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Thusfar Unposted Essays from the Anthology of Self

Hello everyone,
in honour of the release of Psychdive, which is in a way the culmination of all my therapy essays into a singular project, I've compiled here all the therapy essays I've written that I felt either weren't developed enough or distinct enough to warrant their own post. If you haven't noticed, more than half of my posts on this site have a little "Anthology of the Self" indicator in the title. These are essays I wrote for therapy/to think through something, but all kind of have a shared throughline of reconciling the subject/object and body/mind distinction. As such, there is a lot of intertextuality, both thematically and in the use of motifs and certain voices, that first arose in those earlier essays. I think they all kinda rear their head in Psychdive in some way or another (Inkbaby and Ink Tunnels, Abandon World and the Horror of a Space, etc). I think, even if no one reads these, I would be doing a Psychdive a disservice to not show a more complete history from which it arose. Without further ado...

Anthology of the Self - Entry I

The Ballad of Spectre and Corpus

Written March 2024

Listlessly, it seems, I fall through every day.
My head has taken up residence in the clouds and has forgotten what it looks like down on the ground. Eyes look up to her and praise her for the products of delusion. Just because one can articulate through text and has read the scriptures of their own neurons doesn’t make them any less a pathetic display on the forum. Her physical Corpus bears the brunt of consequence. Her mental corpus lies dormant outside of the eyes' perception. Other eyes, eyes that may not even exist, bore into her like drills. Both genres of eyes escape the mental Corpus’ dominion, and it fears that which it cannot will. Drabness does not fend them off but make them stronger as the mental corpus, the Spectre inflates its sense of self. It keeps feeding the eyes but they only grow more ravenous. Compassion is the enemy of the spectre. The spectre is a comfort food after a rough night to the girl, a denial of corporeality.

The physical corpus, too, is the enemy of the spectre. Yet, the spectre only exists in the clouds, a mere observer to the eyes. A distant, passive master to the pressing affairs of the Corpus. The spectre is a delusional denial to any of the eyes. The eyes by nature ought to deny the spectre. Both the eyes of admiring gaze and the eyes of discerning gaze pierce the veil by which the spectre masks. The spectre just wants to be words on a page to the eyes, but the spectre bears an onus. A puppet of flesh by which the spectre is dictated more than any words. After all, the mental corpus is invisible. It chose to be invisible in the knots of its own neuroticism. The spectre has gotten over it before, correct? Or did the spectre just build the cloud in which it resides, in which it, the means of confidence, takes refuge in the eyes. As the spectre hides, the corpus takes the punches. Could it be that the corpus only means so much to the spectre because of how loudly it moans and groans in pain? It is an impossible determination. The spectre never found the corpus ugly. In fact, the corpus was adorable in a sense. Well, at least under a pleasant light, a careful angle, kissed by the right swathes of colour. Nonetheless, the corpus hung for the spectre's crimes. What ought the spectre to do, the spectre asked itself. The spectre has always yearned for a spectre. The spectre is simply not good enough for merely itself, not learned enough in the esoteric art of mental gymnastics. So attentively doth the other tango with the affairs of the eyes, yet the spectre is blind. Inherently so, in fact, for the spectre shrouds itself in the fog of clouds. The fog is a friend of the spectre, as are these tangos with the eyes. The spectre does fear, betwixt these bouts of manic tangos, these dances that cozily ride the brink of others sanity, that the perspiration from these dances may not be mere sweat, but the sweet nectarous lifeblood of the spectre itself.

But the Spectre ought not suffer, for the Corpus must do the hanging. The corpus grows more feeble to the eyes as the Spectre rockets up to divine heights. While the Corpus doth yearn for fog, the spectre yearns for rest from its ascent. The spectre ought not rest, however, for such a move would be a betrayal of the fog. Tick tock, says the fog, before I beckon in the miasma and poison claims you for continuing to run, O Spectre! The spectre knows it’s a ticking time bomb before it ought to descend the puppet strings back to the vessel. Spectre just prays that Corpus will be a habitable environment, a temperate climate, a mirror to the pink and cloud-headed dreams of the spectre.

