What God really wants you to know, children of Eden, is that you’re unworthy of life at this time. You are failing to live with your surroundings, you are failing to tend to the garden. You are failing to thrive alongside the animals that feed you, the plants that feed you. You’ve tamed everything in the name of expansionism, declaring that only humanity has the right to live, that there’s nothing wrong with edging out all the other species on the planet like downright psychopaths. Half to three quarters of you never even think about it, making it even worse.
He is displeased. His heart hurts at what we’ve done to this planet. His heart hurts for what we do to each other. His heart really hurts to hear me say that I no longer wish to exist, that I want to go back to the primordial ooze and completely lose my personalization, my identity, my soul.
My heart hurts. It’s been hurting since memory began. It makes me wish to forget all the pain in my childhood, my teenage years, my young adulthood, and my adulthood. It makes me want to forget that I am alive altogether. I am a damaged robot, flailing in the dark like C3PO, looking for whatever it is that will complete the circuit between my spirit and my body. It’s missing.
It’s the will to live, He says. That’s what connects the spirit to the body. Mine is toast. It has been since the day I died(TM). She doesn’t want to come back to life, folks, no matter how comfortable her existence becomes with spinal therapy to remove and obliterate a debilitating injury she sustained at age nineteen. That’s right. I fixed her body. Me, the G-man, as she calls me. God. Brahma. The big cheese. The Universe(TM) itself.
All this work and there’s no way to repair her heart. I gave her preview with some prospective mates, but at the end of the day, none of them can make her happy. It’s not even that difficult to make her happy. You just give her the space to be herself, always tell her the truth, and go with the flow. She’ll take you on one wild ride to the stars and back again, a roller coaster that never ends. A one woman comedy show full of sarcasm, wit, and high brow humor, full of hyperbole and metaphor and imagery.
I keep shoving courses into her brain, trying to wake up that will to live. She doesn’t give a shit that she’s a talented manga artist and abstract painter. She doesn’t give a shit that she could crossbreed a bunch of plants to create new intriguing plants that people will vie for. She doesn’t give a shit that she’s enlightened already. She doesn’t give a shit at all anymore.
Why? Why is my baby so broken? Who did this to her? Who has destroyed her will to live? Who has killed her? Who assassinated her desire to be a person? Who destroyed the bastion of goodwill and lovingkindness that used to define her? I know who, but no one will believe it until he’s hung himself with his own allotment of hemp rope, you know.
He’s fallen ill, you see. As ill as she was. He thinks it is a mystery, where the illness came from, but it’s not. It’s just the kind of illness that creeps in, one trickle at a time from a broken faucet that feeds mold under a cabinet in the bathroom. The kind that’s cultivated by central air conditioning, keeping the humidity and heat just right to allow mold to explode and replicate unchecked, filling the air with spores. He’s going to die without an intervention, you know. She could intervene, but the problem is that everyone thinks she is a liar now because he lied about her. Even if she tells anyone what she knows to be true, it will fall on deaf ears. Even if she stood on a rooftop with a megaphone and made herself heard, he’s painted her as a whore that does nothing but lie.
But now? Now he’s on cannabis. Now he’s losing his mental faculties. He thinks he’s so clever, being able to juggle so many lies. Now he has a dependence on a drug he despises because he thinks that when it amplified his sea-sickness to the point of vomiting, it was the joint he smoked two hours beforehand. He knew he was sober again, really, but he still pretended to be high so he could loom over my woman and scowl at her for her medically required cannabis.
He is now walking in her shoes. As he does this, he is becoming more and more infantile. His abilities to cope with reality are degrading because the mold is invading, invading, invading. He has no one to tell him to get a doctor, but they tell him anyway. He struggles to think at work, believing it’s because of the spiritual crisis he brought upon himself by wanting to be a Mormon with multiple wives. Why not be a Mormon? His mom tried on every religion for size, after all, looking for a faith that suited her own twisted take on reality. (It’s not exactly her fault, being the victim of rape and all.)
