WHERE'S MY FUCKIN' PLIERS?

    

             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,
-Mark





                        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…

Damn 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,

-Catherine.

Disclaimer.

A Disclaimer on our BLOG.

A moment of pause. About Warnings to Others.

As my sister pointed out to me, I should use this BLOG as a warning to the prey on ways to not become such. My thoughts toward people as a whole fall to this: Either learn from your mistakes you’ve had in the past or be damned to repeat them. Why do so many women fall into the pattern of abusive relationships that they repeat them over and over again? Are these woman incapable of learning, stupid or just so utterly without a sense of self-worth that they can be so utterly suckered into falling for the same facades repeatedly? Why does Cosmopolitan magazine, at least twice a year have a heading of ‘Smart women, stupid choices’?

The warnings are within my words and the words of others. Those words never carry the line: Do not fall for this or it WILL fuck you up! This is based on the simple the thought of reverse psychology: tell someone not to do something and they will surely think themselves above the warning and proceed toward the left hook they refused to see heading their way.

All situations are not the same as many bungle through relationships on a purely innocent basis and I simply do not wish to breed paranoia against all human relationships. I, as well of others who have taken the time to email me, do not want to black-ball all one on ones as a predator to prey thing. Truly, most are that way, but so goes the struggle between men and women. There will always be dominance and submission between the sexes. There will always be relationships on such uneven emotional contact between the two, that one of the two will always feel somewhat slighted. Have those slighted been used? Has one that wishes to travel with another that would rather not been used? That is all up to interpretation and must be looked at on a singular basis.

This BLOG will not go there as it is not Psychopathic in its nature. Those things are not in the realm of Psychopathy and more simply based on pure relationship differences. Likes and dislikes; I like football and she cannot stand it. I like the Browns and she likes the Steelers. I want flowers in the front yard and he wants shrubs. Though often voiced with a good level of emotion and disdain, they are normal across all boards. And so it goes.

This site will go the extremes of the worst human train wrecks imaginable. Where some will consider suicide while others that wiped another out will simply hunger for a egg salad sandwich. A walk into dark places most wish to ignore as it may say more about themselves then they wish to acknowledge.

A site where those that hunger to devour and those that have been eaten can share their stories equally and without bias.

To be true, one must serve both sides without reprisal and retribution. A writer of nonfiction, a journalist if you will, must hold this simple truth: Just the facts as they are given and give no subjective thinking on their regards.

I hope I can do this with the purity that I intend for it.

Psychopathic Relationships: Through Animal Eyes. Part I

　

It can be said that both female and male Psychopaths possess certain powers thru both manipulation and a keen sense of perception when scoping out their prey. They know what they are looking for and can generally size up a target in a mere matter of minutes, if not seconds. They simply, casually, as one may pick out a Pepsi from a wall of beverages, turn their limitless energy toward their target. Locked and loaded, they open fire, watching their preys attention seemingly forget what it was doing in the first place. Their prey feeling utterly swept off their feet with all this focus being pointed squarely on them. Showering them with compliments, telling them things they’d always wanted to hear but thought they never would, they venture forward and wish to capture this potential suitor.

With an almost unearthly sense, their soon-to-victims tend to be drawn toward them much like a car or house can be sucked into the vortex of a tornado or an underpowered boat being pulled to the center of a whirlpool. Most of us know what happens at that point: With their defenses lost, the victim succumbs and feels as if this person (the predator) has wrapped them in a warm and safe blanket to both protect, satisfy and make them happy.

It’s been said countless times for a myriad of reasons: If it seems too good to be true, it probably is and should be avoided at all costs. Sadly, most don’t and learn to regret it, but not as quickly as you might think.

Why do they not trust their instincts? Why do they fall so hard for someone they seriously do not know? How does this happen? Is it a sincere belief in love and its magic power, human kindness or just blind faith that propels then in the worst relationships of their lives?



Hopefully, this may shed some light on the darkest place of human relationships.

Through Animal Eyes.

Both men and women seek different things when looking for that ‘one special’ person. However, they both ponder scenarios of what could be, what magic can happen when they meet that single person that sends their hearts into a tizzy and their minds into a world of their wants and desires. Their imaginations run wild with all the great possibilities that can result from that chance meeting they long for so desperately. They are so willing to bare their souls and tell ‘the one’ all their dreams and secrets. They desire to share themselves with another human being that so seems to care, perhaps love, them with full acceptance They believe in having a soul mate, one that seems to know them better then they know themselves. They are dreamers who believe more in the dream itself then they believe in or even understand themselves. They gaze into shattered mirrors and are completely bowled over when someone tells them what they wish to hear. That they are worthy and they need to get a new mirror as “if you could only see what I see in you, baby” is told to them repeatedly.

Many wish to be used and the predator will spot them a mile away. With ravenous eyes, boundless energy and an insatiable hunger they will gladly meet them halfway.

THE SOFTER OF THE SEXES: FEMALE PSYCHOPATHS. THE PREYING MANTIS PART I.