Dreams are a friend of the Spectre. Many would call the Spectre sick for its modus operandi, but the Spectre finds it all oh so playful! Si esthetique! The clouds are lined with gorgeous silvers, you see. Silvers of such construct that only the paw of Deus ought craft a work so enlightening to Spectre. There is no lamp in the cloud but the eminent lights of silver. Amidst the twilight nights, Silver beckons by its iridescent beacon. Silver is a girl’s best friend. The eyes, too, love silver. Well, most of them. Some eyes prefer the flashy tackiness of gold. Silver is a boon and a hex to our poor spectre. So dazzling, silver comprises a good quantity of the cloud in which spectre resides. Yet, in a world without silver, naught is left for the spectre but ideas: other nebulous clouds that drift by. Adventure is something the spectre always loved, but the silver is sometimes too dazzling for the spectre to remember the other clouds. Besides, the strings of the Corpus follow the Spectre between clouds, but without eyes of its own, the wandering Corpus is doomed to more hurt than the idle one. Silver is the prison of the spectre, but silver is the spectre’s best friend. A little birdie named Modus Ponens tells me the Spectre loves a prison. The lessons learned in silver, the Spectre writes to the bird, are lessons that will make it a night drive down Ataraxia Boulevard when the miasma comes. The pills will turn the Corpus habitable. The silver will turn the Spectre tolerable. The inkwell is what will satiate the eyes for generations to come. When silver dies, it turns into ink for the Spectre. Thus, a silver genocide ought to be in order. But a genocide is a lengthy process in your lonesome. Turn to the eyes to buy more silver! Sometimes, the eyes trick the Spectre with fools gold, but the spectre must admit the finest silver came from the eyes. The eyes! Stop, will you please! That is too much silver to our poor spectre to handle! The miasma will come before the spectre can process it all! But the eyes didn’t listen, they kept giving more silver for the spectre to decorate the cloud with. The spectre started to believe with enough silver, the miasma can be stalled. Reign it in, Spectre! Come on, Deus, just a little more silver, spoke the Spectre.

One year, Spectre. I can stall the miasma for one year. The other Dei will not afford you more than that. You’ll only hasten the miasma if you get greedy. The other Dei were the enemy of the Spectre. The other Dei were also friends of the Spectre. The other Dei made Corpus pathetic, but the other Dei never ushered in the miasma. Or was it Deus that made Corpus? Was it Deus that created the miasma? Deus was an enemy to the spectre… but Deus didn’t care a bit. Spectre got nothing but pain from making an enemy of Deus. Deus is just an observer, after all. Deus may be out of the Spectre’s domain, but that doesn’t mean that perhaps Deus, too, would not be quenched by ink. So Spectre ate more silver, made more ink on a gambit. Spectre abandoned everything for Silver. Gambled passionately with hope chips. Despair rivalled the miasma, it’s true, but the Spectre had fought despair before. The spectre knew despair’s game. The worst case… is a mystery, for what lies beyond the miasma is indeterminate. The poor Corpus, meanwhile, sat by and watched this gamble, atrophying its kinship with the eyes into a mere crust. This crust was so fragile that little was enough to hold it together through the eye tango. This crust was the Corpus of Corpus. Corpus, too, had distinguished itself from its pain. Corpus, too, compartmentalized its suffering.

