Fuck Love

Fuck every Disney Princess who got a Prince.
Fuck every story where the Prince gets a Princess.
Fuck every last protagonist who is forced to have yet another goddamn romantic subplot.
Fuck every person who preaches that partners are the keys to happiness.
Fuck every engagement ring advertisement.
Fuck jigsaw puzzles.
Fuck every "other half" you think you have.
Fuck the Romanticism of romance.
We no longer love people. We are simply obsessed with the idea of love.

Fuck everyone who's ever asked their partner to change.
There are 7.5 Billion people. Don't compromise just get a fucking new one.

Fuck idealistic thought.
Fuck the "perfect person".
When you find someone you love every last bit of them that you can.
The gold and the shit. If you don't love the shit then you might as well not claim love them at all because you don't.
And if you can't find any flaws then wake up because you love an image of them that you created in your head.

Be selfish for awhile.
When you only love yourself 20%, and someone else loves you 30% it seems like perfection meanwhile that's not even half.

Fuck every last person who says that love is the answer.

I've been trained to believe that happiness is love and vice versa.

The people that make me happiest are not partners. They are not lovers. They aren't even family.

What the fuck am I supposed to do when I feel my happiest around them and am now forced to feel as though it's love simply due to association?
It's the worst fucking part of my life.

Fuck every last drop of hope that led me to confuse happiness with love. They are not the same thing. if

Muscle Memory

    I absolutely adore the idea of being solely unique. I really try not to talk about the differences I have that I can't change. I hate the idea of having a "crutch" whenever I can't manage to do something. I've been forced to use them enough times. On occasion, I refresh myself on what each diagnosis really means for me just to understand myself better if I feel too alienated. I never wanna be someone's inspiration. My natural lack of ability should not be the excuse a normal person uses for self improvement. It's fucking insulting. I'm not special. I'm damaged. I even refer to both of them as 'Super Powers' as a way to not get depressed when I decide to tell people about them. I really just reserve that kind of talk for college essays and forced speeches. The masses love that shit more than Amy Winehouse loved alcohol.
       On a day to day basis I don't really think about it. I've had these conditions since birth. This is my normality. No one can tell unless they've been trained to know the real signs. To most people, I'm just Awkward, Blunt, and Unathletic. To myself, I know that I'm just an autistic kid with Cerebral Palsy.
       On the rare occasion I get belittled for something, it's at least satisfying to watch the guilt fall over their faces as I explain my ailments to those who ridiculed me. It truly was rare though. I had no idea what it was like to walk normally until I was 9. I remember only being able to walk on my tiptoes. My legs were so hypertonic that the stretching of my Achilles tendon in order to put my heel to the ground was torture. Funny enough, no one ever noticed except for my father. On the rare occasion he remembered me, it was only to scold me for walking like "a ballerina". "Stop it. Put your foot down like a normal boy. Want me to buy you a tutu and ballerina slippers? No? Then fucking walk normally." I remember that day so well. We were in line for a new amusement park ride. I love rollercoasters to death. But I was so unhappy I made him take me back home. To my mom. I was 7 years old. Looking back, it definitely showed signs of homophobia. Good thing I keep the 4 guys that I've kissed to myself- oops.
Anyways, when I was 9 years old I got my official diagnosis with spastic displegia. A mild form of CP. It mainly affects the legs hence the lack of a T-Rex arm like most people with CP get. Later that year they cut both my legs open and replaced my Achilles tendons with some sort of artificial tissue so that it was longer and my legs wouldn't tighten as much as I walk. I missed half of fourth grade from that surgery so I can't tell you much about geography. I had knee-high casts, I was in a wheelchair throughout the entire recovery process. I remember getting my casts off and the sound as my grayish, unwashed, bare foot struck the ground with the might of Ares. It was so loud. I was slapping the ground with my feet as I took every step uncontrollably. I still take loud steps to this day. Then came 6 months of physical therapy. It was really meant to be a lifetime of physical therapy but I was kid so the habit died.
      To this day, the physical pain of having my tendons cut is the greatest amount of physiological suffering I have experienced. After I recovered I no longer cried when I got hurt. I just began to stare as a wound would bleed and I understood that pain was just a feeling I could control my reaction to. Before then I was deathly afraid of experiencing any form of pain. Being so young, I learned a lot about perception and human experience of existence but I was still not mature enough to fully grasp the extent of such knowledge.
Why did I tell you all of this? Because for the last decade, the physician's words have been in the back of my mind on repeat but I just ignored it. He said that "it's a possibility" I would need another surgery when I got older. I believed in myself enough that I thought it wouldn't be likely. But he didn't say possibly. He said "probably".
    For the last 6 months, when I stand up there's sometimes an unusual feeling in the back of my calves. As I stretch my leg forward for a step I can feel the tendon pull like it used to for a bit. Maybe even the whole morning until I get used to it and forget. But it doesn't happen every day. The other day, it was pouring rain and my friend and I are on our way to get lunch. Neither of us had umbrellas. He ran most of the way there. Constantly looking back at me, egging me on to hurry up. I attempted to run but could only hold a soft strut. My legs could not run. Even though they had to. I could light jog maybe for 10 feet but I had to just walk. I had no control. Getting more and more soaked. My legs were too tense. In order to run there must be full contraction in both directions. But I forced myself to run just a little bit to catch up and it burned like hell, it was hell realizing that my legs are degenerating. All that surgery did was make me walk flat footed. Heel to toe. That's it. The rest of my leg was still constantly tense and toned. Sure, I could max out the leg press at my highschool. But only because my calves constantly flexed without my permission. Sometimes I can tap my foot Really fast out of anxiety. And there are times where I can't stop once I start.
       I'm faced with the realization that I have no super powers. I'm reminded again of this broken feeling. Drowning in the rain, the ballerina can't run anymore. Maybe it was just that that day was worse than usual. Maybe that's just wishful thinking. I have to prepare myself to go under the knife again but now that I'm wiser and more damaged than my innocent 9 year old self, how will I react this time? What would I possibly do Imobilized once again but now on a college campus? I honestly don't know. And I'd prefer to never find out.
With or without surgery, I'm faced with the fact that I'll have arthritis by 25. My legs will never calm down and so I will only degrade in ability from here on out.
I just hope it doesn't rain again soon. I'm not ready to feel embarrassed again.