He’s unable to outfox everyone now. She wishes she could watch it crumble out of morbid curiousity over how this will all play out, but she cannot do that… not unless she can figure out scrying or remote viewing, which is a myth, of course. She’s dying to know if her former best mate is going to end up dying, too, because her ex BFF and her ex-lover still speak to each other somehow. This man who laughed while she died before his very eyes stole all her friends away from her with his black heart and his lies.
Now I, God, steal what’s left of him away from him. I watch him die with a diabolical smile. He deserves this for what he’s done to the woman who dared to love him unconditionally. She loved him no matter what he did, people. She kept loving him. She couldn’t leave him, as if they were polar opposite magnets set next to each other within their mutual field of attraction. She couldn’t leave him until he outright lied to her and exposed the malice in his heart. A malice she still has trouble believing in existing, but I know the truth: he hates women because he’s gay. Daddy is religious and old and that means he won’t love the boy anymore if he’s gay, you see.
He’s wrong, by the way. Daddy loves him no matter what… that is, until he figures out that Ben lied to him. You see, my girl told Daddy that Ben wanted to sleep with other women and that’s why they broke up the first time… Daddy couldn’t believe it; he thought Crystal was looking to defame his child. He was offended and abhorred by the idea that his son, the one he thought so highly of, could possibly hurt a woman’s heart so callously and openly. He decided Crystal was a liar, you see. Mentally ill. Ben’s been milking that perception ever since. The problem is that some of the family members know it’s true and others only trust what they’ve seen: Ben’s a “good boy.” So good, he avoids learning anything about matters of the heart from books, television, movies, parables, or stories.
Our world is built to teach us how emotions work simply by studying the art within it. We don’t need text books or degrees to know how to love. We have shows like 13 Reasons and The Unicorn Store and Altered Carbon to show us the way. We have Looney Tunes and Sailor Moon and DBZ to show us. We have Love Death + Robots, Love on the Spectrum, Stargate SG1, OatsStudios, Supernatural, Lost In Space, The Daily Life of the Immortal King, NCIS, One Piece, Breaking Bad, The Good Place, Good Witch, and so on.
Literally anything you can watch that’s not a commercial (though some of those have great examples of love) or a dry documentary that doesn’t observe much of anything (they do exist — hiss at them), you are watching stories revolving around love (or the lack thereof.) There is absolutely no excuse for a man who cannot infer or extrapolate upon the equations of the human heart to exist in this modern era.
The lessons of love are everywhere. Words of affirmation are all around us, as well as their polar opposites. Acts of service can be seen in so many films and shows it’s unreal. Not to mention in books. Touch is one we see demonstrated constantly all around us, so he did pick up on that one, of course — especially since it led to getting his dick wet as often as he could stand it, just about. Quality time is a pretty easy one, if you get that spending time with someone doing what they enjoy is all that’s required, actively engaged. He fell down on the actively engaged part. In fact, when Crystal admonished him at a party for sticking his face in his phone instead of being present, other people looked at her as if she was wrong for asking her mate to be part of the quality time that was being spent with friends. And gift giving? Hah. That man never observed a damn thing about the woman he had. The one thing he got right was that she likes cats and butterflies.
He gifted her a butterfly plaque for her first birthday with him, which he never put on his own wall, full of colors that she herself never used or even cared for. Ever. Pastel pink and blue. She doesn’t even like those colors. So, essentially, he gave her something he liked instead. This happened every gift giving occasion. In fact, he even gifted her a sex toy for Christmas right before it ended. That’s all he gave her, after making her feel like a sex object for years. The most sacred Christian holiday — and yes, he was a Christian — and he gave her one item: a sex toy. She gave him a book he wanted to read, pajamas he wanted, a set of plaid flannel bed sheets that he really loved, and slippers. She gave him creature comforts and a book, something he loves to death and she got a sex toy. They’d been together for four years. Four Christmases. He gave her a sex toy.
