loves company!
I'm always there for you loneliness because you are just as alone as I am.
Yet you are so selfish, you refuse to be there for me.

I've got anger seizing me.
My mother, my sister, my friend.
You cage me and feed me insanity.
You love me like abusive mothers love their daughters; you beat me down and then you cradle me against your bosom, nurturing me with rage.

Why do I love you? Why do I need you?

Philosophy of a Senseless Dreamer

Deviant Moon Tarot by Patrick Valenza

I've become numb to the representation of iterations that were once etched into my heart and soul. 

The words upon words have become meaningless because I worship myself 

and loathe everyone else.

Yet

I struggle with the thought that those words upon words still sting.

And the thought of you rebuking my being still burns me with insecurity.

I end your world with rejection 

because if forgiveness is love

then it is everything I am not.

No one is superior to anyone

it is an existential joke.

Some are cursed with arrogance and some are blessed with apathy.

Unfortunately

I am a dreamer.

I dream of peace and compromise

yet everyone is too busy sizing each other up

or trying to outdo one another.

That is why I'm deluded.

But if I'm deluded

so is everyone else!

Lace, Pastels, and Botched Benevolence

    I remember the first time I heard the term abortion. I was 12 or 13 years old and I was spending time in a psychiatric facility. There was a 6-year-old girl who was raped by her dad or brother(I can't remember exactly) and was shocked to hear about this girl being pregnant! How can a 6-year-old be pregnant? Well, I got my period when I was 9 so instantly, I had answered my own question. However, the shock of knowing a child that young was even capable of getting pregnant; what a cruel and cumbersome act of perversion nature has thrust upon this repulsively young lady.

    The children's ward in psychiatric hospitals is often dumping grounds for parents who either don't want or don't know how to deal with their children. Apparently, her mother blamed her and sent her to the facility. I was listening to a conversation her and an older patient in her teens(who acted like her mother) were having. The baby woman said and I quote, "They gave me an abortion." As a remarkably sheltered preteen, I had no established knowledge to define the term.

    Now as an adult, I hear intense debates and discussions regularly. I see people passionately protest with gnarly photos of babies dismembered and bloodied. The only thing that comes to mind is, this is what we do to each other. We tear each other down and rip each other apart, until theirs nothing left but brokenness; unleashing the tribal primitive beast within. Then, we wrap up the ugliness in delicate lace. We paint reality with pretty pastels so that we don't have to face our botched benevolence.

    As human beings, we need each other. We all want to be understood; to feel like we matter. Unfortunately, humans beings are naturally self-serving. Our emotions compel us to justify the way we hurt others as acts of righteousness. Serving only our morals and therefore ourselves, because the one thing that people really care about the most is pretending to care.

Knowledge is power!
Want to know more about abortions and how they work? Click here!
Risks and side effects of abortion
Do abortions hurt? Find out here!

Hot Crux Seclusion

I celebrate my madness with uneasy conviction

Everything I am is built on my affliction

I'm detached

Disconnected

I'm bored with my surroundings so I crawl in 

to your bed of homegrown tears and fuck solitude

Then I fall asleep with a paper and pen

dreaming of worlds where I don't exist

I am tormented

Demented

I'm consumed by flames

Watch me burn

Watch me decay

Watch me as I wither away

Burned by your incandescence...

Pistol Whipped Asphyxiation

                                                                             

The smoking gun

Art by: Jeffrey Richter

http://industrialhumanity.blogspot.com/

    Thousands of children grow up in foster care each year. Most of those children are never adopted. In fact, most of those kids age out of the system; forever lost in a filing cabinet or a digital wasteland of empty hopes and dreams.

    Unfortunately, I am one of those statistics. Regina Louise and Dave Pelzer were two authors that brought me solace growing up. I don't know my real name, so I call myself Regina Pelzer. My earliest memory in the system is my first family. They were a nice couple with a nice house and a nice yard; seemingly cookie cutter. It was exactly what one might suspect, too good to be true. I was only 4 years old when I felt the first sweltering blow of a belt across my back. All because I spilled a glass of milk in fancy china.

