Earlier. Around 8pm.
‘Please, just fucking let me go,’ she said slowly, trembling, and making sure I heard every single word.
I didn’t want her to go and she knew it wasn’t me, I just wanted to calm her down. I – whoever that was – probably hurt her, but that wasn’t me. It was not me.
Still, she could’ve screamed. She could have shouted, banged on the walls so people heard her; she knew how thin these walls were. She could have had someone running to rescue the damsel in distress, but she didn’t want to be saved. Because she enjoyed this. She would always come back to me because she loves me. I barricaded the door and that was the last thing I remembered when I was there.
‘Please,’ I heard her whimpering. I blinked and I was no longer by the front door; I looked down and saw myself holding her against the wall by the bathroom, my hand wrapped around her throat. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face looked slightly swollen. Her body was stiff and unmoving, the way it is when you’ve given up fighting and you’re bracing yourself for the worst. It took me four seconds to register what my hands were doing and I immediately removed them from her neck, allowing her to scurry to the corner of the bed.
‘Fuck,’ I whispered, looking down at my hands.
‘Tell me what just happened, what did I do to you?’
They keep telling me that if I fall asleep, she’ll wake up in the middle of the night and leave me.
I’ve already noticed how she keeps her shoes and bag strategically by the door so she can run out as fast as possible and leave me here all on my own, which is why I always move them back by the foot of the bed. The table against the far wall is scattered with… things. Rolling papers, lighters, her phone, my wallet. I tap her phone to wake it up; a photo of us, smiling, lights up the screen. I laugh to myself as I remember how she begrudgingly replaced the picture of her favourite band. No notifications. That’s what I like to see. I swipe and enter the passcode anyway and open up messages to see the most recent ones.
Give me ten minutes. Make sure nobody sees you, and cover yourself.
LOOOOL slut. I’m gna tell them where u really are xx
Weariness starts to sting my eyes, so I lock her phone and walk into the bathroom to wash my face; the light is bright and harsh, so I push the door closed slightly so as to not disturb her. The lock is broken from where I kicked it in last week; she was crying and wouldn’t let me in. I run the tap and look up into the mirror, leaning on the counter with both hands.
I study my face. I had everybody after me. I had women dropping everything for me at the click of a finger, I had them whenever and wherever I wanted. Anybody I wanted would be mine, anything I wanted would be mine. I had money, I had looks, I had charm. I have had women fighting over me; I have had them betray their own friends for me. Women wanted me; men wanted me and wanted to be me. I run my finger across the scar on my left cheek; even my brothers were jealous of me. But she didn’t want me. She had no desire to know me, and I didn’t turn her head… so I had to have her. Nobody could say no to me, and I had to know why she was immune to my presence.
But I didn’t think I’d fall in love.
“Hate is the complement of fear and narcissists like being feared. It imbues them with an intoxicating sensation of omnipotence.”
― Malignant Self-Love: Narcissism Revisited
selfishness, involving a sense of entitlement, a lack of empathy, and a need for admiration, as characterizing a personality type.
This post has been sitting in my drafts for about a month and I no longer care about it, which is why I haven’t posted it… but I think I’m the guinea pig of the dating world. Apparently having ‘I am your mother’ plastered on my forehead, I somehow always found myself associating with the worst of the worst, so it’s only right that I use that for the greater good and teach you what I’ve learnt. And what I have learnt since then is the difference between a bitch boy and a man. I know the gender-is-a-social-construct brigade will get at me for that, but what can I say? There are men and there are men. We’re always categorising women, it’s only fair to do the same. When you’ve gone from dealing with boys who throw their toys out the pram for not buying them food to men who actually have their shit together and act like men, it’s hard not to talk about it.
But this post isn’t about the men, it’s about the bitch boys. I include the definition of narcissism because all sociopaths are narcissists. But not all narcissists are sociopaths.
The difference? Intention.
Both have extreme adoration for themselves, both will always put themselves first, both feel no genuine sense of guilt. Both are undeniably and unhealthily in love with themselves. Both are practically the same, bar one major difference.
A narcissist loves himself and will accidentally hurt you in the process because he’ll always put himself first. He cares about you, but he cares about himself more.
A sociopath loves himself and will at points intend to hurt you because he wants you to be hurt, and he’ll do anything to achieve that.
Haha, is that me?
I’ve been so busy recently, but at the same time… not. I’ve been speaking to more people, landing myself in new situations and, more often than not, have been increasingly finding myself staring into an imaginary camera. Some days I’m Jim. Other days I’m Michael. But most days I’m Jim. I am, however, always Patrick Bateman… And Dwight.
There are things I believe that I thought were common sense, but obviously not. I quit my job, I reconnected with people, I decided I was gonna be done with bullshit once and for all, and, as of recently, have decided to become the me I always tried to be. Uncensored and transparent. You thought you liked me before, wait till you see me now!!!!!!!
So I guess this post is inspired by the reason I have so many frown lines, and the reason I look into the aforementioned imaginary camera. Sometimes you just want to pick someone up and shake them and scream ‘I JUST WANT WHAT’S BEST FOR YOU’ but you can’t because you’re 5″2, so you have to settle with a rant on WordPress.
Let’s go, the clock is ticking.
Institutional education doesn’t make you a better or a worse person Read more
Yes, hello. I am back after > a two month long hiatus with an embarrassing story for you, because we’re all guilty of a bit of schadenfreude and I wanna make you happy.
It finally happened to me, my worst gym nightmare. I did fall off the treadmill. I was sprinting, got distracted by my falling phone, lost my step, and was flung backwards.
Yes, in hindsight I should have said bun the phone and stopped first, but I did not. I decided to be a big man and look where it got me? With a fat scar on my chin.
Shit happens. And it will happen to you.
It will happen to you. It will definitely happen to you. Especially when you think it never will. So firstly:
I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve done a hey assbutt, aka one long bullshit rant. I guess I’ve kind of gotten my shit together in the sense that I don’t have the time to complain anymore, but alas; this part of me will continue to thrive.
Let’s talk about the L word. We all like to think about and not talk about the L word. We all like to talk about and not think about the L word. The L word is a stressful thing. I’m gonna do it.
To avoid confusion, I’m talking about ~romantic~ love. Gonna bump some MJ and begin.
Honestly, what even is love?
Platonic love is simple. One of the strongest feelings ever, because you don’t even have to like the person to love them, to care about them, to want the best for them and to be there for them always.
Romantic love is more annoying, but I haven’t properly felt it. I once thought I did, but in hindsight, I was terribly, inconceivably, dangerously wrong and it makes me nauseous. I have a good idea of what it is, and I would love to confirm it, but I’m not about to risk my heart for the wrong person. I, too, am cringing at the soppiness of that sentence so I’ll bring it down a notch right about now.