Monday, March 19, 2012
Catherine's story of Psychopathy.
<thank you for emailing me, one who wishes to be not named. i thank you humbly for both your words and thoughts>
Thru animal eyes,
Where’s my fuckin’ pliers?: My shiny blue toolbox.
This is a story about me. Fuck everyone else as I frankly don’t give a shit. I was nicknamed ‘User Incorporated’ by my bro and sis as they saw me learn to control people quite well by age 15.
Okay, let’s get the background crap outta the way first.
I was born into a typical Michigan middle class family back in the early seventies. Dad was Tarzan and mom was Jane. He dominated everything as he ‘made all the goddamned money and you best know that!’ Mom cooked, clean, saw to it we made it to school. She was a good cook but what she truly shined at was looking the other fucking way when dad beat us after a bad day at work.
Dinner at my house was so special. We’d sit there and watch dad rag on mom about everything. The roast is too dry, not cooked enough and it’s bloody, ‘how can you screw up potatoes? Can’t you do anything right?’ He’d then snap on us and tell us to eat our cow food and dip our heads into the trough and suck it up, because, after all, it was his hard work that brought the food here in the first place and we best not waste it. And we’d eat it all. If we didn’t, he’d beat us. Then he’d tell her not to eat so much because who wants a fat wife. Being with a bitch that’s boring in bed is bad enough.
I was the youngest.
My older sister was five years my senior. She had even gotten preggers by that bastard, as I found out years later after he died and did the earth a favor. He loved to get drunk and fish in his little dinghy. One day, his Mercury 25hp motor blew up and set his worthless ass on fire. He burned to death and I hope he is still doing so in hell. C'mon, who owns a fuckin' boat and has not learned to swim? Some assholes deserves their own deaths.
He liked working on his car and saw to it we all learned the value of tools. His sweat and bowing to bosses helped him buy those tools and we best respect that or he’d beat us… yadda yadda yadda and so forth and so on… Just shut the fuck up and hit us dad to get this over with already!
His tool box stood like a mountain before me. I was 8 and this behemoth towered at 6 feet plus. He taught me what tool was what: pliers, both needle nose, standard and dual purpose wire cutters/no adjusting pliers, Channel Locks, various saws, chisels, hammers, both claw and ballpeen, ratchets, sockets both standard and ’those commie shits that created metrics’. Wrenches, screw drivers of many types, you get the picture and if you don’t you really are a fuckin’ moron.
His toolbox was his pirates treasure. When he barked out a tool for me to get him, I’d jump at his command and hop to it. Sometimes he’d tell me to respond with shit like: Sir, Yes sir! When I got him the wrong tool, he’d backhand me across the face. This always made me cry.
Sometimes mom would come out after he’d hit me. She’d see the red color on my face, she’d see I was crying and she knew why. What did the cunt do? She’d say dinner would be ready in about a half hour and wondered what we wanted for desert. Desert?
That bitch died of cancer at forty-nine and I so enjoyed watching her body shrivel up as she stood on the deck, waiting for round at bat in the Pro League of Hell! As death closed around her at the hospital, my bro and sis would sit beside her. Sometimes they’d hold her hand and say everything was gonna be alright. When I was alone with her, I’d lean over her as if to give a kiss and tell her she looked great with sunken eyes and skin that thinly overlapped itself. I told her that she shouldn’t listen to *** and *****. They were lying to her, I’d say: c’mon, ma, you think they’re gonna tell you the truth?’ I’d also tell that she should have a great reunion with dad. A wondrous place where BBQ’s happen 365 days a year and it may be you that gets slowly roasted.
In short, I tortured her for her last several days on this planet. “Whoa, mom, your kicking off has really sped up since last night. Hey, I got about 6 hours before *** and ***** swing by, so let’s chat!” And yes, I was smiling and laughing as she could not talk back, tell the nurses jackshit. When a nurse did pop in, I’d give them a mournful glance, (which I learned from many funerals over the years) and say: she looks a bit better today, doesn’t she? God, could I mimic a hopeful tone. They’d check her BP/Heart rate and such. Chart what her piss bag showed and such and they’d ask me if they could get me anything. When feeling particularly nasty, I’d ask for a burger and fries. Most times, they’d bring me that and either a coffee or a Coke. One time I asked for a steak, blood rare, and I actually got it!
I’ve learned over time that nurses are great. They do what doctors and any normal person would not do. They, on an hourly basis check on the sick and dying. They care for these people. If I could feel sorry for anything, it would be for how I played them.
When I was growing up, I had my own toolbox. Unlike dads, which was fire engine red, mine was blue and quite shiny.
When I started dating I learned fairly quick what the boys liked. Like my father, they wanted to put their dicks in me and they didn’t care which hole they got. I so loved using my shiny blue toolbox to lure them to me as I had an ass to die for. When in blue jeans, I’d walk like the whore my father always called me, and they’d come to me like vultures to a carcass. They’d take me on dates, to dinners and they’d want to fuck me. If I felt like it, I’d (go into my toolbox and pull out a screwdriver) and let them go for it. I always made sure I had sure I had gloves in my toolbox, so I’d give them some.
As soon as I would orgasm, I’d freeze up, (grabbing a pry bar from my toolbox) and tell them to get the fuck out of me, usually pushing their dumbass’ off. Sometimes they’d shrink so fast they’d leave their condoms in me to as they pulled out. (grabbing my need nose pliers) I’d take those worthless hunks plastic wrap for dicks and toss them at their faces.