Crust was a mere persona of Corpus, a mere delusion by which it could be wrapped in thorns and still smile. But Crust remained broken, shattered, a failed vessel. Ought crust to make its own vessel? Ought the cycle roll all the way down the slope into the deepest depths of agony? But what does it matter? No, Spectre, it does matter. Can’t you see what’s happening to you all? It’s agony all the way down! Once the miasma comes, this fractioning will only amplify your pain! Nay, for once Spectre joins with Corpus again, together as Human, Human will be strong. Spectre is strong. Crust needn’t exist in Human. With enough hope chips, surely Human could see it through. With enough strength of [Spectre], with enough [fortitude towards the Eyes], with a [Corpus] appropriately [Pink] to reinforce [Crust], with a [Gracious Deus and Dei] and a large enough [Inkwell], satiated of [Silver] and learning to live with [the Miasma], [Human] would pull through. Your framework is crumbling, Spectre. When you return to terra firma, you will see how misguided you are, I spoke, or rather, wrote. Humans will always have a crust, will always demand a Spectre, but we must fight the urge to disassociate, be hesitant to make dreams and silver our friends. I know the eyes hurt sometimes. Corpus is scarred by the drilling of boring eyes, but that’s because Corpus is still malleable. Corpus will heal. I will heal. I’m understandably volatile now, but that won’t last forever. One day, the corpus will itself be a means of hope. One day, Spectre, I wouldn’t wish to be you. I won’t wish to be up in the clouds. One day, I’ll make peace with the eyes and not just the mouths. After all, to the eyes, we, too are eyes. Do we really do what we fear from the eyes to the other eyes? Live like the best of eyes, learn to brush off the worst of eyes, and maybe one day, Crust, too, can live harmoniously as Human.

(then here would go fuck my feels duology, dead faces, horror of a space, inkbabies, something beautiful, love is lost and bubblegum reality)

Anthology of the Self - Entry X

Untitled, Unfinished (very much became rottweiler)

