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(Written ages ago, posted again for a new audience)
April 6th:
Today a man sat next to me on the bus, he tried to bore me with his pleasantries. He chatted vainly about the weather and accused me of being obnoxious when I didn’t dignify his with a response. He tried to communicate again; unsuccessfully I might add, about his job. He was a glass manufacturer, and though a complete stranger would be interested in hearing him drone on about how glass is formed. In my mind I rehearsed hitting his head against the glass of the bus window, an ironic way for a glass manufacturer to bow out, perhaps.
After the infernal bus ride, I made my way to the office. During the short walk, a careless foreign tourist thought he could get away with standing on my Oliver Carnell shoes, my pride and joy, I swiftly dealt with the incident however. There is now a tourist walking around the city with two broken ribs, who will never stand on someone’s shoes again.
Work was the same as it has been for the last 8 years. Dull. I spend my day in my 8 foot square partition writing poems on my computer. I haven’t done any work for 2 months now, they’ll notice sooner or later, but for the moment the pay cheques are still coming in. People at work avoid me now, they finally understand I don’t want to talk to them or about them.
April 7th:
The post man did it again, he posted a package with ‘FRAGILE’ clearly marked on the label, through the letter box, only to break on the floor. What an idiot. At this rate my collection will never be complete. Porcelain is too fragile for the careless hands of a postal worker who couldn’t get the grades to do a better job. If only my postman was smart like me, I get paid to do nothing.
At work the manager requested me in his office. He informed me that he was aware that I had been slacking off work for some time now and told me I had to buck up my ideas or find another employer. I waited in the company parking lot after work, by his Mercedes. He came whistling towards his car and as he unlocked the door to get inside I thrust the cricket bat against the back of his head. He went straight down with no problems and fit neatly into the seat. He isn’t dead; he will come round soon. He is waiting in my bathtub now, when he wakes up the fun will begin.
April 8th:
The idiot postman did it again, I waited by the door for him to post the package through and when he did I opened the door and asked to speak to him. He cautiously ventured inside and tried to leave when he saw my manager’s head mounted neatly above the fireplace. Some people just don’t appreciate art when they see it. Luckily I had locked the door and the postman couldn’t escape. I chased him upstairs and cornered him in the back bedroom. The windows of the room are boarded up so he couldn’t escape, he looked frightened so I thought I would leave him there a while, until I figured out what I would do with him. I locked him inside and made my way to work.
Nobody at work seemed to notice the absence of their manager; perhaps I had done them all a favour. At the coffee dispenser, Jean smiled at me, perhaps she knew. I would have to deal with her before she revealed me. I wished to remain anonymous. I began to talk to her and she seemed impressed when I told her I was a part time artist. We exchanged phone numbers and I will invite her over soon, to keep her quiet.
When I got home I was too tired to deal with the postman, he was beating on the door and pleading to be let out. I put on a record and drowned out his pitiful cries, much to my delight. It was good he was upset; perhaps he was beginning to repent his idiocy.
April 9th:
I spend my morning constructing a torture appliance worthy of Bunty or Gein. It is a meter long steel shaft with bent nails protruding from one half of it. It is beautiful, although the postman didn’t think so. I unlocked the back bedroom and tiptoed in to find him asleep on the floor. How dare he sleep at a time as important as this? I kicked him firmly in the stomach and he jolted up. I told him I was going to let him leave and a smile of both terror and happiness crossed his face. I waited until he was at the top of the stairs before I struck him in the bottom of the spine with my device. He howled in agony and I grinned and I pulled the bent nails from his bleeding flesh, creating several large holes that leaked fresh blood. He fell down the stairs and hit his head at the bottom. I haven’t moved him since, I am not sure if he is alive or dead.
Around noon I got a call from Jean, asking if I would like to see her later that evening. I told her I would be delighted and made restaurant arrangements. We met at eight and chatted over a meal, which I gladly paid for. It was worth the price for her silence, bribery in a form I suppose. She told me that her friend Claude in Human Resources had informed her that Brian, the manager, had gone missing. I relished knowing my work had not being in vain but acted mournfully. After the meal I invited Jean home to my house and she gladly agreed. As we entered my house I remembered the postman was still at the bottom of the stairs and tactfully ushered Jean into the living room. I kept the lights off as to not reveal my mantelpiece accessory.
She seemed ready to go all the way and I told her I was going to freshen up in the bathroom, I had to lug the postman upstairs and conceal him beneath my bed. I called Jean up and we began kissing on my bed. We slowly undressed each other and I was in the position to have sex with her, when I took the opportunity to clasp her around the throat. She tried to push me off but she was slightly built and her punches and slaps were hardly a deterrent to my mission. Her face was purple and her lips blue before she went limp and collapsed with a thud to the bedroom floor. I hid her beneath the bed with the postman and retired to my bed for the night.