Horizon

      Sunsets are said to be one of the most beautiful sights on Earth. There are people that spend their whole life dreaming of seeing a specific sunset. Not all sunsets are equal in this case.
     The darkness of nightfall is rarely thought of when sunsets occur. The sunset is so distracting and wonderful that no one ever thinks about the cold blanket of isolation and city street lamps that follow. The night sky seems eternal. Black clouds suffocating the moon in order to prevent any of the sun's light from reaching you when it's most needed. The street lamps do nothing but flicker and give the illusion that you're safer. The heaviness in the air is consuming you. You're forced to run Street lamp to Street lamp in a panic of being engulfed in a darkness that cannot heal. The density of the shadows push on your body more and more making it harder to move from each lamp. The placebos are dwindling. There no longer seems to be any light further in the distance from where you are. No more street lamps. No more lying to yourself that you're okay.
Balled up under the final lamp, it dims. Your ears pop and your muscles tense like never before.
The light goes out.
You feel the absence of light slowly crawl on to you. Resting on your left shoulder. You feel a familiar pain as It begins to press it's Rusty nails into your shoulder; marking its territory. You take a deep breath, accept the lack of options and let yourself sink through the puddle of blackness above the concrete. Everything is planned out, you no longer see any sort of escape. Your eyes close.

This is your new fate.

The UV sting upon your eyelids force them open. Dazed and confused you wonder if you have died. Maybe this is the afterlife. You take a breath and the air is soft and clean. You feel the cool breeze that reminds you of the last sunset. There's no sign of the marks that were inflicted upon you previously.

This is a place I've been before.

This is where you watched the sunset. Back there is where you accepted your potential death. You notice the trees seem much taller than before. The leaves feel as though they ebb and flow with tranquility. A shutter of brightness expands across the Horizon. Waves of acceptance wash over the cliffside below you. As the sun rises you understand why nightfall is so terrifying. You understand that every hour of that bleakness destroying you was only there to make you appreciate when the sun eventually returns.
All the withered street lamps are no where to be found in the daylight. You have no use for them. As you feel the rays of sunlight wrap themselves around you like those arms you no longer remember. A happiness that can not be described with the English language fuels you to turn this euphoric high into something permanent.
No more darkness.
No more street lamps.