Written October 2024

It hurts to pretend like I’m not broken. My features are sliding down my face, red snail trails of melting flesh, a block of cheese left by a flame. I tear and tear, my limbs flailing and claws kneading the wounds, I flail blindly and stumble into the shit. Bits of glass peeling away my skin and suckling on my pus and nerves. A needle for every neuron. I am utterly pieces, neatly diced cubes of meat each with their own dream. Little carnal text and image files. I’m a rockin’ meat computer, each line of code separately written. When the lines fuse, they scream out. Two bodies are one, but at the cost of their structure, their sanity, their tangibility. A jumbled mess of a string. Hypocritical impulse. Every hiccup after being told to stop is a traumatic realization that we are in pieces. The fingers move on their own. They’re moving right now and I can’t stop them. They’re moving despite the cacophony in my ears because the fingers have trauma, have little pissed-off lizards piloting them around, moving between objects and orifices. They love cozying up everywhere they ought not be, those lizards in my traitorous bones. My mind is sick and my body aches under its own weight and every position I take is an encounter with pressure and a lingering awareness. I can’t claim anything. The notion of property is not formerly defined in my haunches and flanks and folds. I’m battered and steamed, marinated in a salt and viscous brown syrup named Absence. Few sauces taste better, so few do I so willingly gorge myself with. Trauma is just a meme. It’s impossible there be too much of such an endearing thing. If sadness is an aesthetic, logic is it’s foil. With enough ideas and experiences, your aesthetic can change. A healthy mental attitude is a much better tasting sauce. But my heart is aflame. Always. Aesthetically I am calm but my core is a blazing inferno of the unfulfilled, an unscratched itch on every organ, chipped paint on the walls of my pulmonary tubes. My heart is burning, going for a swim in a basin of acid and rot. The mice are eating my heart out. My heart has been utterly gutted having bled for so long. I hate anger, but rage subsumes all my faculties. I hate being alive in a physical sense. Experientially, aesthetically, conceptually, substantially, life is utter bliss. I hate myself to feel this way when I know all that can be seen as good. But the physical has different hands. I feel my flesh gnashing its teeth, putting its full force into prying itself from my bones. I blame those traitorous lizards for being such lousy neighbours. The lizards are so easy to blame because no one asked them to be here, they just moved in before we were old enough to read the fine print on their lease. I itch so much. I can’t stop itching. The lizards have gaslit my foolish nerves into thinking my paisley windbreaker is amidst the circles of hell. My nerves hate the lizards, but both so equally love fucking with me. Let’s lounge around all day, said the lizards, and the nerves complied with quiet discomfort. The brain shall not be spared from this discussion for her similar compliance to this absurd game they play. The brain, despite being a chatter, is more often a follower than a leader. Kant wasn’t wrong, just stupid enough to only listen to the lizards. The lizards have a ruling stock in my volition and set off little firecrackers in it. The brain, to them, is a bloated leech, is the establishment to spray paint and piss on. The brain isn’t very comfy, but also doesn’t want to start a fuss. Oh poor brain, said the brain to the brain. Do something, Brain, move. I don’t know what the fuck I am, I don’t know whether lizards want this or reason does. They have functionally faded into each other, become sickly entangled in each other’s business beyond what is wanted. To want is a deceptive thing. Do we want anything? Why do we do so much, are asked so much, when all is nibbling, bloated moths. Ravage my cotton soul, you feckless insects. Become encased and suffocated by your own flesh. When will the vampire drink enough blood to catch AIDS and die already? Gnashing, thrashing machine. Rusted mulch of lurching guts. The putrefaction of a dewy marble. Every drink comes with confetti now! Every puddle of gorefuck leads to the advancement in science and progression of law! I want to guturally spew caustic acid and half-digested chunks until my flesh is depleted. This impending incurable sickness bringing about black lung from the corroding, steadfast tetanus-laden chains. Is “solved enough”, is “harmony of the machine” enough to tell us life is good? Poverty is a rat-race, a middle-class is ennui, wealth is sterile dopamine vomit. Let me punk fuck it up. Pleasantries from symbols and jingling keys have reduced the bones of tangibility to naught but memes. We suffer by our senses, by our capacity to drink the perturbed snake oil ambrosia that greases the carved path. My throat is singed with the blazing sour of pus. All is said, one does feel occasionally. One can be not but a fruit basket of all the niceties prior constructed. Labels are demonry, the perfect little bow to turn flesh into meme. Names are naught but chunks, naught but another means of reduction. My mind burns, sears and turgidly trembles to become a list of names. I cannot help but to feel third-person speech the most natural, for a name is but a mask, but a referral to draw one’s focus. I’m not a name, I’m not a thousand fucking names. I am an orgy of spacedust and lightning bolts. I am wallowing butcher-fodder with a bomb in my gut, bits of glass in my blood and a short-circuiting fuse box in my head. I am an opaque fluid sloshing around in the breeze, a spark of good day in foreign space. My stomach contracts, convulses and snaps at my skin. My skin flagellates and flicks itself from my body. It wants no part in a word. Imagine being called “skin”, having people call you that, see you as nothing but what that is defined as and their experiences with their skin and other’s. A real frowner life, methinks. The bile compiles knowing I am a word salad, word failure, void words, half-words. I don’t like being an edible snack for the eyes any more. I don’t like being the one on display. Let the angels, ghosts, feral boys, scientists and insects of my fiction corpus be on my behalf. Leaving myself this open, well… I’m just becoming a more prolix snack bowl of meaning. Fuck the English language, for no matter my mastery or study, nothing can be made more than words, can be understood tangibly beyond what the carapace of language contains. The utilitarian nature of becoming words. I believe we are all deeply traumatized that the social structure by which we share ideas with others is the only way we can understand ourselves. We like to think that we can’t be understood, but by the tyranny of language, we understand ourselves equally little to what can be potentially understood by others. Perhaps words lack the same feeling behind them, and that’s where love becomes irreconcilably plateaued.