April 10th:
I saw the news this morning and they recognise that three people are missing but have no leads. I think my message to society is complete. I have booked myself a one-way flight to Mexico and will make a phone call to the police from the airport and lead them to this address. I’d like to think I have made a difference and will be a role model for future generations of people like me. I consider myself to be the only sane person in a world full of monotonous morons, the one person with a long-term goal. My message may cause people to think twice about what they are doing with their lives, perhaps it will be ignored. I have aspired to my heroes, generations of people frowned upon by society. Branded killers and murderers when all they were trying to do was express themselves. Like them, I am an artist, and artists only get the praise they deserve when they die.
April 6th:
Today a man sat next to me on the bus, he tried to bore me with his pleasantries. He chatted vainly about the weather and accused me of being obnoxious when I didn’t dignify his with a response. He tried to communicate again; unsuccessfully I might add, about his job. He was a glass manufacturer, and though a complete stranger would be interested in hearing him drone on about how glass is formed. In my mind I rehearsed hitting his head against the glass of the bus window, an ironic way for a glass manufacturer to bow out, perhaps.
After the infernal bus ride, I made my way to the office. During the short walk, a careless foreign tourist thought he could get away with standing on my Oliver Carnell shoes, my pride and joy, I swiftly dealt with the incident however. There is now a tourist walking around the city with two broken ribs, who will never stand on someone’s shoes again.
Work was the same as it has been for the last 8 years. Dull. I spend my day in my 8 foot square partition writing poems on my computer. I haven’t done any work for 2 months now, they’ll notice sooner or later, but for the moment the pay cheques are still coming in. People at work avoid me now, they finally understand I don’t want to talk to them or about them.
April 7th:
The post man did it again, he posted a package with ‘FRAGILE’ clearly marked on the label, through the letter box, only to break on the floor. What an idiot. At this rate my collection will never be complete. Porcelain is too fragile for the careless hands of a postal worker who couldn’t get the grades to do a better job. If only my postman was smart like me, I get paid to do nothing.
At work the manager requested me in his office. He informed me that he was aware that I had been slacking off work for some time now and told me I had to buck up my ideas or find another employer. I waited in the company parking lot after work, by his Mercedes. He came whistling towards his car and as he unlocked the door to get inside I thrust the cricket bat against the back of his head. He went straight down with no problems and fit neatly into the seat. He isn’t dead; he will come round soon. He is waiting in my bathtub now, when he wakes up the fun will begin.
April 8th:
The idiot postman did it again, I waited by the door for him to post the package through and when he did I opened the door and asked to speak to him. He cautiously ventured inside and tried to leave when he saw my manager’s head mounted neatly above the fireplace. Some people just don’t appreciate art when they see it. Luckily I had locked the door and the postman couldn’t escape. I chased him upstairs and cornered him in the back bedroom. The windows of the room are boarded up so he couldn’t escape, he looked frightened so I thought I would leave him there a while, until I figured out what I would do with him. I locked him inside and made my way to work.
Nobody at work seemed to notice the absence of their manager; perhaps I had done them all a favour. At the coffee dispenser, Jean smiled at me, perhaps she knew. I would have to deal with her before she revealed me. I wished to remain anonymous. I began to talk to her and she seemed impressed when I told her I was a part time artist. We exchanged phone numbers and I will invite her over soon, to keep her quiet.
When I got home I was too tired to deal with the postman, he was beating on the door and pleading to be let out. I put on a record and drowned out his pitiful cries, much to my delight. It was good he was upset; perhaps he was beginning to repent his idiocy.
April 9th:
I spend my morning constructing a torture appliance worthy of Bunty or Gein. It is a meter long steel shaft with bent nails protruding from one half of it. It is beautiful, although the postman didn’t think so. I unlocked the back bedroom and tiptoed in to find him asleep on the floor. How dare he sleep at a time as important as this? I kicked him firmly in the stomach and he jolted up. I told him I was going to let him leave and a smile of both terror and happiness crossed his face. I waited until he was at the top of the stairs before I struck him in the bottom of the spine with my device. He howled in agony and I grinned and I pulled the bent nails from his bleeding flesh, creating several large holes that leaked fresh blood. He fell down the stairs and hit his head at the bottom. I haven’t moved him since, I am not sure if he is alive or dead.
Around noon I got a call from Jean, asking if I would like to see her later that evening. I told her I would be delighted and made restaurant arrangements. We met at eight and chatted over a meal, which I gladly paid for. It was worth the price for her silence, bribery in a form I suppose. She told me that her friend Claude in Human Resources had informed her that Brian, the manager, had gone missing. I relished knowing my work had not being in vain but acted mournfully. After the meal I invited Jean home to my house and she gladly agreed. As we entered my house I remembered the postman was still at the bottom of the stairs and tactfully ushered Jean into the living room. I kept the lights off as to not reveal my mantelpiece accessory.
She seemed ready to go all the way and I told her I was going to freshen up in the bathroom, I had to lug the postman upstairs and conceal him beneath my bed. I called Jean up and we began kissing on my bed. We slowly undressed each other and I was in the position to have sex with her, when I took the opportunity to clasp her around the throat. She tried to push me off but she was slightly built and her punches and slaps were hardly a deterrent to my mission. Her face was purple and her lips blue before she went limp and collapsed with a thud to the bedroom floor. I hid her beneath the bed with the postman and retired to my bed for the night.