The female Psychopath will look for men that have fancy cars, a good job and seem a bit insecure around women and even their peers. They keenly pick up on subtleties in both speech and body language. They listen for things such as men always making statements that come off more like questions, displaying a hidden insecurity and lack of confidence in what they are saying. They look for men that brag about the new car they just got, showing a liking for the material more than the spiritual, “I got this, I got that, I’m going to buy this…” And with each thing they say, the underlining tone is ‘now if I just had someone to share it with.” These men seldom stand erect, walk with drooping shoulders, head hung low and would rather have their possessions speak for themselves. Most wear clothes that don’t fit, usually last decades styles and appear to have been dressed by their mothers.

When it comes to eye contact, the female Psychopath always stares deep into the mans eyes, watching his uncertain, awkward attempts to meet hers. She knows the further she sets her sights into his eyes, she’ll discover more of what makes this man tick. Though there are no facts in regard to this, they have better than average peripheral vision and can not only probe deep into his eyes, they study and record his tensed up body language. They say something like, ‘you’re just being modest,’ as they stroke his ego as they slowly turn their heads away, yet all the while watching his reactions when the man thinks she is not looking. He’ll give out an inaudible sigh, face looking somewhat happy and at ease for that lone split second she diverts her gaze. This man is now dreaming of nights no longer alone and perhaps he has hit what his friends refer as ‘pay-dirt’.

She will keep filling his head with compliments and then comes her all-too abrupt announcement of departure. She does this to throw them off base, to nail them with an urgency to either rise or fall. She has to get up for work early and needs to get her, and so coyly said, ‘beauty sleep’. It is then he either asks for her phone number or he doesn’t. She’ll give him approximately 5 seconds to ask as she says, ‘it was nice meeting you!’ She gives him a sigh as she slowly turns to leave. 5 seconds gone, she turns and says, ‘could have your number?. I mean, I’m not usually this forward.’ Giving out a seductive chuckle, she adds, ‘ I’m no Gloria Steinman, so don’t expect me to burn my bra.” Smiling all the while as she takes her right hand and touches between her un-bra’d breasts, adding “opps, not wearing one, so burning is totally out of the question.”

He confidently, while laughing at her comments, perhaps even blushing, gives her his number.

She now has him hook, line and sinker. His life will never be the same as he slowly allows himself to be devoured by what he thinks is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Remember snakes. They can swallow larger animals and take months to digest them, growing stronger with each passing day as the trapped animal gets smaller, weaker, unable to fight their way free and losing any sense of self in the process.

She is master of dominance and submission. She’ll always ask him what he wants to do and he will so readily say that whatever she wants to do is fine with him. This is the
subtlety of his giving in to her ideas and making her likes a larger part than his own. Keep this one truth in mind, when this relationship ends he will no longer have the slightest clue as to what makes him happy in pursuing and what, if any, his true passions were before he met her.

We’ll get back to him in a moment.

Let’s take a fair glance at her. She is good looking by most standards. Usually slender, very long hair by the norms of society, and mostly brunette. If not slender, she will exude a confidence in her body that goes so strongly against the way most slightly overweight women would ever act. She will wear clothes to accent her strong revealing and highly open-book type nature, and back that up with all the energy and feminine whiles there is. In short, she can be the greatest exhibitionist any man has ever seen and turn heads as she walks into a room arm in arm with her prey. Most men would look at this woman and ask, ‘what’s he got that I ain’t got?’

She is throwing out such vibes, perhaps thru Pheromones, that men instinctively turn to catch a glimpse of her. Add to this a generous supply of alcohol and those men, not preyed upon by her, will cast her as their sex slave in their mental pornos as they bang their girlfriends, wives that do not carry themselves with such total self assuredness and outgoing presence. These men sense a raw sexuality about this women in her movements, cadence and overall looks. They feel their instincts rise for a women that they should both run from and flock toward, as a fly does to the candle that would coldly waste them. They can sense there is something different about her that sets her apart from the average day-to-day female they’d casually pass at a grocery store, stroll by at work, or dismiss as their eyes would meet on a morning rush hour commute to work.

Men’s egos are so easily stroked. They love to hear the ‘you’re the best! You’re the kindest.” And the greatest thing any man could hear: “ OH MY GAWD! YOU ARE THE BIGGEST AND BEST LOVER I HAVE EVER HAD! “ When it comes to being used, men are the easiest to take control over. They have that sense of ‘Mother’ that keeps them in check. Most of them have some guidance of morality, decency that when a woman that stands apart from the crowd, or herd as many refer to it, strokes their egos correctly and does not put out for a few weeks into the relationship is a woman of worth.

So easily they become the willing dinner of the Human Preying Mantis. She will continue to stroke his fragile ego until she gets whatever it is she wants. She will do this coldly, all the calculations figured out long in advance, as she knows his weaknesses that only a man, especially if she keeps him boozed up, would ever tell a woman that must’ truly care’ and be most trustworthy.

How does she end it with this spent shell of a man?

She will, over time catalogue things he’s said that she displayed with mild dismay or confusion to, and draw upon those things to break it off. “ I am so sorry, but I cannot forget when you said…” She’ll act with a fake sadness, telling him that she needs to step back and think about things, losing eye contact with him that makes him think, ’she must be fucked over what I said’, and he’ll let her go to think it over and after trying and failing, he’ll say he was either too drunk or just not thinking right as an apology.

Getting what she set out for, having her next victim hovering in the upper wings with patented line, ‘ I just have to end it with him and I really don’t want to hurt him. Then I can give myself to you totally.’