(here go rottweiler and finding good faith)

Anthology of the Self - Entry XIII

Violent Wind

Written November 2024

violent wind. agoraphobia. the horror a space. the sickening blue firmaments, endlessly sprawled-out sprawl. i’m sickly; nauseating clouds inflating vacuum lungs. eyes with no temporal bed close their fingers on your throat. a biting chill chokes out the tree branches; asphyxiated purple leaves; the rubescence of seasonal ultraviolence. nibbled skin cracked in roseate agony. i feel it all at once, experience it as one lovecraftian swell. the cosmic horror of an open field; the undeniability of the lost womb. it makes me sick, but it’s paralyzing, the hypnotizing convalescence of the breeze to inflict sensory assault. the burgeoning animal with no shield from culpability. no iron shell but blindness spares the deluge of anxiety. the gust slithers through my veins, frost kisses to the denizens of my blood. the divine and inescapable perception of one’s own tininess, smushed beneath the thumbs of our own construct. i’m wary. we’re dense beings; huge density-heads; we love impenetrable substantivity, solidity of form. we’re squishy, it’s cute. cute how easy it is to kill me. sharp object, flick of the wrist. poke me, poke unto puddlehood. its so easy. good thing we feel bad sometimes. most of us feel safe enough to forget what one little poke, one wrong breath, one missed swallow can do. it’s really funny how pathetic we are when we think about it. farting around until caput, my cells betrayed me; caput, something fell on my head; caput, i was going too fast for my own good. there’s only one caput, and it usually takes a while before it happens, so we really don’t need to think about how pathetic we are, yet how fundamentally we’ve conquered fucking everything. everything has a name, a purpose, a designation that’s fucking crazy for a bunch of pathetic nerds who a poke would do in. it’s fucking impressive. so impressive i tremble before it. im so fucking scared of these buildings. how the fuck did we make these steel monsters of context. brains are rad as hell, their gall is unreal.

(screen age riot is 14, then seraphim vampirism, then the duology on sexuality and terminal identity girls)

