First of all, let me tell you something about hatred. You think that hatred is equal with calling a woman a silly bitch? No, that is just banter, with a cup of grains of truth. It is humorous. Well, friend, hatred is nothing like that.
Hatred is poison. Do you know how death feels? Have you ever experienced sheer terror while running for your life and sanity? Have you ever caught a big moth with your bare hand and squeezed the life out of it? Did you ever take a walk through a museum of modern art and open yourself up to the works of the most miserable losers of life?
Have you taken your time to study the underbelly of human life, confronted darkness with nobody at your side?
Have you suffered quite enough, I wonder, to understand the deep and intense nature of hatred?
Continue reading “Misogyny: Why you should hate single mothers of boys”
I am the ugly guy inside Tom.
I am not sure what you idiots want to hear from me. Yeah, I call you that. I am not whimsical at all, unlike Tom. He fears for you not liking him and respecting him and all that stuff. Me? I do not give a single fuck. For all I know, you could go off and die.
Tom wants me to write something here, some therapeutic bullshit presumably. He says it is long overdue; I think he should care less about you guys and more about himself. But whatever, maybe he can get some gems out of this, too.
What am I to say? Tom feels ashamed of me. He sees all I can do and wants to do it, but he is too proud to “come down to my level”. He sees me take one of those bitches he keeps thinking about but is too much of a disgusting coward to talk to. And he says he wants to do it, too, but he is lying. Tom wants to keep up some kind of image of innocence or stoicism or whatever idiotic ideal he invents or reads about on the internet. He feels that being like me would make him look dirty or something.
Yeah, Tom is a proud prince. Tom is a bitch. He does not even really care for you. How could he? He is a shadow of the man he could be if he accepted me as a part of him. He is a shadow and a shadow can not respect or like. A shadow can just be a shadow.
Continue reading “From the ugly guy”
It is much harder – and more boring – to succeed than it is to uphold the appearance of struggle. Recently, I have come to live with this innate sense that courage breeds catharsis. In other words: If you just heroically break through your emotional barriers and risk something, you will be rewarded automatically.
Yet that is far from the truth.
Continue reading “Be a winner, not a hero”
Look at the breast! Look at the breast! No, I don’t give a fuck if you think it’s funny! Do you think I’m joking, you fucking idiot?
My Muay Thai trainer never fails to remind everybody to never look into your opponent’s eyes. His reason is simple: You don’t want to know who your enemy is, how his day went, whether he’s happy, what his name is. You want to hurt him.
When I started training, I didn’t understand it. Back then, I was angry at the world and everybody seemed to be my enemy, especially other men. I wanted to beat people, I wanted to be hurt and I went there full of anger.
A part of the reason for training martial arts was to be among masculine men and learn to be like them. I wanted to be part of the group and was convinced that the only way was to be the best – in my current physical condition, that’s as far from the truth as can be. Always angry, I loved my first sparring and craved more. I had enemies and I was fighting them. I did want to look in their eyes and frighten them.
Continue reading “Switch off empathy”
A friend gave me a small portion of LSD and I am tripping now. I am making interesting observations in this state of mind, but I think that I may well come to the conclusion that it’s not worth doing this again – for already having mastered this challenge. Therefore it’s surely worth taking a few notes.
The reason why I took LSD is to face off once more with the terror that left me almost nuts after my Ayahuasca ceremony.
Playing with this drug feels like being challenged by a strong opponent in the game of frame control. I feel like I am walking on the edge of something dangerous. My ability to distinguish my self from the challenge and fear seems crucial, as much as the conscious knowledge of the fact that I chose the fear and the weird thoughts that encounter me.
I feel on top of it, owning it, and from there stems my courage.
Yet I know that it is only a small step down from this confidence towards crippling fear as I had experienced it after my first naive encounter with psychedelic drugs.
Continue reading “A warrior on LSD”
I lie around on my couch, look around my room. It’s been a mess for weeks now. I feel mory from having told some girl on Facebook that she should get rid of her piercing. First time I have ever been called a bully. Once more baffled by the intense emotions that social pressure can generate, I let the moment sink in and listen to the sound of dust settling among the other dirt.
The door to my flat is open to let the air stream wipe through my little room and pass right out into the corridor. Outside, steps approach. I put my fingers into my ears, anticipating the ringing bell, but it doesn’t ring.
The people outside my room behave quietly. Who is this?
I unwillingly stand up and open the door. My mother and grandmother stand before me. I forbade them to come, but they came anyway.
Continue reading “Goodbye, Mama”
I am tired of arguing within a woman’s frame.
I am an individual and I am an egoist. I do what I want if I can do what I want.
Let’s stop sugar-coating today.
Yes, all men are rapists.
Continue reading “Yes, all men are rapists.”
I walk past the newspaper stand. Big letters say “He”. Wait, where did I hear that? Oh right, I myself called him the he. The devil. Seems stupid, I only see the picture of a guy at the beach. I laugh out loud. Yeah, he. Uh-huh.
The devil is scary, sure. But there’s some excitement involved in fighting him, undeniably. He is the absolute evil. He is exempt from morals. Or is he?
Continue reading “Andreas Lubitz, I love you”
For the most part of my life I have been strongly turned on by fantasies of rape, of fucking a girl who either sleeps or is apathetic and, less often, necrophilia. The more I would masturbate and build up tolerance, the more violent the fantasies would become. These fantasies also contain elements of humiliation in the form of forcing girls I know from real life, especially confident girls, to do disgusting things, e.g. zoophilia and eating each other’s shit. It’s not that I don’t find it disgusting, painful and even shameful – it is that these feelings are strongly linked to my sense of arousal. But even though I have these fantasies, the concept of BDSM used to leave me cold – because it was consensual.
In contrast to this, my fantasies of consensual sex used to be flowery scenes where I would do everything to please the girl and gently show her my love. Boring.
Continue reading “Meaning of fantasies of rape, sleeping girls and necrophilia”
I am observing a man and two women at the restaurant. My chest is compressed by an invisible pressure strong enough to make it difficult to breathe. What is this? Why should it be so painful to simply look at people?
My gaze is reciprocated a few times, but never held for an extended period of time. My chest loosens up and I calmly continue my observation: A rather uptight, very properly and boringly clothed man is accompanied by two women; despite his glaring uneasiness, they exaggeratedly laugh at things he says, sometimes conjuring a smug smile on his face. Neither he nor they seem to be honestly enjoying themselves.
Continue reading “The pain of status and rivalry”