Game, set and match. A game well played by cunning and shrewd predator. She smiles, great thoughts of what she accomplished, pats her massive ego as she showers off the stink of the unworthy as a panther would lick themselves clean after good kill.

And yes, it is that simple.

More to follow on this as there will be a part II.

<<<Authors note: I must give thanks to Kara, Elizabeth, Farma, Catherine, and most of all, Abigail. You have given me so much to process, put an order to and actually write about that mere words by me cannot express my thoughtful gratitude. This will be considered sick by most, but I do so humbly respect you all!

Call it what it is, it does truly take one to KNOW one.

-Yours in pen, mind, and other things,

Mark.>>>

 Abigails story part II.

Thank you, Abigail for this second installment.
With forehead to yours,
Mark

　

　

Abigail: Part II: First rise from flunky to major assistant. .

After using many men as I had John to reach whatever goal or object I desired at any given moment, I began to wonder if the same principles could be used with jobs. Sure, I’d worked a bunch of fast food jobs as a teen and never really thought about using coworkers to gain anything at that point. Some of my friends during my college years used their bodies to make money, by being strippers, doing stag parties and the like. Some even hooked for a while in school. Easy money, they’d say, just don’t skimp on cheap condoms.

I started thinking I could do things a bit different than them without having to smell some stinky asshole as they pounded me into a wall.
At that point I was working as a gopher in a law firm. I’d do their copying, fetch them coffee, pretty much whatever they needed. Like most law firms at that time, it was male dominated, with mostly women as either paralegals, first year lawyers or simply a personal assistant to one the firms partners. The assistants made roughly twice as much with me.

After working their about a month, I got to know several of them after work. We’d go to bar near the firm every Friday in downtown ****** . We’d have a few drinks, in most cases way too many drinks, and they’d talk about their boss and the private details of their lives. This one paying hush money to some whore he had knocked up. That one being unfaithful countless times to those of ‘lesser stature’ or this one who’d tanked his taxes for the last twelve years. All these assistants had two things in common: They had all slept with their boss, and two, they easily spilled their guts when drunk, and some literally so.

I’d given them no reason not to trust me. I shared with them prefabricated stories of jobs that I had been taken advantage of by the toady little men in power and that I knew how they felt. I told them stories with such lush detail they never once suspected they were lies.

NOTE TO OTHERS: WHEN YOU LIE, GO LARGE. NEVER LACK DETAIL, GIVING THE LISTENER WHAT YOU REMEMBER ABOUT BACKGROUND NOISES, SMELLS, HOW THE SKY LOOKED, ETC. USE THE SAME THINGS YOU LIKE TO READ ABOUT IN NOVELS. LOOSELY BASE THESE STORIES ON MINOR MEMORIES FROM YOUR PAST (THAT WAY YOU CAN REMEMBER THEM WITHOUT FAIL IF YOU HAVE TRAINED YOUR MIND WELL ENOUGH).

I talked to my brothers, asking them which partner had more to lose if they were cornered. Both my brothers came to the same conclusion: The one with the soon to be discovered tax problem. They reasoned: he was married, had children, two houses, a motor home that went for 750k, a 50 foot yacht with crew, which were all paid in cash, and a host of other toys that he had never paid taxes on.

After doing a bit of research, I discovered he had only declared an income of 200k, on average, to the IRS.

One day, Andy I’ll call him. (thanks, Mark, for pointing out the importance of changing names), I told him about his assistant and how she so idiotically would spill her guts when bombed. Anyone in earshot could hear her, and how that could blowback on him. I gave him a highly concerned facial expression, seldom having my eyes meet his, as if ashamed to break a confidence. He thanked and said he’d deal with her in his own way, never losing a lawyers cocky self assurance.

Two hours later, he gave me a tiny tape recorder and said it would benefit me if I could catch her on tape this coming Friday. I sheepishly gave him a ‘uh, well, I’d feel really bad if I did that…’ and he piped in, ‘I’ll give you her job, that’s twice what you’re making now and there are ‘perks’ that go with that..” I told him thanks, but ‘I just don’t know. I mean, what if she comes back at me/” He smiled like the egotistical bastard that he was, “don’t you worry about a thing. God knows, I need someone I can trust…”

The following Friday, I bought the drinks with money he had given me.

Roughly, two months after I started there, not even done with the mandatory 90 day probationary period, I became an assistant. Granted, I lacked the overall skills for that job, but that really didn’t matter. His closest friends were also partners, and like all good lawyers, loved solid intelligence on their underlings. In my eight there while in college, I was responsible for the termination of roughly twenty assistants and as each one passed, I got a good salary bump and extra paid time off for things like, exams, studying for exams, paid vacations to Rio, Maui and Aspen as many of the partners assistants liked me around to spot potential women that ‘could use them for blackmail it slept with’.

Here is where one needs to ask a very important question. How can one who cannot possibly do the job they reached get away with it by simply being a stoolie? It was very easily done this way. I’d look harried and frantic and ask one of the gophers to run this and that to the courthouse. Get this copied ASAP and get it back to whomever, and take the notes from this meeting and such saying Abigail sends her respects but she called away for ‘other’ duties. Over drinks one night at some fund raiser Andy asked me how I managed to get all the things done that I had received credit for, citing “where do you find the time?’ I looked at him with the cold, confident look of a lawyer and said:‘I got others to do the majority of it and feel good about doing it as it ‘may’ benefit them in the future. I gave him a ‘come hither’ smile and stroked his ego by ending it with: You taught me well, great master. He burst out in laughter I had seldom heard as he reached out to shake my hand. “I taught you well then.”

