pained

I’m not really sure what happened today. I spent over 10 hours at work, and I was so stressed out I didn’t take my breaks, or really get much of anything productive done. I’m getting pushed higher, slowly but surely. I’m slowly taking over other peoples’ responsiblities, and I can’t help but doubt myself. They all have a good year of experience on me, and though I think I am getting better, I can’t help but believe I’m still not good enough, just like I always thought. I’ve come a long way from not being able to go up to a counter and buy something, to where I am now—blatant customer service every day, all day.

I had a customer yell at me the other day in front of several people. They all turned to look, and in that moment I reminded myself that the foolish man didn’t matter, and nobody was going to dare try to humiliate and bully me in a room full of strangers. I got so angry I was shaking with rage, and trying to keep my voice calm and bite my tongue was extremely difficult. I had to clench my fists at my sides and smile. I wanted nothing more than to drag him across the counter and beat the living shit out of him. He would have deserved it.

I want to better myself. I want to learn this game as best that I can. I feel like nothing but a shackled bundle of secrets. It seems like all I do is lie, to the point where sometimes I can’t remember what is real about me and what isn’t. 

No one can know what is locked away inside.   

Vengeance

You know that feeling when you’ve been graced with something you feel is beyond you? Something so much better than, so superior, that you feel like touching it with your filthy hands would be the Christian equivalent of pissing on Jesus’s face as he lay pinned to the cross?  There are very few things that can elicit that kind of emotion from me. It’s difficult for me to feel a happiness of any sort, and even just getting a tinge of appreciation is rare and fleeting.

When I say I love, in reality I have little idea of what that means. Do I need? Is that what it is? Am I equating love with something it isn’t? Honestly I believe very few even have a vague understanding of what it is. It is thrown about as thoughtlessly as a hug (which I also believe should be reserved for only very select people). If it is as strong as hate, then it would be safe to say I feel very little of it as compared to what I should emotionally be capable. Hate is bottomless; it’s a black pit there to swallow you up and in some ways, free you. Like many things, it has many facets and each has its own particular bitterness.

If I could love like I hate, that would be such a frightening thing. I feel cheated in some senses, but I also know that the lust for vengeance in my heart is too great to allow room for much else. With even this wilted, half-baked feeling of whatever love is, it has driven me to terrible things. The scars on my body and on my mind will not ever be shed. The feeling of that particular love is long lost, but the fathomless pool of hate was quick to quench itself on my misery. And here again, the love has skittered back, a weak, grotesque reflection of my inner self. I fear it more than anything, and I hate it. The strangest thing is that I thought I wanted it, but I find myself lost in the days when I had nothing but a deathwish and enough emotional pain and loneliness to nearly kill me. I miss wanting to die, because now I have no idea how to live.

The urge toward self-destruction has not left, not entirely. But I truly understand its nature now, as I am at arm’s length with it. I see what I was incapable of seeing before, I see what its intent had been. I see why I was crushed for so long by my own pointlessness and sadness.

I was right before! I am nothing like you, and my darkness is and will always be my saving grace. You know nothing. You lied to me. Your weakness lies in searching for a light that is nothing but an illusion, a tattered blanket for the world to cling to helplessly. I am beyond you and what you’ve done. My greatest mistake was thinking that I should repress this, stop this. It is the most beautiful gift I could have ever been given, and I am proud to bear the scars of its beatings. I am the master of it now, and there you lie cowering and whimpering, nothing but a product of the society you scoff at but want nothing more than to be a part of.  Hypocrisy my friend, is not becoming.  

I’ll make sure if we ever fuck I’ll call you by the wrong name. Repeatedly.

Endure

So the post office is holding my $200 dollar book hostage. This whole ‘if a holiday falls on a Sunday, that somehow means you get Monday off’ thing keeps happening, I might have to hurt somebody. I think things would go fucking faster by carrier pigeon. I work, and I sure as shit didn’t get any holidays off or any holiday pay. No, I’m not bitter at all.

Last night I got off work and drove in the middle of the night to the city. I had this random urge to go purchase something, and wanted an excuse to go gallivanting in the snow and ice. I’ve discovered that the colder and more annoying it is to go out, the less likely I am to run into somebody I know. It’s kind of awkward when your Christmas present from Australia arrives late and accidentally gets shipped to your boyfriend’s mother’s house and it just so happens to be an object of obvious Satanic significance, and said mother is a devout Christian, and shopping at the same store you’re shopping, and hands the over the tainted package in a public setting. If that makes sense. It’s early, but I’m not drunk yet because I have to drive. Apparently even sober I am not coherent.  

