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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:
ßora† SagdiyeV wrote:
> yeah, but you couldn't really assign sociopaths to be being
> 'depressed' though, it goes way beyond that.
depression is a mental illness that controls how much you care about something,depression is a integral part of the sociopath,the sociopath cares about nothing but himself and will screw anybody who gets in their way and they will do so without any moral problem because they absolutely dont care,a trait of depression,however depression can cancel the motivation of the sociopath to a exstent,the sociopath will deal with anybody who makes their life harder,and will do so without any moral concern.whether it be a job or just life in general.it is a trait found in sucessful lawyers
>
> The real question - is everyone sociopathic deep down, do the general
> population just have an inbuilt mental control, unlike the few who
> act on such tendancies?
no it should be our nature but it has become suppressed by morality
>
> Given the right conditions and treatment, can anyone become a
> sociopath?
sociopaths were until a point in their lives happy people,but at some point a major trauma affects them whether it be abuse,the death of a parent or something else,they would suffer depression at some point and could find there life is not what it was before the incident,they are driven by the memory of being happy and will stop at nothing to get that feeling back.although if they got it would be more damaging because they then have nothing to aim for.the sociopath loves games and challenges and will always try to come out on top.
> yeah, but you couldn't really assign sociopaths to be being
> 'depressed' though, it goes way beyond that.
depression is a mental illness that controls how much you care about something,depression is a integral part of the sociopath,the sociopath cares about nothing but himself and will screw anybody who gets in their way and they will do so without any moral problem because they absolutely dont care,a trait of depression,however depression can cancel the motivation of the sociopath to a exstent,the sociopath will deal with anybody who makes their life harder,and will do so without any moral concern.whether it be a job or just life in general.it is a trait found in sucessful lawyers
>
> The real question - is everyone sociopathic deep down, do the general
> population just have an inbuilt mental control, unlike the few who
> act on such tendancies?
no it should be our nature but it has become suppressed by morality
>
> Given the right conditions and treatment, can anyone become a
> sociopath?
sociopaths were until a point in their lives happy people,but at some point a major trauma affects them whether it be abuse,the death of a parent or something else,they would suffer depression at some point and could find there life is not what it was before the incident,they are driven by the memory of being happy and will stop at nothing to get that feeling back.although if they got it would be more damaging because they then have nothing to aim for.the sociopath loves games and challenges and will always try to come out on top.
charles whitman also alledgedly had some sort of growth in his brain, it was discovered at his post mortem.
I refuse to believe that all behaviour of this sort is through such physical defects though.
I refuse to believe that all behaviour of this sort is through such physical defects though.
as for dahmmer it is suggested in medical circles that he suffered frotal lobe damage, a trait common in serial killers,and almost always in cannibals.this would technically be mental illness brought on by physical injury.the frontal lobe controls impulse control and reasoning.
but most disturbing is that cannabilism is somehow a act of love or is controlled by the same arae of the brain.
effectively anyone suffering frontal lobe damage should be considered a danger to society
but most disturbing is that cannabilism is somehow a act of love or is controlled by the same arae of the brain.
effectively anyone suffering frontal lobe damage should be considered a danger to society
yeah, but you couldn't really assign sociopaths to be being 'depressed' though, it goes way beyond that.
The real question - is everyone sociopathic deep down, do the general population just have an inbuilt mental control, unlike the few who act on such tendancies?
Given the right conditions and treatment, can anyone become a sociopath?
The real question - is everyone sociopathic deep down, do the general population just have an inbuilt mental control, unlike the few who act on such tendancies?
Given the right conditions and treatment, can anyone become a sociopath?
ßora† SagdiyeV wrote:
> I'm more interested in abnormal sociopathic psychology, although I
> guess a lot of it qualifies as schizophrenia.
or depression,that would be the start,schitzophrenia can be mistaken with depression because of the character traits but the difference is depression is the same person in different mental states and is always aware of themselves,schitzophrenia is a completely seperate personality,in extreme cases the affected doesnt even know of the existance of the other personality.
> I'm more interested in abnormal sociopathic psychology, although I
> guess a lot of it qualifies as schizophrenia.
or depression,that would be the start,schitzophrenia can be mistaken with depression because of the character traits but the difference is depression is the same person in different mental states and is always aware of themselves,schitzophrenia is a completely seperate personality,in extreme cases the affected doesnt even know of the existance of the other personality.
I'm more interested in abnormal sociopathic psychology, although I guess a lot of it qualifies as schizophrenia. Not because of personal experience, I just find the whole thing rather perplexing and interesting.
Films like 'Ted Bundy', 'American Psycho' and 'Dahmer', although sick (and true in the case of two of them), detail an intriguing mental defect. It scares the hell out of you just how charming and decent these people are, and how they can go from being a Joe Bloggs regular everyday guy, to a complete and utter monster, capable of anything.
Read about a lot of them on www.crimelibrary.com
It's all a bit macabré I know ....
Films like 'Ted Bundy', 'American Psycho' and 'Dahmer', although sick (and true in the case of two of them), detail an intriguing mental defect. It scares the hell out of you just how charming and decent these people are, and how they can go from being a Joe Bloggs regular everyday guy, to a complete and utter monster, capable of anything.
Read about a lot of them on www.crimelibrary.com
It's all a bit macabré I know ....
ßora† SagdiyeV wrote:
> me too, but how did you come up with schizophrenia for the last one?
schitzophrenia is really the wrong word to use,it suggests that it's a seperate personality which couldnt be determined from the symtoms.
its delusional psychoses,not psychopathy
> me too, but how did you come up with schizophrenia for the last one?
schitzophrenia is really the wrong word to use,it suggests that it's a seperate personality which couldnt be determined from the symtoms.
its delusional psychoses,not psychopathy
me too, but how did you come up with schizophrenia for the last one?
ßora† SagdiyeV wrote:
> Flockhart wrote:
> that is clinical insanity, dementia, delusional schizophrenia
>
> have you been speaking to my doctor?
no i'm interested in mental health and pychology for various reasons
> Flockhart wrote:
> that is clinical insanity, dementia, delusional schizophrenia
>
> have you been speaking to my doctor?
no i'm interested in mental health and pychology for various reasons
Flockhart wrote:
> that is clinical insanity, dementia, delusional schizophrenia
have you been speaking to my doctor?
> that is clinical insanity, dementia, delusional schizophrenia
have you been speaking to my doctor?
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