Later that night, after I had scoped him out some seriously wasted dizbrain secretary from Wisconson, giving her some fake name for him, he met for more drinks after he’d nailed her.

“you know why I never tried nailing you/” he asked, face still aglow from random sex with someone that was not his wife.

I told him flatly: because you know I’d fuck you up for three quarters of what you own.

He nodded, raised his Makers Mark and bowed his head. “ I know a fellow predator when I meet one. And I am not suicidal.”

I smiled at him, meeting his eyes I then realized he was no different than me.

Over the years, I’d met his wife and kids and even went a few vacations with them. He knew I’d never say a word to them as I had grown some loyalty and respect for him as his dealings in the world of law were both ruthless and cunning. I was at that firm for over eight years when he retired and for that I received a check from the firm for 1.2 million dollars for ‘services rendered’ with the option to come back at any time and be the senior partners assistant. I also received a most gracious letter of recommendation for future employments for my services, achievements above all else, my ability to keep the confidential information of senior Execs.

And yes, I had paid full taxes on that 1.2 million.

(to Mark. Thanks. Yours is the first Psychopathy site that didn’t go into those that serve a breed wrong. The serial killers and their ilk, Columbine clones and their like. Thanks for keeping your blog real.)

Takes one to KNOW one,

Yours,

Abigail.

Abigails Story: part I

                 I recieved my first email about this BLOG.

Thanks, Abigail for your thoughts and words and look forward to more of the same. I posted your story, thus far and left 'other' observations out for now. I know you somehow understand why I did this. I took to liberty of changing that 'ex's name' to John. With head bent in respect, i hope you can appreciate this.

Abigails Story, part I:




Mark, the Blog would not take comments, hence the reason for this email. Love your Blog.

I am a forty-three year old woman with a fairly normal background and upbringing. I studied architectural drawing in college and minored in psychology. I’ve had several major jobs in the lifetime and climbed through the ranks with little or no effort on my part.

Like you, I began reading psych books at a young age and went after them with an almost primordial hunger. I remember thinking: hmmmm, what makes people tick? What makes them act the way they do when they do? What makes one laugh at a car accident and others cry, scream or just walk past it as if nothing had ever happened.

I guess I began being a psychopath when I 14. My Grandmother had passed away and I felt such enormous feelings of loss and hate and dread. My parents were okay enough, but they were dealing with their own sense of loss and somehow didn’t seem to notice me and my older brothers sense of loss. My brothers went outward with their feelings, playing football with their friends and tackling some just a bit to hard, landing one of their friends in the hospital with busted ribs. I went inward, shutting myself off from all my friends and virtually everyone else. I think it was in this, the pain of losing the most cherished person in my life, that I systematically destroyed my emotions.

I destroyed them with a methodical sense of reasoning: Never get that close to anyone again. Never let sadness hurt so much that it can strip us from ourselves. Happiness always equals pain at some point. Being human sucks, so let’s no longer have our mind be amongst theirs.

A few years later, when a friend of mine died from a car accident, I tried to feel, feel anything, and then I heard this ‘SNAP’ go off in my head at her funeral. I then comforted mutual friends, her family and her boyfriend who’d been drunk and caused the accident. It was as if I could SEE myself do these things. Give the proper expressions of face and a perfect balance of words and their tones. I saw their faces twisting, body language, tears, heard their cries and continual sobbing and my mind began recording these things, storing them into memory. Future reference material, perhaps, but I learned and learned quite fast. I asked a total stranger if I could borrow their car to get a pack of smokes. This guy must’ve been close to her because he reached into his pocket and gave me his keys. Well, I didn’t smoke at that time and wanted to see if I could get away with it. I did.

At 17, I was fairly attractive and had no problem getting dates. What I couldn’t stand were these supposedly ’normal’ guys always wanting to fuck me on the first or second date. Oh yeah, like a trip to Dennys should give you the right to enter my body? So I wondered, what could I get out of these sad, though highly horny little bastards? As it turned out, I could get a great deal.

I wanted a new stereo for my bedroom, so on a second date with a guy named John we stopped by an appliance store that had good sound equipment. I was 18 then and he was 24. John had a stable job. He also had a wife and two kids. We walked through the stereo area and all I had to do was look at the one I wanted, give out this little escape of air-noise and look down at my shoes and make my face change like those that cannot afford something that they REALLY want. I said “oh well, “ and started walking down the aisle. He grabbed my arm and said something like: ‘you relly want that one, don’t you?” I gave him this innocent girl pouty-faced look as I slowly adjusted my bra, my eyes met his as they darted from my chest to meet mine. I smiled and said; ‘no, I can’t let you buy me that. Sorry, John, I just don’t know you that well for such a gift…” While I said that, I slowly moved toward him, getting close enough to feel the bulge in his faded black corduroys, smelling him, his desire for me. In a mere matter of days, I’d smell his fear of me.

I got the stereo that same night and my brothers helped me hook it up. I’m not so good at launching rockets or placing them on their pads, but I am great at blowing them up.

