A place for a


Could this face hurt anybody?

Look at this face, look close. You always hear about these types, do you not. About the types who just nobody expected to lash out. This face belongs to one of them. It is my face. No, I do not mean to rampage. There was a time when I had these thoughts, but I would rather fix myself these days.

I did this photo for a professional website of a few acquaintances and me. Another acquaintance told me that the picture looked by far the most professional of all of them. Likable and welcoming.

What a good little corporate monkey I would have made. I was so fucking suited for it.

I even created a version of the picture with a rounded shape, for the site:

Cute face rounded

You know, to make it all seem modern and kinda nifty. Swift, elegant, modern, with animated and eased transitions and little wiggling icons when you move the mouse over it.

Look, Google knows dozens of stupid little grinmouths like me.

Yeah, we just all fucking fit so well into the layout. And all it needs to make us look agreeable and ‘normal’ is a black & white filter and a rounded shape. Fucking ridiculous.

Yeah, and the smile, of course.

I am good at smiling. I see the fake smilers from a mile away and always despise them because I know I can do it better.

I relax the muscles around my eyes so that people are not possibly afraid of any tension in my eyebrows. That would make me not nice, not sympathetic, not agreeable.

People say it is cute. I hate it. It is degrading. It makes me want to murder. A voice in my head tells me that these people will only ever accept me if I put up the stupid smile so that they can call me cute.

My mother said it. I invented and perfected it for her. I have a good version of puppy eyes, too.

Sometimes my mother used it on me. It was horrendous. She was not good at it. I felt that she was mocking me and I despised her deeply for it. Bitch, this is my act. My domain. You are supposed to be the manipulated one, me the manipulator.

Fuck you all.

I am not cute. I fantasize about raping girls. I fantasize about beating up or at least fight everybody I meet. I run around with a deep rage. The better parts of me want to conquer the world, build my own kingdom and lead a family of loyal followers and have a harem.

I am not cute. I have a penis. This penis is there to penetrate mouths, vaginas and assholes and enjoy the semiviolent pleasures of life.

I am not cute. I am an outcast who put up a pretense for all his life, whom even his father did not want. I ended up insulting everybody who was ever my friend, because I never was their friend; I merely pretended, because I desperately wanted friends.

I am not cute. I pursued a girl far past she had said no and I enjoyed it tremendously. In my first year at school, I rammed a pencil into another kid’s head. The thought soothes me, as it is one of the rare moments in my life when I felt in control and did not let people walk all over me.

I like to be ugly and disgusting.

I am not cute, fuckers. I dare you to call me cute.

Oh, but is it not cute how I am emoting right now? Well, fuck you. Unless you are significantly bigger or stronger than me, let’s see how cute you will find my fist in your face.

No, I am not cute. Sorry, mother, I thought I could be the cute boy you needed. I thought I was good at it, but look at me. I never managed to pull through. I could not contain my rage and eventually lashed out. I beat up other kids and stole. And when I could not do that anymore, well, I spent my days jerking off to porn and eating myself happy.

I am sorry for my rage. I know it should not be there. The son you needed, he would not have that rage. He would be able to control it, mold it into love for you and stoically give it to you, because you were sick in the head and needed the help.

I am sorry, mother. I pretended to be the helper you needed, pretended in order to get your affection. I pretended to be able to give something I could not. I am just an angry kid who wants to fight and conquer the world. That angry kid wanted to be loved, but you could only love a cute kid, so I became that. Of course I felt like a fraud for betraying you like that, but at least I got something out of it.

Sorry world, for not being cute. For not being problem-free, domesticated, politically correct. I really wish I could be what you need me to be, because you are all such fucking victims who need to be taken care of.

But I am not up to the job.

I feel guilty for it. Or do I feel guilty for making you believe I was up to it? I am a liar and a traitor. I am not half as ‘good’, not even a tenth as ‘good’ as I said I was.

I am not cute.


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  • That was a fun read. You seem to be an interesting personality. But then my favorite movies are American Psycho and A Clockwork Orange, so some might not see my endorsement as a compliment lol.