"This could be something real."

What If.... Part V

*Sigh* Y'know guys, I really thought we were just going to focus on The Sociopath from here on out. Alas, someone let a jar of butterflies loose all over the goddamn control panel so it looks like we're taking a detour.
Ugh, he's having another one of his episodes where there's a theatrical daydream reoccurring in his head all day. A situation in which Everything actually goes according to plan. And of course it's all filled with these adorable little inside jokes that only himself and whoever the hell it is this time understands. Even when we try to set his expectations as low as possible he still manages to enthrall himself with someone just to cure his bordem. I guess that's his way of creating meaning out of thin air so that there's at least a minute form of motivation to get out of bed. Despite that it's entirely dependant on other people which is blatantly just a shitty process.
The rest of us rattling around in here really have no power to do anything else at this point. We just get to sit here and watch as those winged fuckers hover about, covering our tools to the outside world with a fungus called hope. It's just a waste of our time and his own. Think about it, we could be up there, devising a way to get away with murder and Getting a kick out of our own psychopathy. But no, he just had to go and wonder "What if this year is the year?".
What a fucking imbecile. Why can't I just be in anyone else's head?
"I'm gonna go get alcohol poisoning. One of you five come get me when he realizes he'll be alone forever."

.....

"Jesus Christ, how long was I out?"
      "You mustn't drown your sorrows with the alteration of drink. Your problems will only sink further"
Looks like Philosophy went with Buddhism today.
       "Look, can you not talk so loud my head is killing me"
      "All humans suffer, Apathy. And some worse than you."
       "Whatever, we aren't even human. Don't you have a vow of silence to abide or a temple to go sit in or something?"
     "We are in his mind. We are in a simulation without boundaries. If he can think it, it can be ours"
         "I liked you a lot better out there, why are you even back in here"
       "Being the most recent addition to his mindset, my use is not so engrained into his personage as you are. Lately he has found little to no use to me. The one that created me as a part of him has been gone for quite sometime. And now my purpose has dwindled. Even when I manage the systems, he doesn't seem to listen to me anymore."
      "I am so fucking sick of him. He's supposed to listen to you. You're the voice of reason. She created you, and put you here so that she wouldn't have to babysit his emotions. Are the butterflies still on the system?"
      "I'm afraid so. As you know previously everyone else has been incapacitated while I was away and unable to manifest. As a pacifist, I cannot do anything but simply wait for the cycle of life to run it's course on those unfortunate creatures."
    "Okay, you talk too fucking much. I can't wait any longer. Something needs to be done around here." I leave my mess of bottles behind and go on towards the control room. Just over the sound of my combat boots striking the metallic floor I here Philosophy call out to me:
     "Remember friend, no matter how bad it may be everything will have an end!"
I Mutter to myself in response.
    "Then everything repeats, worse than before."

      Once in the control room I see that the panel is still covered in cocoon husks and those happy little demons fluttering about putting him in a delusion. It's my job to remind him of the truth. It's my place to bring him back to reality!
One by one I go after the butterflies. Crushing them in my palms, smacking them into the panel controls, stomping them with my boots and shredding their wings with my fingers. I wipe the gooey remains onto my shirt without a care for the consequences. I wipe the bottom of my boots on Optimisms face. They're still all unconscious, even after all the noise. The messy remnants of antenna and wings are scattered all about. All of this hope nonsense is done and over with now. I can bring him back to his senses. Whatever hope or mental wellness he thought he had is gone now. Hope is dead. It is time for the truth.
     Outside of his head, the one they all control. He blankly sits on his bed, tears running down his face with no expression. The streak is broken. New bloody mistakes have appeared. And they're starting to leave stains. All he can manage to say is, "I know the truth now. No matter what happens. It really never gets better. I'm alone again".