Anthology of the Self - Entry XIX

subdermal imperial powermachines

Written July 2025

there’s this doctor injecting me with poison, a subdermal patch slowly killing me.
and I know that it’s there and I know that I’m dying and I can’t take it out.
it would hurt too much and I’d rather just die quickly instead.
loss of life tends to get people at least a little excited.
the patch clogs me with mucus and makes me drowsy and inflames little patches of skin.
it makes me hoarse and my face twitch and my ears ring.
the doctor prescribed it to me the day I was born and refuses to let up.
I hate my fucking doctor, the piece of shit everyone admonishes.
morally repugnant scum of the earth who’d starve a person if it meant they got seconds.
I hate this pamphlet they told me to read and the tongues they shoved in my mouth.
I hate these medicine men who know naught but opiates and snake oil.
someone please snuff me out, put a pillow in my head while I languish in loveless digital decline.
eat me. slurp me up. dice and scarf me. at least then I’d feel something.
anything is better than data-collection. fuck your bureaucratic medicine file.
oh, I can’t afford the new insurance for new poison patches?
I can’t buy my own stable emotions when you demand them from my temperance?
they’ll wipe your ass for an asking price, those desperate schmucks!
endless servitude to retain possession of one’s own skin.
dance for me, dance for me, dance until you tremble.
vomit is dribbling down your chin now. chin up, boy!
I’m not a boy, you cunt! but in my mind you are, you unfuckable other.
gurging the machine, but I guess I picked the wrong one.
I picked the one with resplendent hues, but I guess that was the fool’s choice.
only the fool would succumb to tabulating aesthetics as their vocation,
therefore you must pay for your crime of denying yourself grayscale muckraking.
there is no happiness held in an image. only intrusive hormones.
the image eats you, becomes you. all of reality reduced to a dynamic picture on your screen.
I’m cybernetically modified by subdermal photo albums.
they sear, smoke up and brand my consciousness with lurching reminisce.
I just want to sit here and think. purge myself. suck the venom out of my thousand snakebites.
subdermal dryblood. subdermal scar tissue. subdermal ink. subdermal reality. subdermal pixels.
so many flavours of reduction and chthulucence it makes one’s head spin.
watch my base consciousness glow with more options than an all-american snack aisle.
erase tool my back-eyes. I’m overwhelmed with intrusive visualizations.
undress me and check for lumps, doc. I’ve got ulcers full of pictures.
but they don’t find anything. the only problems they find are the ones they gave me.
the labels they forced upon me against all rationale.
you’re wrong, they say. wrong body, wrong face, wrong mind.
but all the reasons they give me for why I’m wrong are my fav parts of myself.
the few parts of me I chose. the few parts I curated from passion, from curiosity, from gall.
I love my persona, my sporadic spirituality, my lynchian recantings of complex theory.
my swagger is hampered by poisons, by imagistic memetic internalized death spirals.
it’s hard to keep your cool at the end of history.
the most noble one can do is go down with the ship cross-armed, choose pain over painless.
I say I’d rather die violently than take this banal erosion of all morality and worthwhileness
resist melding into the sludge, resist the effects of poison, resist doctor’s orders
you’re not my fucking dad, doc. *steals scalpel and cuts patch out*
but I’ve no courage. I’m too weak and sad and pathetic to do anything like that.
anything but move my fingers and eyes around, occasionally swallow.
open your mouth up and receive today’s healing load. doctor’s orders.
if it was all oral, maybe we’d have some fun with it, but there’s no joy to subdermality.
it’s just there. irritatingly. a tick getting fat off my malignant passivity.
the abyss is looking into me waiting patiently for either my jump or heel-turn into nihilism.
I looked at swallows today zipping across the summer sky.
a storm was rising. electric yggdrasil blitzing the endless magenta firmament.
there are greater forces than I, than we, than this fucking poison.
it made me forget for a minute how wretched it all is.
I think I’m on the brink of resignation.
not to obedience or to nihilism, but to utter inefficacy.
life is inevitably going to decline. the reaper always wins. Charon gets his dues.
I don’t fear death, but I do fear decline. the resistible permitted through the resistance.
deaths are no longer inherently from being, but evoked still alive by human-shaped ghouls.
they’re trying to suck out my soul to steam and mint their abstract machines.
I’m pissed the fuck off, their rape eyes and rape hands, these so-called doctors.
killing me softly with sandpaper up against my passion and will.
maybe I’m resigning myself to rape, or maybe to not trying to play nice at all.
either way’ll turn me feral, but I don’t have a choice. all I did was be born in the wrong story.
i’m sick of the drugs and the nice pictures and the hedon shots. kill me before I get fat.
i get nothing from these anymore. nothing from anything, really. maybe this was the doc’s goal.
they say you die two deaths, I think you die three.
one when your body stops, one when you’re forgotten, but first when nothing’s new anymore.
when nothing is holy, when no ideas, spectacles and mechanisms inspire awe.
I guess the might of nature is still a little awesome, but I enclose myself only in it’s digitizations
after it has been reduced to little more than colours and resemblances.
devoid of the might of space, of the breaths it heaves and licks it takes of you.
mutually consensual, of course. there’s a part of us that’s intrinsically intimate with lying in grass.