    • No, I can’t say I enjoy feeling like a fun object in a museum. But if that is what I bring up in you, I nonetheless respect you for voicing it. Just don’t tread on me.

      American Psycho was funny, yes. A bit over the top and that guy, well, come think of it, he was actually a bit like me. Terrifiedly concerned with perfect appearance, if in another way. Made me uncomfortable to watch it.

      If I could choose, I would want to have his kind of obsession and talent. But I think I will rather be aiming for having no obsession for appearance.

      • I wasn’t making fun of you. I enjoyed it because I really sympathize with some of your sentiments.

        Yeah Patrick Bateman was a caricature, but still one of my favorite sexist chauvinist pig characters out there. And there’s just something appealing about those types.

        Anyway, keep it up. And I ain’t trying to sound like a total fag but I hope you’ll sort out that fight that’s raging in your head and find your peace.

        • Ah. In which way do you sympathize?

          Sexism is right for me. I am really starting to accept that I am, underneath, just that in it’s most extreme form. Maybe because I pretended to be the opposite. I feel an overwhelming reluctance in myself to give a girl even one little finger of kindness unless she shows respect for who I am.

          I do not see how wishing me well makes you sound like a fag, but thanks.

  • Tom,

    As always your posts emit the raw energy of rage I have ever felt in any posts I have read in other blogs.

    Just like you I have this rage inside of me that is eating me up! Behind my smile there is a criminal ready to come out and destroy the world! Watch it burn!

    In my darkest places of my mind I find that. I relate more with a Villain than the Good guy. Even though the Villain dies in the end at least he lived and led his life the way he wanted.

    Instead I have to lock my rage in a cage.


    • Jose,

      I know that it is inside you, too. I understand your sentiments and thoughts about the villain very much.

      But unless you do something to actually live that life, I can not respect you. Because you lack integrity and since this is my own struggle, I can not befriend anybody who chooses to stay a slave to it.

      To clarify: No, you do not have to lock it in a cage. Maybe in some situations, but definitely not universally. Read the book I recommended you.

      Here is something I did. It may not be what you need to do, but it was great for me:

      Two days ago, I wrote messages to all my old “friends”. I admitted to them that I only was their friend because I felt they were inferior to me. It was basically me saying “Hey dude, I am not really your friend. Was just kidding. You suck hard.”

      To a lot of girls who rejected me in a bad way I wrote that they are stupid bitches and can go fuck themselves for abusing my powerlessness.

      When people say “open up”, they usually mean to show some weak sides you can sympathize with. I think that’s what classical narcissists can do. People like us, when we open up, people start going their own ways and calling us scum.

      I did not do it to throw them down. I just expressed my true opinions of them. I took responsibility of the throwing down I had done in secret, in my mind. Finally, accumulated.

      It has to be said that the people whom I now ended the friendship with were not necessarily bad guys. Some of them were cool dudes. “Good people”, you know. That made it even the harder. But I had not chosen them for being the good guys, that was just the pretense. I had chosen them for being inferior, so that I could patronize them, help them, give wise advice, whatever.

      I telephoned with one old love of mine. She told me something about being nice; I told her that if she wants to be nice, she can suck my dick. She told me that was disgusting because I was disgusting. Then I laughed like a madman.

      Shame flooded me, in the worst way. I felt at my low. Everything came up. But you know what? The shame transformed then. Into guilt. Instead of being ashamed of something I have to keep hidden, I now feel guilty for exposing people to it. And it is so much better. As I read somewhere, you can work with guilt; you can not work with shame, though.

      Every time I wrote somebody something like that, my bad feelings suddenly were separate and I started to see the people behind them. As separate. Even more so as they told me to fuck off.

      Eventually, after many messages and friends telling me that I am a piece of shit and the boyfriend of one of the girls calling me, calling me stalker and threatening me, I figured that although it was a very good step, the most important step may – and I say may, because I did not yet do it – be to reveal everything of myself to the really important people in my life: My mum and dad. To have these two people know who I really am. How I really feel about them.

      I must do it, but I am struggling to get started.

      I might make an article out of this comment.

      Anyways, the best to you. Keep me updated if you make progress.

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