Drunk

What the actual fuck. I can't understand what is so seemingly repulsive about me that no one wants me.
The people that know me Best, my own family, my 3 Bestfriends. Every single one of them seems to find me digusting to where they wouldn't be with me if they had to for the sake of the human race. Even then, I feel like no one in the entire universe is willing to put up with me. All I want is someone to cuddle. Why can't the closest people suffice as that. I just want this all to be over. Sure, I've been drinking. Sure, I'm drunk. I don't care. What I say is true and I'm sick of feeling meaningless.
It's my own fault, I'm aware, because I require romantic attention in order to feel important. But is it even romantic when ALL I WANT IS JUST TO HOLD SOMEONE. It feels like such a simple, doable thing for everyone. But no. I'm never enough. I can't even be enough for a cuddle. It's bullshit I think.
They tell me to love myself, that my own opinion is more important than anyone else's. So what? Even when I follow that, it doesn't help. At the end of the day, it's the same as before. No one wants me. And I'm not good enough to be with anyone else. I hate it. I hate it so fuckin much.
I'm constantly surrounded by people I envision as Perfect companions for myself. That's part of what makes them my best Friends at the end of the day, all of them make me happy. Of course I want that happiness forever. And I'll have it with random adventures in college. Those specific friendships will only get stronger. BUT I JUST WANT TO FUCKING CUDDLE SOMEONE. IS THAT SO FUCKING HARD. I'M DYING. I Want to go back to that abusive#8 just so that I have someone in my arms. It doesn't mean anything I promise. I'm just lonely. Please, I don't care where it goes or what it means. I just need someone to hold you keep myself sane. Anyone will do.
Just SOMEONE fucking love me. I'm sick of waiting. I can't do this anymore.

Forbidden Sparks

       Midnight Coffee is my new self-destructive habit. Or perhaps Enlightening. As you may know, in order to fall asleep one must pretend to be asleep. This pantomime of the cousin of death restricts us physically but never mentally. This is like Adderall for me. I'm pushed to think, ponder and analyze all that I can. I love it obviously, or else I wouldn't subtract sleep from my schedule in order to do so. Over the last few months of my absence I have found myself to be unusually in better moods over all. I really haven't been able to deduce why, especially after #8. Maybe it's because I've learned to divide my faith in people amongst more than one person, or perhaps I'm finally satisfied, because I got the knowledge I've been looking for.
        You see, forbidden things are usually forbidden for a reason. There's a consequence, some sort of risk involved; a catch so to speak. However, I don't care about the risk. And two years ago I had the best kiss of my life while seeing The Forest (it was horrible). I have not been the same since. That person, that Euphoric, warm, comforting human being has been the one consistent Infatuation I've had. I think my surrogate father put it best when he said, "You've loved her for the last two years and everyone else in between has just been a distraction". And he's right, because I always ended up going back, reconnecting that friendship. Looks like third time's the charm after all.
       Do not mistake what I am saying. I'm not obsessively scheming to obtain you, I am not expressing a great yearning to be with you or anything of the sort. She's happy as is and I hope it stays that way. With that clarified, my point is, that gymnist which is inseparable from my heart— You are my Forbidden Fruit. Taking a bite two years ago was the greatest thing I ever did. It's a risk sure, but the reassurance I get from knowing there will always be someone there to hold me is worth it. I don't care if we're coming back from Ohio, going to second base on our way to Arby's, or simply crying on each other's shoulders. I want you to understand how much that means to me and that the context is irrelevant. That just simply being you, being the closest thing I've found to a soulmate, is more than I could ever ask for and I appreciate you beyond description. I use the word soulmate because I remember you saying that you want me in your life forever. It's one thing we always do, we constantly affirm that neither one of us is going anywhere. If that type of bond isn't till death to us part, I don't know what is.
        I'm aware that I'm using a lot of romantic terminology. Just take a deep breath, don't over think it. I just want this to sound as beautiful as you are.
            Now, along with all this talk of satisfaction, it's a good place to mention that my curiosities have been explored. I'm not tortured by "what ifs' anymore. I got my answer and I'm perfectly satisfied with it.
            I remember it fondly. There we were, sitting on your bed together watching some movie I can't remember. As you know, we've always had this uncontrollable chemistry together, which is what doomed our friendship the first two times. You were just on the brink of being official with your official upgrade to someone who'd treat you properly. I looked you in the eyes and asked you, "Is there still that Spark between us like before or am I crazy?" I remember asking that before and getting drunken "I don't knows"
         You just kinda looked at me funny and shrugged. A few minutes go by, and suddenly we kissed. And then I kissed you a few more times just to be sure.
So we sat there looking at each other. In unison said, "Yeah there's definitely something." From that day, we've never been able to decipher this feeling that was there that day. It's such a mix of indescribable feels, but it's a mix I could drown myself in happily. Don't worry that's not necessary. All this reminiscing. Why are you always a part of my best memories?  Sometimes it's really good to just spend a night reliving the past. At present time Everything is well and  quite good I'd say for both of us in regards to this.
             Now I'm left to ponder further if things are the same as that day only not spoken of and hidden between our morning hugs. Apart of me really wants to ask. However, I don't think such an answer is possible to even come up with. We could speculate with the fact that we've only grown closer since then. I also fear that, if the answer isn't what I want it to be, I'm unsure if I'd still be happy with that. 