She stood there expectantly waiting for me to open it. I was struck dumb and just insisted that I needed to wait to get home, and that it was a secret. I was tempted to tell her it was a special box of condoms, but I didn’t think that would go over too well either. I had to argue with her to leave me alone about it, and she kept trying to grab it from me. Even eye-wateringly Christian and terribly motherly, I still adore the damn woman and wasn’t about to let one itsy bitsy package get in the way of our weird little friendship.

I need to go dig up the dead things I buried. There’s a whole coyote about a foot down in the ground a few miles from my house. I wonder if the beetles got to him just yet. He’s probably still all wormy and gross, but I’m worried something might have sniffed him out and dragged him away, as stinky and bloody as he was. He smelled like an open sewage pipe, and as hardcore as I am about the deathly stink, I nearly died trapped in a car with him. Even with the window down it was nearly unbearable, as some of his guts had exploded out his rectum when he got mangled by a car. I’m not sure how long he was on the side of the road, but it must have been longer than I thought given the stench. He’s probably past the stink. Hopefully.

In other news, I’m so stressed out I’ve ended up having my period twice. I just want to eat and be incredibly lazy.

So sick

I’ve more or less quit smoking, which certainly isn’t helping my attitude any. I have never smoked a lot; at the most maybe 5 or 6 cigarettes a day, and only when at work. I have found I don’t need it any other time. I ran out of money a few weeks ago and haven’t picked any up since. It’s difficult not to smoke and stuff your face when you get yelled at for a good portion of your workday. It’s to the point where nearly everyone has cried at work at least once (men and women alike). My boss has never been one for keeping a low profile. I do my best to ignore it, but in all honesty, I believe this person is one of the main contributors to my shitty outlook and low self-esteem. I let her infect me, which I can’t stand. I can ignore her for a few hours, but after nine hours it’s difficult to tune it out.

Besides that, Satanism is going well. I keep telling myself to spin more and more webs, and eventually I’ll catch her too. It’s really only a matter of time before I either explode and get fired, or she does. I refuse to move on at this point, no matter how unpleasant. At this point I just want to prove to myself that I can endure the absolute worst. I know I am capable of that. I’m not going to let some depressed, screaming bitch outdo me, or prevent me from getting where I want to be. It’s all right at my fingertips if I can just manage to endure another year or two.

On a sidenote, I’m getting fucking fat, which is slightly irritating. I definitely am not as concerned with it as I should be. I’ve always been vain about it, however, there is too much on my plate (what a pun) right now for me to be able to focus on maintaining anything other than my mind. Right now I just want anything pleasurable, anything I can enjoy in the company of those I care for. And I don’t feel too bad considering I am fattening up my boyfriend at the same time. I enjoy cooking, so why restrain myself? I know eventually I will start to care, and perhaps then I will do something about it. For now though, my clothes are a little more snug and my fingers a little chubbier. But who gives a shit when you’re getting laid on a constant basis?

Regrets are for the dead.

Nasty whore disease.

I’m starting to think I look suspicious, or have some kind of aura that automatically makes me prone to meeting rude individuals. I seem to get treated like shit even when I make en effort to be kind and polite. I’m at the point where I want to snarl at the first person who looks in my direction.

I’ve been sick for over a good month now. I have this hacking cough that won’t go away and this stabbing pain in my side that makes sex and sleeping semi-unpleasant experiences. I’m hoping it’s not pneumonia, but who knows at this point. I could have caught the nasty whore disease from someone at work—it seems more than likely, really. Every time I leave a drink somewhere I come back to find someone else slurping it down. Even if I write my name in black sharpie it doesn’t seem to make a whole lot of difference. And they wonder why sickness spreads so quickly? I’ve taken to tossing out my cups after I down a good half of it; not much of a choice when it comes to that.

I’ve been eating nothing but shit too. For some reason my mood is much improved. I wouldn’t say I’m not depressed, m0re that I’m in a distant state of mind. I’m trying not to think about the fact that I’m getting a little rounder in the rear and my clothes are becoming snug. It’s a combination of seriously not giving a fuck, pure arrogance (something I never thought I’d have), and knowing that no matter how disgusting I get—-

I’m still fucking getting laid!  Therefore, what the fuck does it matter? 

It’s the Audis and the Versace sunglasses and the New Rocks. I’m becoming one of those label consumers that used to make me disgusted. Somehow, I don’t care. It’s like a veil has fallen over my sensibilities. I want to eat rich food—anything cute and cuddly swaddled in baby fat—fuck as much as humanly possible, watch as many bad horror movies as Hollywood can possibly produce,  read and watch as much porn as I can fit into the ten hour period I’m allotted, and mostly I want to sleep like a king in my cave-like loft with a sheepskin under my naked body. Somehow, this is the only way I have staved off that beast that has been haunting me since I was ten. LaVey would be proud.

My demons are always with me, but through lawless decadence and leather furniture they are sated.