April 10th:
I saw the news this morning and they recognise that three people are missing but have no leads. I think my message to society is complete. I have booked myself a one-way flight to Mexico and will make a phone call to the police from the airport and lead them to this address. I’d like to think I have made a difference and will be a role model for future generations of people like me. I consider myself to be the only sane person in a world full of monotonous morons, the one person with a long-term goal. My message may cause people to think twice about what they are doing with their lives, perhaps it will be ignored. I have aspired to my heroes, generations of people frowned upon by society. Branded killers and murderers when all they were trying to do was express themselves. Like them, I am an artist, and artists only get the praise they deserve when they die.
Page:
Messy wrote:
> Hahahaha... You should all see Pyschoanalytical Therapists. Trust me,
> it's not a bad thing on your record or anything. Over 80% of
> succesful people in America see therapists. It's like, per usual.
> That's why you get so many films where people are constantly saying
> "I'll go see my shrink."
that's americans though - have you ever thought that that's why a lot of them are severely screwed up? just look at hollywood - it's full of people that are so far up their own ass's they have almost disappeared.
> Hahahaha... You should all see Pyschoanalytical Therapists. Trust me,
> it's not a bad thing on your record or anything. Over 80% of
> succesful people in America see therapists. It's like, per usual.
> That's why you get so many films where people are constantly saying
> "I'll go see my shrink."
that's americans though - have you ever thought that that's why a lot of them are severely screwed up? just look at hollywood - it's full of people that are so far up their own ass's they have almost disappeared.
I'm a sociopath, then.
Paradox: wrote:
> But if he had good reason to kill them, like "You kidnapped my
> daughter and stole my wife" then he wouldn't be a psychopath -
> he'd be human.
psychopaths kill randomly and wthout reason
sociopaths kill for a reason but can do so without a moral concience
what you describe is someone who kills out of anger.
> But if he had good reason to kill them, like "You kidnapped my
> daughter and stole my wife" then he wouldn't be a psychopath -
> he'd be human.
psychopaths kill randomly and wthout reason
sociopaths kill for a reason but can do so without a moral concience
what you describe is someone who kills out of anger.
But if he had good reason to kill them, like "You kidnapped my daughter and stole my wife" then he wouldn't be a psychopath - he'd be human.
That was a good read and I don't like the character, not because he killed them but because his reasons were crap.
" Oh you broke my parcel, I'll kill you "
" Oh you're not happy paying me to do work, I'll kill you "
" Oh I don't want sex, I'll kill you "
" Oh you broke my parcel, I'll kill you "
" Oh you're not happy paying me to do work, I'll kill you "
" Oh I don't want sex, I'll kill you "
Messy wrote:
> Anyway, if anything people should seek therapists more open, even if
> they have no real problems, as it can serve you greatly in life,
> working out any issues you may have.
>
I see quite a few therapists everyday - they're called friends. And they're free.
> Anyway, if anything people should seek therapists more open, even if
> they have no real problems, as it can serve you greatly in life,
> working out any issues you may have.
>
I see quite a few therapists everyday - they're called friends. And they're free.
Flockhart wrote:
> no. i only know because i am a sociopath,i thought the main requisite
> of a of a psychiatrist was caring,if you read the long post i put up
> last night, you would know i dont care about anyone,i am a sociopath,
> i am a empty shell, i have no feelings
Oook. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say then. Do you like being like that? Some people like being miserable all day.
> no. i only know because i am a sociopath,i thought the main requisite
> of a of a psychiatrist was caring,if you read the long post i put up
> last night, you would know i dont care about anyone,i am a sociopath,
> i am a empty shell, i have no feelings
Oook. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say then. Do you like being like that? Some people like being miserable all day.
ßora† SagdiyeV wrote:
> I wasn't suggesting you see one, I was just stating that only a
> trained professional can make a diagnosis such as that.
my opinion is based on what i have read,and it is just that, a opinion
> I wasn't suggesting you see one, I was just stating that only a
> trained professional can make a diagnosis such as that.
my opinion is based on what i have read,and it is just that, a opinion
Hahahaha... You should all see Pyschoanalytical Therapists. Trust me, it's not a bad thing on your record or anything. Over 80% of succesful people in America see therapists. It's like, per usual. That's why you get so many films where people are constantly saying "I'll go see my shrink."
Anyway, if anything people should seek therapists more open, even if they have no real problems, as it can serve you greatly in life, working out any issues you may have.
It's not a bad thing, trust me.
My Mum's a Psychoanalytical Therapist. No-one she sees is crazy. And most of them are in good jobs too... Wierd huh?
Anyway, if anything people should seek therapists more open, even if they have no real problems, as it can serve you greatly in life, working out any issues you may have.
It's not a bad thing, trust me.
My Mum's a Psychoanalytical Therapist. No-one she sees is crazy. And most of them are in good jobs too... Wierd huh?
I wasn't suggesting you see one, I was just stating that only a trained professional can make a diagnosis such as that.
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