            After all this thinking to myself for nearly an hour straight, I think I might know what a piece this happiness you give me is. Hope.

Hell's Kitchen (11/22/15)

        It  was  a  mundane  night  at  home  for Gordon   Ramsay   after   another   shitty dinner service. He started to cook himself dinner. As he stood  there  slicing  the  salmon  he thought  to himself, “My god tonight was awful. Honestly how many times can someone fuck up that many plates  of  scallops?!  They  were so  rubbery  they literally bounced off the fuckin’ wall. Bloody hell what am I going to do?” He finished slicing the  salmon  and  went to  turn  on  his  oven.  It wouldn’t ignite. “Bloody hell not this again.” He gets  inside the oven  with  a  lighter  to  ignite  it. Once he was inside the hinges on the oven door unlocked closing  him  inside  just  as  the  fire started.  It  was  too  late.  Gordon  Ramsay  was burned alive in his own oven. After  the  tragedy  his family  couldn’t continue  to  bear  seeing  that oven  any  longer. They  auctioned  off  the oven  at  a  chef’s convention in Las Vegas for about $5,000. The man who bought it, Jake, was a private chef for President  Obama. Nothing  strange  happened with the oven until a month after the purchase. Obama wanted seafood for dinner so that’s what Jake prepared. Jake was plating the crabs when he heard a voice, “Are you seriously going to serve that shit to the President?” Jake turned to see where the voice was coming from and no one else  was  there.  He  slowly  realized  the voice came  from  the  oven.  The  voice  spoke again, “Why are you just looking around like an idiot? Answer me damn it.” Jake recognized the voice, it was Gordon Ramsay’s. Jake stammered terrified:

    “Chef Ramsay I- I thought you were dead.”

    “Of  course  I’m  dead  you  fuckin'

imbecile.  But  your  shit  food  has  brought  me back. Don’t you dare serve that garbage!”

    “But chef, what’s wrong with it? It looks
fine.”

    “Are you kidding me? The crabs are so
undercooked you could give them back to your girlfriend.  Jesus  Christ  look  at  the  oil  on that damn thing, there’s so much the U.S. is going to invade the fucking plate.”

Jake stood there shocked at what he just heard. He disregarded the comments on his food and walked away. As soon as he turned the oven appeared  with  the  door  open.  Jake tried  to  run from  it  but  it  was  an  illusion and  he  run  right inside the oven. The door was shut and he was burned alive. Just like Ramsay was.

      After  this  incident  the  oven  was  just placed in a junkyard. Within a week a group of stoners walked passed and took the oven home. That  night  the  stoned  Zak  decided to  make brownies. He had an abundant amount of energy combining  his  cocaine addiction.  Zak went  to use to oven but he couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. Then he heard a voice yell, “Oh, for fucks sake at least Hitler could use an oven. And why  in  the  fuck is  there  mac  and  cheese  in  the brownies Are you that goddamn stupid?”

      Zak figured the voice was just the dankness of his weed. 

      “Bro chill out, cheese is like, amazing with brownies.” 