On the third date with John, we went to Mountain Jacks and had a great meal. It was then he suggested we go to a motel for some ‘private time’. I gave a laugh, asking him if he had said: “privates time’? and his face flushed red as a fire engine. “well, I just thoughr…”

I told it was too soon for me and he said he understood.

On our fourth date, I made sure we went to a mall not far from my home. I’d seen anger and rage in other people and had a pretty good handle on how the vocal sounds should be with the accompanying body language, the set of the eyes, baring of the teeth. I was ready to chuck this poor sad bastard. I told him to meet me at the food court at a set time.

In the middle of a full shopping mall food court, I let it rip.

He said hi and went to kiss me.

“Don’t even try to kiss me you fucking dickhead!”

He lost footing and almost fell over. “whuuu’what?” Mind recorder running, I taped him as he tripped over his own words like the fool I knew he was from the start. (the sounds one makes when they are broadsided by the unexpected, desperately reaching for words, thoughts but are unable to grasp them.)

Not giving him a chance to get his footing: “WHEN WERE YOU PLANNING ON TELLING ME YOU WERE MARRIED? WHAT KIND OF WOMAN DO YOU TAKE ME FOR???” Making quite the scene, he split in mere seconds, but just before he ran, I told him in a flat calm voice with cold eyes staring at him, almost like a whisper, ’I AM going to tell your wife.”

Mark, you probably know damn well how I hooked up with him. I was behind him at a grocery store and he was talking to some friend on a cellphone about how his wife didn’t flirt with him anymore and how bored he was. ’having two kids shouldn’t make ya a fuckin’ nun, right?” As he was paying for his groceries, I strategically dropped a few items by missing the belt and bent over to get them. Being busty, I knew he’d look and offer to help. It was then I gave him

‘The Glance’ that always hooked men regardless of where we were. I smiled as he offered to help me, and I suggested that maybe he’d be so kind as to walk me to my car to prevent other such mishaps. He agreed and as I filled my trunk, I let him kiss me. HOOKED! And I even had the exit stragity calculated from the conversation with his friend.

Mark, (social-sniper) I will send you more later on as I am off this weekend.

Takes one to KNOW one,

Abigail

Chptr 1 Child Psychopaths.

Chapter 1: Child Psychopaths. What makes one child commit suicide versus one commit homicide?

This goes back to an area in the world of Psychology that has neither proof nor absolutes. These professionals would try to corner any of those areas with their aspects into pigeon holed groups, (subdivisions), that would profoundly state their point as “near-fact’, or better yet, give you formulas and numbers that only the most devote could possibly understand. Kind of makes you think: “if we can’t baffle them with brilliance, let’s baffle them with bullshit”.

I can only give you this, with no facts, no profound conclusions, nothing of any proof one way or another except this: I do NOT base my findings on any study, examination, except those thoughts from those people that have told me life-stories and experiences over their lives. Frankly, I think most in the Psychological community have diluted themselves into ‘based on’ thoughts that they have forgotten the base premise of Psychology. A single persons theory without background, yet a willingness to prove said theory, and have it placed into a book about a human condition they have observed.

I can only say this: These things written are my thoughts and observations based on both my and others life-works. There  are NO

FACTs  in anything I write. This IS Psychology, (a study of the human mind/animal mind) and for that, fact is merely on whichever side of the fence you choose to saddle.

　

In the words of the Ramones: Hey, Ho, let’s go!

The Psychological world seems totally at opposite camps whether Psychopathic behavior in children is either genetic or something that is learned over time. They argue and state factors supporting their views, giving countless variables for each situation, going backwards to observations that were never proven, or better yet, remotely of a nature to explain why one child kills themselves versus one that, for very similar reasons, chooses to kill the kids of the school to get even and balance their mental books.

Keep this in mind: these same camps at some point love the works of Freud and other decades hate him. When dealing with the mind and thought processes the best we can hope for is mediocrity in the noblest sense of the word. There are NO constants. One plus one does NOT equal two, and to those on the fringes, not every day is a new beginning.

Let’s stroll into the depths that so many children think developing. Granted, some have been beaten and abused by either the parents, the ’sneaky uncle/aunt/, bullies, or just some fate of circumstance by a loved one dying young, or a case of childhood ups and downs that they no longer wish “to feel’. Some, mostly that of female children, felt slighted by peers by being overweight, less athletic, or just homely. Both male and female have one sense: abandonment from either their peers, parents or their world in general as THEY see it.

How we, as rational thinking adults, see their world and the opportunities it brings means nothing to them. At their ages, they cannot see the world as we see it, and this is where counseling and Psychotherapeutic community need to remember life before they got so learned and highly educated. \

HEY-HO, LET’S GO!

Child Psychopaths are, in my opinion, not genetic in nature. They learned at some point to kill emotions either by the pain of being abused, or just a way to cope from negativity when expressing their emotions to either counselors or parents, which the power giving those in their lives, gave their feelings the blanket response that what they feel is wrong and not appropriate. Basically, a, ‘sorry, but you shouldn’t feel that way….” To that child, they do not care why they shouldn’t feel that way, or why it is inappropriate, or why it is self destructive, they simply wish to be heard and to have their feelings addressed. So often this fails at some juncture, that they either kill or waste themselves.

Why would a child kill themselves when there is so much help out there? They do this because that ‘help’ fails to reach at the childs base-core, failing to discover this childs heart-of-hearts in the childs language to pull them out of a doves screaming Earthward dive, which to the child, means everything. Either to themselves or bring harm to others.

