Sunday, April 29, 2012

Catherine: Shiny Blue Tool Box II: last try



Catherine’s Story: Last attempt at Emotions.

Part II: The Catherine Stories.

“ONLY”

 

Titled by Catherine:

(this parts title comes from Catherine <author of Where’s My Fuckin’ Pliers> who

suggested listening to the Anthrax song: Only. Link not posted because it shrinks the font size for some reason>

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Last time I thought I felt love for a man was quite a while ago. I remember it fondly. I also remember how it ended.

It was my last ditch attempt to feel, have some emotion for another and try to make myself like the fuckin’ norm in this sad society. I was trying to be a part of this 96% of this population Mark talks about. Yeah, I checked his stats and according to a psychologist named Hare, Cleckley and several others, proved true.
96% not psychopathic. And only the slightest fraction of us go on killing sprees. Like .1 of that percent. And to think we nonviolent make up over 12 million people here! Fuck!

We must be the only goddamned minority in this country that can’t get recognized or get foodstamps, federal aide or job preferences over everyone else.

We may be fantastic manipulators, serious ass intimidators, cunning and self sufficient, but what does that have to do with how the USA handles minorities? Tell me, are we getting a short dick to reach an orgasm with or what? For the testosterone filled, and sexually worthless males here, some frigid bitch, probably your wife, that can’t even utter: ‘oww, baby! Ah!’ during sex.

Save this for another shitty ass rant. Sorry, man. Tangent gone mad. My bad.



His name was Cliff. I met him at some mixer coworkers took me to. He seemed okay enough. Good job, nice hair and not overly extroverted. He gave me a crapload of bullshit lines I didn’t fall and called his ass on every word.

He so cratered when nailed.

Over a few weeks, we got close. Closer than I had ever got with any man.

I so hated my fuckin’ father. That shithead, pussybitch, cunt, deserved to die, My mother, what mother, fuck her! Glad she kicked too.

Cliff and I went to parks and strolled, watched sunsets, sunrises, had what I thought the nicest of lives together. I thought I might have even felt love for this cockwad, thoughts of marriage, school girl stupid fantasy.

Fuck him.

He was my knight in rusty armor.

I told him my past. Gave him my background and this shit I went through. Details, what happened, the pain I felt every cock-sucking day. He’d hug me, tell me it was in the past. We must get on and go forward. He’d be there for me.

He told me he loved me and I believed this. His eyes, brown and clear. His embrace, so surrounding and caring. His words so sincere.

Once I told him, if only he could see my past as I did. If only he could feel what I had felt then.

If only.

Only.

We made love. It was sweet, tender in its connection and rhythm. We joined, my heart climbed higher with this man than any before him. We drifted off to sleep. I fell into dreamland with a smile I had never known.

The next morning he told me he was married and didn’t want to hurt her. He felt so guilty. So bad and crushed by what he‘d done with me. This mother fucker even had the nerve to say, please don’t think bad of me.

He then asked the most miserable question any dumbass male could pass across cunt scented lips:

“what do you think of me?”

What did I think? Oh yeah, big question there.

Thoughts of my folks crashed on me.

I thought of my father.

I thought of my mother.

I then told him I’d make us breakfast.

I made eggs and bacon and sausage. Toast and coffee.

I treated him royal.

He came to eat when I told him it was done, his silly ass came to my breakfast nook naked. Limp dick just hanging out there, smile on his face.

“glad you’re so good about this, honey,” he said. Caught him by the corner of my eye. His smirk, so fuckin’ bold. He thought he pulled one over on me.

My shinny blue toolbox was on the counter.

Before his flapping dick knew what hit him, I slashed his cock as I gave him his plate of breakfast.

Yeah, bloody pork might not be good, but it is your blood, right dickhead?

He looked shocked. I often wondered why. I could not have been the first women to try something like this. How could I be so bold to try this? Didn’t the Bobbitt incident happen? Didn’t Hillary get fucked over by the President of the United States? Weren’t men excluded from the baseball Hall of Fame for womanizing decades later than what they did and after they put their names on the walls of the place?

As he looked at his free flowing cock, he yelled: “I’ll call the cops!!!”

Calmly, still holding the ten inch butchers knife by my side, I calmly said to him. “so, you wanna this public? Make your company know this? Make your ignorant wife know what you are? Go for it! Here’s my fuckin’ cell! Give it your best shot!”

Feeling my almost lost emotionless, psychopathic abilities flood back with a massive vengeance, I added coldly: “I want at least 750 a month, or I will talk.”

Dumbass says: ‘I’ll deny everything.”

I had his house number. I had his work number. I had him by his tiny, pulling upward balls, and he slowly, fucking stupidly, began to realize it.

“what are you gonna tell her? Some absurd zipper accident when leaving the gym gave you that cut? What are you gonna tell her? Huh?”

I pulled out my small Nikon point and shoot, snapped a pic of him in his morning sadness. My kitchen in background with my walls, coffee machine, my fuckin’ Whirlpool dishwasher. He had the ego to step towards me.

Leveling my knife at chest high, I asked him if he really wanted a different outcome than the Fatal Attraction kitchen incident. Sorry, my aim is much better than that of Glenn Close.

He backed off, grabbed his clothes and split.

Did he pay me?

You betcha! It did take me two calls to his job and three calls to his wife. Sure, I left messages with receptionists and his wife about refinance options on his house. It would only cost him seven-fifty a month.

I then got cash.

Every month. I still get payments.

Women of this land! Fuck love when they fuck you over. You gave them your thoughts, deepest feelings, your faith and emotions. And all they could do was attempt to blow you off? Stand up and take matters into your hands.

Sometimes it takes a knife and an ability to actually wheeled it. Some memory and an ability to remember numbers and the names of those closest to him. Never, and I fucking mean NEVER, be without some form of digital camera with at least 5 plxls to catch the moment and keep his faux ass in check.

Remember this, my sisters: If you kill this asshole, especially after he says shit about being married, you got him. Don’t fail to call the Date Rape card. If you did drugs together, claim Roofies!

<<<AN: The Date Rape drug aka Roofies>>>

The tests for this will show for both parties. Drugs in the systems. You will so have the sympathy of all but the bastards sad ignorant wife, maybe her family, though I doubt it. You will never be brought to trial. Why? You got pics, semen samples that only a President could get away with proving , and alcohol and/or drugs on a TOX screen.

I lost all thought of love and emotions once again. It hurt me. Seriously hurt me to some psychology type core. Fuck love, fuck men and most all of like my parents taught me. Fuck Emotions!

 

Mr. Mark William Darus, go fuck yourself with the largest of dildos! This blog of yours has hit points that cause me sleepless nights. Flashbacks of yesterdays my shrinks would revel in!, My writings, as your blog has made me compelled to contribute to. My emails give you permission to post, but damn you!

The Prey and Predator alike? Equal ground? You have done this, some peoples GODS can only know how you keep pulling if off.

This really is Psychopathy Another Life. Another Life is quite appropriate.

Did you know where this would lead us all? Did you know you’d hit over 1200 post in a month and a half? Love it here though. In the Spirit of Tron: No problems, No compromise, ONLY solutions…

 

Catherine.

 

AN: Thanks, Catherine. I know you made the ‘dildo’ remark as a term of endearment. LOL.

I had no idea this would take off like it did. If I had a sense of pride, I have little doubt I would feel it most strongly.

Only by Antrax, good choice.

Tron: Only Solutions. One of the best Journey songs ever.