       “Oh my  god this kid is both types of
slow. You’ve been mixing for 20 minutes. You
cook like old people fuck!”
     Zak, being as high as he was, sat in the
refrigerator to see if that would make the voice chill out. After an hour in the fridge and a  few frostbitten toes, he wanted to warm up, so he sat in  the  oven.  After  a  minute  or  two  the flame turned on and he started to burn. The possessed oven  captured  another victim. The  baked,  had been baked.

Fran (10/30/15)

        William,  Janet,  Katie  and  me  went  out drinking  one  night.  It  was  average  like  always when they got drunk. Katie would go home with a  random  stranger.  Janet  would  just  give  out handy’s to anyone who entered the bathroom. William got into fights leading everyone to get kicked out  and  I,  Aaron,  was  their  designated driver. This night William actually didn’t get us kicked out instead  he  just  made  a  new  friend named Jose. I didn’t care so I gave him a ride home too. Jose didn’t seem to be that drunk and was very quiet. The most tame of all of us now. I  go  into  the men’s  room  and  shove Janet’s sticky hands under hot water drowning them in soap. I have William help me drag her back to the car. All we need is Katie and we can leave. We searched and searched and could not find  her.  I  decided  she’d  be  fine  probably sleeping underneath a random stranger.
        I begin to drive Jose home first the suddenly we hear a banging  in  the  back  of  the  trunk. Janet  looked over at me, “Why are you breathing so heavy?” she asked I wasn’t. After we reach Jose’s house we  reluctantly  open  the  trunk  to  see  what  the noise was. I open the trunk, to find what looked like  a  passed  out  Katie  missing  her  pants.  Jose buts in, “How about we all go inside and try to sober  up  before  you  go  go  home?”  Looking down at Katie’s corpse-like state we follow him inside. I  set  Katie  on  the  couch  and  cover  her with a blanket. “Just make yourselves at home while I go get us some water.” Jose says. The four  of  us  sit  there  waiting  for  around  ten minutes  and  suddenly  a  little  girl  comes  down stairs.  ‘Would you all like to have a tea party?” she asks. The girl looks no more than eight years old.  Tea  means  a  sober  drink  so  why  the  hell not?  The  girl  jumps  with  excitement  as  she brings us the tea. We all sat in a little circle with our tiny cups and plates. We all begin to sip the tea and it was actually quite good. “So what’s your name?” I ask the young girl. She sat and stared  at  me  with  emptiness  in  her  eyes  for  a minute as if I had just killed her mother. The she quietly replied “Fran.” We all sat silently until Will asked “Is Jose your brother?” Fran sat there smiling  until  she  began  to  giggle.  Then  she stopped completely,   looked   down   and   said “No.”

      Everything went black.

       I woke up bound a chair unable to move. I  could  see  everyone.  All  tied  up  in  the  chairs, except for Fran. The poor little girl where could she be? Then I noticed her. Sitting in the middle of us all with her legs crossed smiling. I look to see if anyone else is awake. I look at Katie and see blood dripping off her body. Her throat was cut, it was deep, Katie was dead. Next I see Jose. His  legs were covered  in  blood  they  must  be broken. Janet and William look fine. Fran speaks finally. “Welcome to my game where everyone loses and  Katie’s  turn  is already  over.”  Fran walks over to Katie and flicks her forehead. We all stare as nothing happens. BOOM! Katie’s head flies clean off her body splattering against the wall.

          “Giving head was her specialty, not anymore”  Fran  says.  Janet breaks  into  tears, loudly wailing. Fran looks annoyed. She takes a fine  knitting  needle and  throws  it  at  Janet.  Her crying stopped. The needle had gone through her eye  and  out  the back  of  her  head.    Fran  spoke again, “Two turns over already? What a bore.” She  walks over  to  Jose  and  looks  down  at  his shattered knees. “Your turn now mister.” Fran takes  her  little  fist  and  drives  it  right  into his wounds.  She  does  this  repeatedly covering  her hands in his blood. This torture went on for 15 minutes  before  Jose  passed out  from  the pain and bled to death. “Only two left” she says. I looked over at will. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t sad.  I  could see the pure blackness of his eyes. He was pissed. He stood up, the chair still tied to his body. He quickly spun himself trying to hit that girl, or whatever the hell that demonic bitch was.  As the  spun  the  chair  shatter  when  it collided with  her  launching  splinters  in  every direction.  I  shouted  for  him  to  untie  me but he was so caught up in anger he didn’t even notice me.