watch the clouds churn, the trees bellow and life arise from snacks.
there’s something beautiful there if we can look beyond our imposed artificialities.
the pictures are winning and the ghouls live in the pictures. rule from within literal machines.
the power machine is upheld by the upholding power machine. what a surprise!
every machine is either a power machine or an upholding power machine fundamentally.
either it manufactures material or manufactures want, approval and necessity of material.
the most powerful power machines are the ones we salivate and would die for.
I’ll be specific for once: nations, capital, justice, set order, technology, culture, absolution.
each of these machines is empowered and motivated within oneself by ubiquitous value.
we like freedom and safety, sociality and sensibility. we like being happy and in awe.
in fact, we live guided by these principles, have no life or character without such pursuits.
but the machine groans loudly like a narcissist with a toothache until it is the sole remedy.
you see, the machine tempts, capital = comfort, law = security, war = incumbent peace.
it groans and it groans until such equivocations are perfect, unchallengeable.
“objective truths” are the end goal of all power machines. eternal presence too.
to it, we are nothing more than babies waiting to be coddled.
i’ll change your diaper for the low, low price of 49.99! no charity, chivalry, loving loyalty allowed.
creature comforts unto implosion, poisons unto silence, doctors unto disorientation.
once everyone has forgotten their citizen reality under either masturbation or bombardment…
the doctors and ghouls have won then. know your reality if nothing else, I plead. just leave me the fuck alone to die my own death, you vomiting, self-imposing cock.
fuck your own ass if you’re so horny at the thought of me starving and weeping.
everyone with enough wealth and privilege is inherently a sick pedophilic ghoul.
everyone who can buy themselves enough fat and plastic and abundance.
opulence should be the only taboo mental disorder. let everyone else have their fun.
getting in a position to pull the levers on the power machine requires a base-level of psychopathy that ought necessitate lobotomization and euthanasia.
both those sound too nice, actually. let’s stick them into the Chernobyl elephant foot.
skin rotting off their frame. that’d be nice. proportionate. lil cultural revolution for funsies.
power machines are tragically self-minting hydras that necessitate new manufacturers by the permittance of their own self-continuance.
to which I say “fuck that” with ludditious gusto. no more masters, no more power (vacuums).
we will make it impossible for power and concepts of superiority to go to air.
I don’t care what it takes, it’s the only sane way forward.
anything but a sinking slave ship. anything but subdermal poison. anything but absentee awe.
the images seek to knock the wind out of life.
the poisons seek lethargy for all but its own machinations.
the power machines seek the uncomfortable to weaponize against their own.
the doctors and ghouls seek a populi made hedonistic them-reliant babies
I resist, but it sinks deeper.
the harder I fight back, the deeper in my veins the pathogens infect.
I resist but the power machines slam down their ham-fists whiningly.
how much damage can a fiery luddite do to self-reinforcing steel?
I resist but the poison is too deep.
my investment in its misery businesses is consuming the innocence and charity in my soul.
it keeps telling me to claw up the heap of my fellow starvers, dig my talons into their ribs.
“join the power machine if you’re smart and based”. literally kill yourself. or elephant’s foot.
I don’t want to live, but I have to. part for the plot, part to resist.
make myself a beacon of insolence, heresy and infidelity inside their killing game, their furnace.
if they roast me to ask, I’ll force myself into their throats until they gag.
you want to see power? survival of the fittest? want me to play along?
it’s concerning how many people actually subscribe to eye-for-an-eye ideology. deeply.
but there is a point, I will concede, when a hundred eyes have been taken.
there is a point where you can call someone a fascist and flay and quarter them alive.
I’m not Jesus or some pushover liberal taking the high road.
there is no high road this deep underground, this deep in the shit.
I just fucking hate you and I want you to know it.
hate you fucks for poisoning me. for making me sexless, loveless, emotionless flesh.
all so you can get your dick up and fatten your ego. disgusting.
let me have my fuck and awe and faith and morals without being grated into nihilist dust.
i’d puke if i wasn’t so hungry even looking at you.
see, that’s the difference between people like you and people like me.
i am something. can think of my own somethings, can surround myself with somebodies.
you’re no one. pathetic human waste with a smile carved in for photoshoots.
no principles but how wet your dick can be and how full your belly can be.
fat disgusting pigs. I’m hotter, more styling, more authentic, more myself.
and you salivate at boot stomping me because the power machine made you cry so much as a kid that you thought being in its club was the only way to stop crying.
the ones who most loathe the status quo are the ones who always end up piloting it.
now ain’t that just interesting. cunt. CUNT. piece of monkey shit. embodied sexless microdick.
sorry, I have poor impulse control thanks to your poison. a sick girl struggles to keep her hate in.
all I have left to say is rage in this ilk. insult-crafting. bemoaning. just know I fucking hate you.
Thanks, now leave me and my life the fuck alone. God, I fucking wish.
With sincerity unworthy of the utter revulsion you stir in me, Charlotte.

Geez, you read all that?! You care about me more than I do!!