Either kill oneself to end this pain, or kill many to be heard. At that point, what makes the difference appears to be upbringing and educational awareness. Those children with the ups/downs fall back unto either being either nonviolent Psychopaths with upbringing and some sum of understanding, though feeling nothing or those that which chuck all feeling from being repeatedly abused, chuck all and wish for death fulfillment by killing others to feel at ease, “you all hurt me, so I am going explode on all of you for minimizing me.” Suicide vs. homicide being based on some base awareness in that child to either Implode or Explode. Implode being the total act of self-absorption (suicide) or that of explosion, (killing others) screaming one final attempt to be heard, giving them a life of imprisonment, or like Columbine, a wasting of themselves before being caught, to still be heard as a mere afterthought.

These acts of homicidal mania get so well spent on speculation based on media exposure to rock and roll, Goth music or the fact that the last song found on an 8-track, cassette or CD in the childs room being Lynyrd Skynrds Freebird. “they must’ve listened to “that song” til it drove them nuts,” is a good spin. This takes away any missed responsibility that both the parent and the school had for missing the ‘something’ that made this child do the things they did. Gives them some ‘comfort’ point to fallback on. Makes sense though as most wish to cover their ass in the face of things they had overlooked and simply blown off, to look good and loving parents in the face of mass media over a horribly tragic event. God forbade them say the truth, that they missed something and human-esque fucked up.

School systems get so blamed for events of the homicidal child. Sorry, I cannot blame them as their coffers shrink with the piss poor economics structure which is based more on an athlete that only gets paid 10 million and not 15 million or he’ll bolt to some other team. (OH MY FUCKING GOD, HE MIGHT TAKE HIS FOOTBALL, BASEBALL, BASKETBALL AND GO HOME LIKE SOME BABY!!!!)

Maybe we, as a society have become so cold, money-based, so self centered we have forgotten our children in this process and outsource responsibilities for our children ( and the children of our society for those who pay taxes yet have no children) that we have forgotten a simple fact. These children are our future either through voting, taking technology over their parents health versus the “NEW-UPCOMING Ipod 17 dot O! “ What have we, versus the media taught children? Sorry, but most of us make less than the ‘baller’ we praise through professional sports, yet cry out in mass forms about an outrage over some managerial decision to go for a 5 million dollar player over a 10 million dollar player. And the average daycare worker makes minimum wage and they care for our children so we can work. Yes, we of the enlightened United States have it so correctly, fuck the minimum wage earner, but cry out over the overpaid sports nut whom only looks out after themselves for playing a game?

Think about the things I have said tonight, I hope they pissed you off enough to rethink some priorities in your life as they relate to matters of what our children see and the importance we place on what we display as important. Most tell out children through our actions: 15 million is better than 10 million, as the child thinks, “ I don’t make anything, so I must be less-than-zero.”

Beginning

AUTHORS NOTE: ANY  PARTS OF THIS BLOG CANNOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION. THESE POSTS ARE THE PROPERTY OF ME AND THEIR COMPOSERS, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Let's begin this with a few definitions, shall we.

pred·a·tor

   /ˈprɛdətər, -ˌtɔr/ Show Spelled[pred-uh-ter, -tawr] Show IPA

noun

1.

Zoology . any organism that exists by preying upon other organisms.

2.

a predatory person.

prey

   /preɪ/ Show Spelled[prey] Show IPA

noun

1.

an animal hunted or seized for food, especially by a carnivorous animal.

2.

a person or thing that is the victim of an enemy, a swindler, a disease, etc.; gull.

3.

the action or habit of preying: a beast of prey.

4.

Archaic . booty or plunder.

verb (used without object)

5.

to seize and devour prey, as an animal does (usually followed by on or upon ): Foxes prey on rabbits.

6.

to make raids or attacks for booty or plunder: The Vikings preyed on coastal settlements.

7.

to exert a harmful or destructive influence: His worries preyed upon his mind.

8.

to victimize another or others (usually followed by on or upon ): loan sharks that prey upon the poor.