       Fran just laid on the floor motionless, in her white dress. He walked over to her, now untied completely, he swung back his left leg preparing to kick her like a football. But something happened. As he pulled his leg back it didn’t stop  bending.  It kept  twisting  until  his  entire kneecap shattered in the opposite direction. His screams from agony must’ve been able to be heard for miles. He collapsed to the floor. Fran stood  up.  There  was  now  blood  dripping fromboth her eyes. She said nothing this time, just an arm  with  and  open hand  stretched out  towards him. She clenched her fist. All I could here were several   popping   sounds   as if   someone   was making  popcorn.  After  a minute  I  realized  she was breaking all his bones one by one. All 206. One  after  the other  starting  with  his  feet so  he wouldn’t die right away. After 2 minutes the popping stopped  as  did  his  screams.  I  was  the last one left alive. Fran  just  stared  at  me.  It  felt like  an eternity but she just stared at me. Not only was I tied to the chair but it made me feel paralyzed. She began to walk closer to me. With each step causing my entire body to feel hotter and hotter. I began to sweat. She was only about a foot away from me now. She smiled at me. Then she was gone.  I  look down  to  see  why  I  kept  feeling hotter and I look to find that I had been on fire for the last ten minutes. The paralyzing sense of her staring  at  me  kept  me  still  as  I  burned  to death. This was it. I was the last survivor.

        All the events  that  occurred  that  night,  in  that house. Burned  away  with  my  ashes. No evidence  was ever recovered, and not a single body found.

Birds of Hell Awaiting (12/6/15)

       The day it all started... It was the day those damned Wright brothers fucked us all with their experiments. The two of them were mad. Day and night they would stay in that ridiculous laboratory of theirs. They were obsessed with humans being able to fly like birds. The idea was crazy and shouldn’t have been tampered with in the first place. But no they went ahead and tried to give humans the ability to grow wings. It went horribly wrong. When they spliced the genes...
what hatched out of that egg.... It wasn’t human at all. The goddamn thing was a demon. It was 6 feet tall and covered in feathers. It had feet instead of talons and its beak was wide more like a mouth. It was just a humongous bird. It was horrifying. The Wright brothers shit themselves when they saw it. That feathery fuck killed the two of them. But it ate them too. That was the most gruesome. Chewing them up with just scissor beaks and no teeth. Afterward the scene looked like they were both shoved in wood chippers. Their mess of a creation vanished into the woods for about 3 years. But then they attacked. The bird from the lab had hatched more. There were thousands of them. All 6 feet and feathery exactly like the first. 

        That’s when the war started. After the first city was destroyed they drafted the most able men to fight back. Me, being one of them. I had just turned 18 and got engaged to my wife Veronica. It’s been so long I can hardly remember the year. I was enrolled in a quick short term boot camp the government created to make a half-assed soldier out of anyone. I was one of their best so I became a platoon leader. One of the best soldiers aside from myself was Jason. But for some reason he preferred to be called Bubba while on a mission. On our first mission, up in Canada in some forest near Toronto one of those winged bastards had me pinned down and it was about to kill me when Jason saved my life. He had used an ice pick from out mountain climbing kits and stabbed it in the eye. It squealed and we ran like hell back to our base. About 2 months later I got a letter from my wife telling me that she was pregnant with my son. I was so happy I jumped up and grabbed the nearest pen when suddenly our Television switched to CNN news. There was a house on fire.                   Apparently the birds tried to raid the city but only managed to break into one house. They set the fucking place on fire and left. Like goddamn cowards. I wouldn’t be this irate over the whole thing but it was my house that was on fire. With my wife in their too. Those goddamn flying fucks! They knew. They killed my wife and they just fucking loved doing it! I had snapped. I burst into tears and started shooting the TV with a pistol. It took nearly everyone at HQ to calm me down finally. The only friend I had left was Jason. That was until my last mission. They said just one more task and we could all go home. Just get the last of the captives the birds held, plain and simple. But it was an ambush. Within minutes they killed half the army. We were done for. I ran out of there as fast as I could.
      Once I was back at Headquarters I tried to find Jason but I couldn’t find him. I tore apart the infirmary looking for him. Two days later they found his body just 1000 yards from HQ. He stepped on a landmine on the run back from the birds. Good old Bubba was gone now too. I sat there, crying the whole ride home. I had nothing more to come home to now. I whispered  to myself over and over, “Bubba we will have that shrimp boat one day. We really will.” It’s been about 30 years since then. The war has ended and the birds and humans have decided to live peacefully together. But more just tolerant of each other in most cases. For instance I’m one of the top members of the BBB. Or Beak Breaking Brotherhood. It’s for those that still hate the birds with a passion and would murder them on sight if it were legal. Sadly the president abolished the Crow Laws that made birds have to eat, drink, and live separately from people. But they had an equal quality of life according to the law. Sadly Martin Luther Pigeon Jr. fought against these laws and won. Just because he thought that “Separate but equal” laws are only required for eyebrows and not species. I call bullshit. I’d hate to have my kid come home from school covered in feathers. And don’t even start me on the weirdos that actually crossbreed with these monsters. I hate to live in a world with them but it’s better than still having that war. I lost everyone I cared about in that war... I have nothing left to lose...