For now.

red

I don’t care anymore if everyone feels the need to figure out what I am. I think the main problem has been all along that I’ve never fit with the vision in my head. If you make a new one, does that technically mean you’re settling? We grow as we age and our vision must change, but I believe that at the core it will always be the same. If the core is stagnant, then that means everything else is just superficial. Those ideas, the changes to that perfect state of being? Nothing more than painting a wall or changing the carpet. It looks different, might even feel different, but the walls are still as solid and the same as they ever were.

I don’t think I’m faltering anymore. I’m getting there, somewhere. This place, it’s coming up on me fast. I feel so much like nothing matters. I’m not alone anymore and I think that has made all the difference in the world whether I choose to believe in it wholeheartedly or not. I am the same, but now I’m not so afraid. Consequences seem so unreal. I can be the devil I always wanted to be. I don’t think I’m happy; this is so different from that.

I believe I’ve been tricked into a false sense of security. I’m not better. I’m not thinking about dying everyday, but I sure as fuck think about hurting. It’s all so laughable now. I’m in my own hell, and I’m somehow enduring my misery because of this slow burn. I feel so ready to explode. It hurts so bad but it feels so good. God can’t know what this feels like. I curse the people who dared to speak of me.  I curse the ones who’ve made it so impossible to get here. But I’ve needed it, all of it. All of this suffering is leading to something. I can feel it in my bones.  

I’ve had my first taste of true, evil revenge and I want nothing more than to go on drowning in it. There is no substance and no amount of fucking that can equal or compare to this. I don’t know how I can be so fucking high and so damn low at the same time. This hazy landscape makes it so easy not to think. I don’t want to be a person of words anymore, I want to do things. I want to move beyond my own stiffling mediocrity. I want to tear off all the lies and show it all to their fucking judgmental faces so they might all sit back and stare at the beast they’ve harbored.

I’ve been here all along. And I’m so fucking patient. Oh god, you can’t even believe. I’ve been waiting. And, I swear to that abandoner, that hater of men, it’s coming. These years of hatred and self contempt have prepared me beyond reason. My disgust with myself is what gives me power. My complete acceptance of my uselessness and cowardice are what will make me strong. I am going to go so beyond what anyone could ever dream. And I will sweat and bleed and hate and scream. But I’ll get there. I’ll push harder than anyone has ever pushed and break myself into indescernable parts.  I’ll fracture like glass.

 I’ll be nothing but a thousand bleeding, angry shards.

dark sympathies

Sometimes it’s like the hatred is going to swallow me up until I disappear. I’m not sure how one can function when they are so throughly disgusted with everything and everyone. I don’t think I can hate any more or feel any less; whatever it is that means. I want to drag people through a moment of my life, for just once, so they can know…they can feel this.

It’s good to know my hate is heard, even if only by myself. It feels like something, and I can fool myself into believing it is helping. The funny thing is, I am so convinced now that it has become real. Perhaps this is what faith feels like, except this is assured in a way that godly faith is not. Action makes reaction. Period. Being a Satanist is what is keeping me going.  I know that I make what I am. I am getting somewhere, even if it is difficult to see just now.

 

locked up with nowhere to go

It’s strange that you can work all week anticipating your day (‘days’, for the lucky people; meaning not singular) off, only to realize when it comes that you have absolutely no idea what to do with it.  It’s not that I’m ungrateful, more that I’m not in the mood to do much with myself. Yet, laying around being useless sounds rather dull. What a dilemma.

Lately I’ve been driving around aimlessly, wasting precious premium fuel for no reason. I don’t even have the money to be wasting the fuel, yet I can’t come up with anything solid enough to keep me from meandering about. I catch myself driving 90 on the backroads, usually up to the lake.

They say people are drawn to bodies of water, and that a huge percentage of the population dreams about something related to it.  Lakes are often deep. They go black in the middle, and ripple around the edges. I like watching water because it sways like it’s alive. It’s this strange, massive blob of untapped potential that can be a relief in the heat or can drown you on a whim.  The best things are always polar like that. Maybe that’s what makes them so terribly attractive.

I like things that make me feel like I’m going to die. Fear is a beautiful thing; it can take something mediocre and make it extraordinary.  Living things are on this endless mission to avoid death, to avoid pain, when really it is the key to everything. It is what makes us tick.

That’s why it feels good to get fucked up the ass or good to get choked by a dick. Our very nature dictates that we flee from it, yet when we turn to it for comfort it becomes something else entirely. What if pain and pleasure are the same thing, but we are just too stupid to know it?

The minute pain is desired, is the moment it no longer hurts.  Or, to revise that statement: the moment it no longer hurts one way, it hurts in another. Isn’t it pain when something so good feels unbearable? You don’t wish it away . . . you desire to keep it, yet you unconsciously flinch away, force yourself stiffen and take it. Your brain tells you it feels bad, but your heart… Well, let’s just say sometimes it says otherwise.