Let's go into the world of the nonviolent Psychopaths that walk this world amongst you. Some of these declarations might surprise you as most peoples views on Psychos too often spin into the realm of the sensational, mass murderers, serial killers and their like. Hitler, Jim Jones and the soon to be church as Westboro Baptist Church descends on Chardon Ohio
http://m.examiner.com/volunteerism-in-cleveland/westboro-baptist-church-members-threatening-to-protest-chardon-funeral
   Personally, these bastards take Psychopathy as an almost communal event calling out for witch hunts and the mass slayings of those that oppose them. In the name of GOD? Go ahead and laugh, Christ knows, I did.  I Personally, I hope my god is not the same as theirs. If it were so, I'd gladly go the hell. I can say this easily,  as i have no feeling, Period. Sorry, but the Chardon slayings made me feel nothing and the Amish slayings in a school that killed 5 Amish kids )below like age 10) made me little less than outrage. I may feel nothing, but this does not mean i do not know the difference between right and wrong. At some point, descending into Psychopathy becomes a choice in the nonviolent Psychopath. We killed our emotional make-up, we did this by choice, to never feel hurt again, or to simply wish to be comfortably numb without booze or pills. Psychopaths are made, and not created by some genetic imbalance like other psychological disorders occur due  to first tri-mester problems, genetics or an abuse on the mothers part from heroin, crack or other drugs. Keep this in mind: Both the nonviolent and extravagant Psychopaths have one thing in common. They both will use you, take you into a world you think is magical/whimsical in the process. They will steal your energy, perhaps your very life, and you will smile all the way til the end. Your end.
    Take Hitler into consideration. He wasn't even German, Yet he used the German people to rise to power. He had thugs he met in prison, got them behind him (his power to manipulate and bend others of lesser mindset) made his ferocity more prevalent. Through sheer audacity and muscle, he rose to power, and what did he do the thank those that helped him reach the Chancellorship? He killed them mercilessly. (or, in the words of David Bowie: owwww WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA'AM...) I do  take some humor in the decline of the Nazi's. As Hitler started killing off his higher ups due to treason or other imagined slights, they plotted to kill him. Even Field Marschell Erwin Rommel tried, amongst others, to have him wasted. Either bad planning, poor quality TNT, or simply Gods will with a sense of humor, failed. And those responsible split the scene like cockroaches on a white tiled floor when the lights come on.
    And he was surrounded by those that were both nuts and had mates that were the same,  His final followers were both sadistic and mass killers. Sure, most of them had a cop-out, that anyone with a militaristic view would say as: We just followed Orders, sir! Sure, we can think of an auto worker in parma that tried this and failed countless decades, but hey! We got the scientists that built the V-1's and V-2's that rained mass destruction on England. We gave them jobs, (when I say 'we', i mean the American People at that time) cuddled them and gave them plush far beyond what they knew with the Reich, Not to mention this: it was a far cry than what the Russians would have given them.

What's my point thus far? We embrace Psychopaths as a people as they benefit us as a people or a nation. C'mon, you mean to tell me if you make a bomb or a missile to kill thousands, you're not a psychopath? Did you not coldly calculate the trajectories, payloads, probable kill-count? Okay, we should applaud some that reach some level of mass killings as it benefits us as a people.Right?

Now, onto something decidedly differant. I am known  for switching gears in mid-progress...

   Psychopaths are said to go after their prey with a predatory zeal. They control, feed upon, use another through a series of manipulations and tactics to attain whatever their goal is. They do this without feeling or emotion, They will use every trick in their arsenal and use them on whomever can aid them in achieving it. They will then cast off their prey when they've finished eating, (using them), much the same as one may flush a spent piece of toilet paper down the john. Take no prisoners, the weak shall perish, eat or be eaten, or as a Big Dog t-shirt once read: Lead, follow, or just get out of my way, they feel nothing toward their victim as they feel them almost a species beneath them. No guilt, remorse

    I can only ask this question: What makes them any different than a man that goes after woman, ego a'blazing, for the sole purpose of using them for sex or the Corporate flunky, climbing  to the top of the company food-chain? Both use very similar tactics to reach their goals, The corp exec, often to be found saying: "I did whatever I had to do the reach the top!" They do this without emotion, coldly calculating their moves and placing all pieces on a chessboard that their opponent has no chance of winning after careful examination of reading their victims weaknesses and exploiting them to their fullest advantage.

  

  This a Journey into the realm of the nonviolent Psychopath. They utterly trash lives in the wake of their wanten acceleration. Be it for sex, money, control or some form of large scale recognition, they will use anyone, in any number of ways, and sadly, make the used feel like they helped them and that someday the debt will be repaid in kind. With a Psychopath, their is no such thing as debt.

   Later, we will go into the makings of a Psychopath. Let me say this. Why do I always capitalize the word/title Psychopath? Well, they make up over 4% of our population which puts them a higher number than some smaller Tribes that still inhabit our planet. Based on that simple thought, it only seems fair to do so.

     In some cases, the nonviolent Psychopath almost deserve the respect of those beneath them. With little doubt, it was this cold-heated, self-righteous attitude that built the United States into  being a Super Power in less than a 175 years of its  existence. The early Captains of Industry had the kind of take-no-prisoners attitude to merely make themselves richer, using, manipulating all those under them and making the used feel good about being used. How? Before Unions graced our lands, people slaved 80 hours week for next to no money without health insurance and they did this because "the Big Boss' might give them a turkey for Thanksgiving or say a kind word or two or a pat on the back for all the good they did, (giving the dog a bone.)

Let us begin,
-Mark William Darus

  

Mission Statement: brief introduction.

          I start this on 03/03/012.

        Perhaps it was the 150mg of Lamictal (for bipolar) that leveled me out enough to be able to concentrate long enough to think clearly. I found the ability to read again, and far more importantly, to write again.
         What got me so interested in Psychopaths? Sorry, everyone must draw their own conclusions as they see fit. It may have had something to do with the Chardon, Ohio school shootings that happened that week. It may have been the Amish school shootings that took place a few years ago or even Columbine.
            I became curious as to why these kids went on killing sprees. Let's be serious here; there have always been bullies and cliques that messed with the outcasts. Hell, they had them when I was a kid and none of us plotted, weaponed-up and performed a massacre. We had the weapons, mind you, but something was different. We had Heavy Metal music and preachers yodeling how bands like Black Sabbath, Judas Priest and Deep  Purple would fuck up our brains, make us do drugs and end up in hell.
        We were different than the societal norms at that time: male kids had long hair, girls cut their hair short, and god forbid, some even got their ears pierced. We did our share of blowing things up. Be it a model car, stuffed animals, a rubber frog (like The Ghoul used to do on tv) and even picnic tables were fair game for a blastfest.
           Never once, regardless how bullied we were, ever considered wasting people for their wrongs to us. I even had a friend when I was twelve get blown in half by a guy with a shotgun. The shooter was 23 and became  jealous when my friend befriended his girl. She was 15. We simply didn't wish to kill anyone and a fear of hell didn't even play into that.
      And so it goes...