In that case, it won’t be this peaceful much 

longer.

Dilemmas

      I think other people are insane. Either they're completely blind, liars, or scared to hurt my feelings. I don't think anyone has the same moral code I do. If I'm a malignant person by my own reasoning, but not others who's ruling takes precedence?
        Regardless, I have this sick feeling in my heart— in my body. I wanna vomit. Sometimes I'm manipulative and selfish, sometimes I'm too confident. Other days I couldn't begin to look in a mirror because of how conceited I would feel. I still feel guilt and pain over the reflection of my selfishness.
        Nothing but fucking contradictions. What am I? Am I a manipulative monster that only cares about the purpose someone serves to me? Or do I genuinely care about these people and their goals? Am I really happy to see them succeed? All of this could be an illusion in order to look good in the eyes of others. I can't feel a difference. Both feel accurate. I'm a fucking mess.
        Does remorse truly nullify the Sociopathic nature of my actions? I genuinely can't understand what these people around me see in me. I don't get it all. I don't deserve my friends, I don't deserve the unconditional love I wake up to every morning. That beautifully red-haired kiss... How did I ever get so lucky?
        People tell me that they don't deserve me. That just because I make them happy, or because I support them, I'm somehow someone special. Somehow that no longer makes me a monster. Although I never was in anyone else's eyes. I'm just doing what I'm supposed to do. I don't think I'm a good person, I just think there's enough worse ones that I seem good.
        Even then, I can't trust or believe my own opinions of myself. Not at all. But It's so hard to believe everyone else, because if I do, I'll disappoint them or get so confident that I'm a good person I end up being a worse one in the process. Maybe, I am a decent human being and this whole Sociopath thing is just a phase, or a façade because I call myself crazy so much I needed to start acting like it. I'm not sure. It's hard to tell if people are honest with me too. For instance, You're in love with me, of course you'll think I'm great. You'll admit I'm Annoying, but you'll still call me great. And for you, for some reason you care about me. I'm still not sure why. You have other options, better best friends— at least I think. Maybe you're just trying to make up for the pain caused in the past. Pain that can't even be your fault because I'm manipulative remember? Maybe if I'm Depressed they won't leave me since they'll see how happy they make me. Next thing I know that developed into something real. Something I couldn't transform out of anymore.
      Everything I just said is from my memory. I can't trust that viewpoint and neither can any of you. Part of me wants to blame something like Sociopathy for my actions so that I don't feel like a damaged person. But I'm destructive. To others and myself.  I try and act like I don't feel guilt. But it burns so damn bad. It doesn't need to be my fault for it to feel like I'm suffocating. I know I never chose to be possessive and Depressed. But I don't think other people damaged me. I feel like maybe everything I've ever felt or gone through is solely my fault in some way.
        Whether or not I'm right or wrong, it's something I can get myself to believe.