I feel like I’m in grey. I’m so confused about everything. It blends together then melts away.  I feel more and more like myself every day, yet different. I feel more like the person I’ve always wanted to be, but somehow it seems twisted, just off. This isn’t quite what I imagined. It’s darker than I thought. I figured this would be a place of light; the lack of shadows and confusion, but there are even more now. Every corner I turn is another shade of grey, with black blurring out the edges. I seek it out. I wanted darkness, somehow. But I still never thought it would be this way. It’s certainly not what everyone else has, but maybe it works for me. Maybe it really is what I’ve been wanting.

My own inner arrogance is stifling. I feel murdered by internal thoughts. I feel so beyond everyone and their way of being because to me it’s just a game and I don’t care about winning or losing, just sheer, unadulterated enjoyment. Fuck, be fucked, eat, be eaten.  Having a job is just a test of endurance at this point. I can quit any time, but I haven’t. I’m making more money than all the snobbish assholes who went off to college with their noses upturned at me when I dropped out. Somehow, that makes me smile. I’ve never been above revenge, even the more petty kind.

The real irony is that I work at a fucking fast food chain. I feel like that teenager that all the adults are secretly laughing at, murmuring about how I’ll change my tune in a couple of years, grow out of it, settle down and have my 1.5 children or whatever the fuck the average is now.  I’m still too immature, I still talk like an angsty 14 year old.  But it doesn’t matter, because I see them now, I see them for what they all are: teenagers with kids and bank accounts. They never grow up, and they certainly never gain enough intelligence to recognize that fact. The world is stagnant, nothing but a putrid cesspool we continue to dirty.

I still have sex dreams about Marilyn Manson.

There are some things you just never grow out of.

If you build it, Jesus will come…

I’m at that point again where I want to rid the world of anything and everything christian. I’m generally a very accepting creature; a Satanist who has attended church here and there without trouble and still to this day has some extremist Christian friends. The funniest part is that you would assume it would be the children of god who would welcome the sinners, hardly the other way around. Yet, that is why, to this very day, none of them know my religious background. I haven’t gone to lengths to conceal it, and generally people assume I am Wiccan, which is much more tame and easy to live with, apparently. The few times I have been in a situation where a christian friend was exposed to a symbol of said Dread Father, it was met with disgust and hatred. I find little reason to expose myself when I know what reaction awaits such an action.

The most hilarious thing is this fascination with Wicca that people have. I’m over here throwing curses and they think I’m in the backyard skyclad under the full moon burning sage or some shit. I’m not really sure how that’s much better. I suppose the generally accepted stereotype is that  Wiccans are little goody-two-shoes witches while Satanists are these ugly, demonic things who sell their souls and bathe in virgin’s blood. I suffer no illusions. I know what the perceptions of me are and could be, were the wrong sort to figure out my line of philosophy.

My tolerance for bullshit is low. You say you want to be free of sin, yet all you do is . . . sin? You can’t escape sin, that is what is so backwards about christianity. You can smell the stink miles off. You’re caught in an endless cycle of sinning and feeling bad about it. You have that extra piece of birthday cake? Guess what? You just sinned. You filling out a bit ’round the middle? Another sin. It’s all forgiven of course. Before you’ve even sinned. But just the same you’ve got to feel bad. It’s your christian duty.

And about the fornicating . . . You fornicate. You fuck your husband or wife every night without the intent of a child. I’m not married, so I’m just a filthy whore when I do it, right? Even though I’m not the one that let some guy jerk off in my vagina. I’m pure! The white stuff hasn’t hit the inside of mine just yet. Doesn’t that technically make me a little less of a cum bucket than you?  Sure I fuck, but god let us invent these great things called condoms that help stop us inbreds from passing on our tattered, blasphemous genetics.

I’m not sure why I bother thinking anything through. christianity is based on faith, which can’t be measured! It doesn’t have to add up.  That’s what makes jesus so wonderful. Science has to be explained, but not the jesus.

just an illusion

Being out of control makes me beyond uncomfortable, which might explain why I’m perpetually ill-tempered and anxious. I feel like my life, everything in it, is hurtling down, too fast, too imprecise and too driven to possibly control. I can’t control other people which leads to my own feelings of inadequacy. I’m often too shy to assert myself as I should. Other times I’m so overly aggressive I send people running. I don’t know if this is simply a side-effect of my mood swings or just part of my personality. My inner loathing is always there, but my self-worth always wavers, if that makes sense. There are times when I can let myself feel gratification for my accomplishments, but for the most part I find them too mediocre. Nothing is ever good enough. How can it be? Look where I work. Look at what I have become.

I always feel like something rising out of the muck, unworthy of consideration and never any better than the slum it originated from. My hands are dirty; this I cannot escape.