    Now, I'm a 32-year-old coke and heroin addict; I work in a sleazy strip club where you can get a blow job in the VIP room for the right price. The hope that I had in my early youth had been buried; numbed by drugs and beads of sweat that splattered from the bodies of strange men. I was innocent then; with innocence, there is naivete with naivete, theirs only ignorance behind childish eyes. At this point in my life, I feel like I should've been aborted.

    I'm bitter, sad, and aging; my green eyes are sunken and hollow and my skin is dry and cracked. My red hair has no grey yet, but it's dull and lifeless. The rest of me appears rail thin and sickly. A few good years of drug abuse has devastated my once desirable appearance.

    I'm about to be 33, and I look and feel middle aged. I've decided that I'm ready to cleanse the planet of my wretched existence, but I'm not going out alone. If I'm going to clean up the world, I'm going to take out as many as possible.

    I met up with my drug dealer who sold ammo as well. I had no money, but as a woman whose sole purpose contributed nothing more than self-preservation, I had more to offer him and seven other men. 

    I pack an automatic weapon, a pistol; and a gorgeously sharp knife with brass knuckles for the handle. As I admired the Barretta 93R, one man who sat in a chair lacing up his shoes asks,

    "So, what do you need all these guns for anyway?"

    "Spring cleaning," I reply.

    Without hesitance, I unload a simultaneous round of bullets into every single one of them. I grab the car keys off my dealer's corpse, put the Barretta in the medium-sized duffel bag I brought with me, and quickly headed out the back door. I drove to the foster group home that I grew up in. It was late, so the building was dark and empty; all except for the receptionist. She's an older lady with brown hair and gray roots.

    "May I help you?" She asks skeptically due to my withered appearance.

     I made no reply, I took the knife hiding behind my back and swiftly slit her throat. I ripped her blood splattered badge off her blouse so I could get through the highly secure building. I wiped the card on my jeans and swiped it. The doors to the day room opened; it is just as I remembered; crowded and smelly. Kids slept on the floor, couches, and chairs; very few were lucky enough to get a bed. Everything stunk of discarded offspring.

    From my right, I notice an older black nurse approach me from the nurse's station.

    "Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" She asks unequivocally.

    I noticed children stirring awake amongst shamefully self-made floor pallets. I hastily whip out the automatic weapon I used to kill my dealer and his indigent crew. The duffel bag drops to the ground; as if everything were in slow motion, bullets go flying killing the nurse and several sleeping kids near her. Blood splatters and pools begin to form then suddenly, I'm bombed by awareness. Children scream and cry and I know theirs no turning back.

    I wasted no time and I began taking out as many as possible. Children ran into their rooms as I followed them. I stopped at room 23B, a girl sat calmly in her bed. I looked at her and she looked at me; I felt like I knew her. 

    Ten years ago I had a daughter that I gave up to the system, ignorantly thinking she would be ok. I walk into her room, close the door, and sit down next to her. She did not flinch or turn away.

    "Are you going to kill me?" She wonders innocently.

    I lovingly brush some of her hair behind her ear and warmly reply, "Yes."

    "Is it going to hurt? I'm tired of everything hurting." She says.

    My baby girl is only ten, and she's already contemplating suicide. This time, I had to do right by her.

    "Baby, I'm going to offer you something that no one else was ever willing to give you; freedom from pain."

    She leans into me and I kiss her on the head as I wrap my arms around her. I sing to her as I pull out the .44 magnum. I put the gun to her face and quickly pull the trigger, blowing her skull off. I nuzzle closely into her neck, feeling content and at peace. My face wrinkles into a smile of tranquility as I put the gun under my chin.  Right as the cops bust in the door to my daughter's room, I pull the trigger. For only a fraction of a second, the lights flickered. I was then cast into oblivion and the world around me went black.

                                                   THE END