‘whu, what happened?” they’d ask, tiny little dicks shrinking for the protection of their nuts.
I’d lie and yell: ’You don’t really love me! You’re just using me!’ (pulling a spanner wrench out) to make them back up further.
‘Oh no, baby. It’s nothing like that…’
“just get back!’ I’d yell, (going for my coping saw to cut the fine curves in their decreasing ego) ‘your momma said she liked me! How could I face her after this? How can I look at her again without thinking of your grunting sweaty ass face?’ So practiced, sometimes in front of mirrors, I got the words and expressions down so fuckin’ well they’d freak out every time! And yeah, you have no idea how powerful that made me. Well, maybe you would. Some women love to blow their mates, never taking their eyes off their writhing bodies and eyes, knowing full well that ‘they’ are in control and can make or break the poor fuck-wads mood with a slightly too hard bite or just stopping saying their jaws hurt. ‘I’ll make it up to ya, studly.” Ha, yeah right! They just don’t want to swallow the slime after gurgling out with a dick to their tonsils: Give it to me. Give it TO ME. FUCKING GIVE IT TO ME!!!” Smart cunts! My hats off to those bitches of denial!
Sure, I had to face these fuck-faces at school the following Monday. No problem there. Daddy would often say: There’s a tool for every job, worthless little girl. And you should’ve been a boy like your brother!
No shit, Sherlock! Would it had been better if you had said: you shouldda been a boy like your sister? Oh, daddy, what’s the temp down there? And has mom been beer canned chickened yet with a keg of Pabst shoved up her ass? WELL COCKSUCKER, HAS SHE?
Sorry, I am really not sorry for anything, back to school. I knew they’d meet me in the hallway by my locker, tail so firmly between their legs, looking scared and powerless. “ I am so sorry for what happened between us. You gotta know I didn’t want to hurt you…”
And from my shiny blue toolbox, out came the bug spray.
“YOU TOOK ADVANTAGE OF ME, YOU PRICK! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME!”
You know, there is nothing like a high school hallway before the homeroom bell to have an audience. So eager for new gossip, the cheerleaders, home ec students and homely girls would have their ears and eyes aimed for the shouting voice so early in the morning. The Lettermen, shop and auto guys, and pothead males would look for a good reason to fuck with the guy that’s about to have his balls served to him.
“I MET YOUR MOTHER FOR GODS SAKE! I MEET HER AND WITHIN AN HOUR YOU WANT TO FUCK ME!” I kept up the volume and pace, keeping this fucker so far away from any sense of himself. I could see his heart beating fast in some too-tight concert jersey, the color leaving his face and he seemed to be having a hard time breathing.
With that, (I’d grab my shop-towel out to cover my face) and bury my head into my locker.
“Just fuckin’ get away from me,” and I would fake sobbing, warping words. This is quite easy to do in lockers as the metal acoustics give words an echoing, uncertain sound.
In no time at all, teachers would come to help me. They’d talk to me, always giving the guy the nastiest of glances: You NEED to get to homeroom. NOW!
I’d spend half a day in the office. I’d talk to counselors, vice principals. They’d tell me things like: Would you like us to contact your parents or his parents? I would tell them not to tell my parents as they are very religious and how this could backfire on me with my poor lack of judgment. And with his parents I could not deal with hurting his poor mother that way as she liked me so much.
They fell for it every time! There were no computers to log things with the efficiency there is now. There was no 976-KIDS number to dial. Stone age. They were such Neanderthals then. They’d comfort me, making sure I was calmed down enough to go to class.
Before the end of the day, some guy would always approach me and ask me if he could help. He’d invite me to dinner, saying things like: we’re not all bad. Or, that guy is an asshole.
I’d say thanks, dropping my head with a look of shame, (which I learned after watching a friend get busted for stealing a pair fishnets from a Victoria’s Secret when mall security popped her. HAHAHA, she served a weekend in Juvi).
They’d put a gentle hand on my should and I’d so slowly, so fucking planned, meet their eyes.
It was then I’d reach into my shiny blue toolbox.
Out would come my vial of Locktite, and they’d be my sex toy…
“are you really different from him?” I’d say so softly, that they’d lean toward to hear better.
“let me prove it to you…”
“okay… but I must meet your family first. I’m not easy or anything.”
They’d agree so eagerly that it got to be quite hard not to laugh in their fuckin’ faces.
PAPER OR PLASTIC?
Fuck, you hear this at every fucking grocery store you go to anymore.
Give me paper every fucking time. To me, paper is a skin-dick. Plastic is vibrator and only a loser uses mechanical shit when there is a world of dicks out there that so want to be teased. So many cocks to be used, and cast aside before the satisfy themselves.
And NO man since my father will ever cum in my mouth! NOT FUCKING EVER!
KNOW THIS! IF YOU TRY, MY TOOLBOX IS HUGE. AND I HAVE GOT A TOOL TO DEAL WITH YOU!
The other day, my neighbor asked me for a tool to fix a bolt in fence. I had a blank stare for a moment. I went to the trunk of my Blazer and looked around. Couldn’t find it…
Where’s my fuckin’ pliers????
<hope this helps someone. I don’t think it will.
I hope to meet you someday. Thanks for the chance to tell my story and feel free to post it.
Call me Catherine, if you would.
If I could have emotion, you would have mine freely. Please take my loyalty instead,