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

My Manifesto: Mission Statement: Pink Floyd Division Belll

Call this my mission statement: My manifesto:



I am:



Not a college degree person in either psychology or counseling.

Good at both the above on a person to person basis: unconditionally, without prejudice, gaining nothing financial, and making no judgment on the person telling me their concerns.

Helping to those, finding places, associations, connections, to aide them. Be it either curiosity or sheer wits-end desperation, both are equal to me as the one needing assistance is my prime concern.

A fool where personal regards are concerned. Through Psych-meds and blood pressure pills I appear to be getting better. Make your own conclusions on this one.

Emotionless: I did nail a 297 bowling last Thursday and did not have trembling knees, shaky nerves and such. I guess I was numb to some extent. To me: that is okay. always has been. I shot a 265 Monday in practice with a 238 and a 172. Again: emotionless.

(not part of my Manifesto)

<When in true need of truthful response, wouldn't you truly rather have the thoughts and mind of one that tells you their truth as you ask for help or guidance? This can only be done absent emotions. Emotions cloud what we would say or ask of those seeking help with what concerns them. Those with emotions hold back more often than not, not wishing to inflict more pain and suffering to the friend/ family member before them in dire need. Subjective family/friends hold back. Objective friends and family do not. To me, it is that cut-and-dried. And I never give anything less. Sure, call me a bastard, fucker and what you will. I have always been this way and am tired of hiding.>

back to the 'I am' part:

I AM:

One that will take the time and listen and read what you have to say. Post what you wish and email you help if given locations, ie, zip codes and general whereabouts.

One, that if given those 'general areas where you live' will find resources that may help you.

One that will respect your right to remain anonymous regardless of what you say and what you send me. Call it journalistic integrity, I simply call it loyalty to anyone that opens their mouth, shares their thoughts hopes and fears to me. Is this not the what many religions call unconditional love and what the atheists proclaim as seeking truth? So more often than not, it is the story one shares and not its dissected origins that matter.

One that believes we are not all created equal.

(If we were, explain this to me: There are many with Aspersers syndrome, autism, MS, ADD< ADHD, ALZ (Alzheimer's), Lou Gehrig's disease, DYEBEETUZ - intentional misspelling for the benefit of the one. Syphilis from birth, Crack withdrawal at birth, SZ and the host other ailments created from simply being born from that which creted you.

Sidenote here:
The weak, disabled, the dying or our parents we so readily plant to the Death Farms when we no longer wish to take care of those that gave us so much from birth:. <the Death Farms term is one I created when explaining to a friend what Hospice, Assisted living facilities and old age homes translate to most Americans. Unlike most other countries, we Americans do not wish to be burdened by failing and fragile parents: If Medicaid and Benefits can work, we will so deal with our dying parents on a two to three hours a week basis. The least we can do, right, fellow Americans?
Hell, haven't we created an industry for Death Farms? One that makes a few billion dollars a year?  :sidenote ends.

I AM:

One that thinks the single purpose of humanity is to kill itself. Seriously, look at the history of mankind. When haven't we constantly tried to waste each other over religion, ideology, or when some United States President decided a decade ago to go after a power that pissed off his father (also a president of the USA), that made him look like a complete asshole.

One that believes our votes mean less than zero while the Electoral College vote means more than, We The People,  can do to change anything.

One that seriously thinks the Republicans didn’t even try to win the last presidential election. If that had tried to win it, why would they pick a Vice Presidential Candidate  from a State with the lowest Electoral College vote next to that of Hawaii? Last presidential tossed to the curb.

I, after asking many in lines at grocery stores, department stores and fast food chains a few questions: Who bailed out the Airlines? Who caused you and I to fix Wallstreet and who wasted so much of our cash on the Hoover Dam? About 89% of those said: It was that goddamned nigger in the Whitehouse.
I did tell them to check their history, recent history, and if they knew who Hoover really was and his place in history. Okay, got punched a few times and so what? Those that resort to physical forms of intimidation obviously have nothing more intelligent to say. Their girlfriends did apologize, to which I asked them how often they get an upper-cut, punch to the breast and so forth. They’d look down and split.
I did laugh at the blows. Funny how that bothers more than an expression of pain. I have to truly appreciate so many aspects of my life where pain,my sheer lack of acknowledging such is concerned. Mind over matter, as in: if you don’t mind, it won’t matter. Or better: If you have a headache, just tap your foot with a hammer. You will soon forget about you headache.

I AM:

One that continues to ask a single question, seeking an answer to a continuously asked question: What makes us human?

I am one who continuously ponders questions as to what we are and why.

I am Mark William Darus, grandkid of Orlon and Jenny, son of Marion and Ted.

Like Popeye, I am what I am.