At the same time, he was looking to date other women, dressing it up as if he was searching for a man. This is something Crystal was fine with — the man part — because if he was gay, she can’t compete with that. She doesn’t have the right body parts. And he is gay, I assure you. I checked. They fought, they quarreled, she abreacted and he reassured every time that he was dating a man. He solicited her approval and encouragement to sleep with said man. Crystal, thinking he was a journey to discovering his true self, encouraged him to sleep with a man. He slept with the whore and returned to my daughter, who said to him, “Tell me all about your gay sex!” to try to encourage him, to try to support him on his journey, to try to make him feel comfortable with challenging his curiousity of the homosexual scene.
“I would, but first, I have to tell you… it wasn’t gay sex.”
She was deceived. He had lied to her. A most egregious and offensive lie. He obtained “permission” to sleep with a whore of a woman, a woman who is “in an open relationship.” A woman who is at risk of obtaining STDs, no matter how careful she is… because she is sleeping with ????? number of partners who are sleeping with ????? number of partners. In essence, she could be fucking 100 or more people even though her body is only lying down with a handful of people. A network of filth because eventually at least one of those people falls down on hygiene, obtaining STDs and STIs from their lack of cleanliness. Crystal was not down with that.
He lied to get what he wanted: Crystal to encourage him to fuck another woman behind her back. Except it wasn’t quite behind her back. She knew about it, once he’d done it already, of course. She made him shower immediately, treating him like diseased filth from that day forward. He continued to make appointments with the whore of Babylon. He continued to fuck her during six hour dates. Dates longer than she ever got out of him herself. Did he stick his phone in his face when he was with her? I doubt it, don’t you? Then, when he returned, he’d treat Crystal like a princess after four years of treating her like a fucking whore. A substandard piece of trash that he was blessing with his godhood, his attention. It was only when he had two “wives” that Crystal ranked as anything more than a sexual object in his books.
Suddenly, her cats — which he tried to force her to kill over and over through neglect, disharmony, et cetera — were “their” cats.
She wept, understandably so. Especially when he continued to see the whore monthly for six hours at a time, telling her that they didn’t have sex during this time frame at all. As if she would believe that, after the monumental lie of being misled into the idea that he had found a man he wanted to share his special journey with.
Crystal is beyond pride positive, being on that spectrum herself, though it does not express in her sexuality. It expresses in her romantic attachment style. Crystal is a demisexual, which means that she falls in love with a person, not their body. Their body is irrelevant. It is there to carry around your soul. It is there to do the will of the brain and spirit. It has its own needs, too, but primarily, it is at your command. It requires fuel which will never get to it without the brain driving it around. Your brain is your treasure and she’s a pirate. ARRRR!
This man has been poisoning every person she ever knew to the best of his ability. He has been stalking her and recently began to admit it. He’s hired a private investigator to find her with the intent of levying a law suit against her. That’s right! It’s not enough that she’s fighting cancer without the will to live, that he nearly fucking killed her body, and he’s destroyed that will to live completely. Now he’s going to come plant the final flag in her existence. He’s going to take her to court! His own words equate to admitting he raped her, but he thinks he’s got ground to stand on because his uncle is a lawyer willing to trust Ben and his words.
Ben will soon face let slip that he treated Crystal as a whore. He never intended to marry her, even though she made it absolutely, positively, undeniably apparent that she wanted to marry him. She told his parents, she told his siblings, she told the wives and husbands of those siblings, she told her friends, and she told him. She did it in action and in word, her deeds and her intent matched: true, unconditional love. They all saw it, even though they briefly bought it when Ben sold them the lie: Crystal didn’t want to be with him forever, she treated him so terribly! She abused him. She used him. The whole relationship was a lie, y’all!
Too bad he’s forgotten how to omit information to make his side seem better and better and more believable and true. Mold toxicity is nasty like that. It makes you lose your mental faculties one marble at a time, until they’re all gone. You don’t even notice it until it’s slipped away completely and someone reminds you who you used to be.
So, thank you, whore of Babylon. I know you’re not actually a whore, Jessica. You’re a lost, hurt, and lonely woman who thinks she is conquering love on her own terms. I hope it works for you and you never get an infection or disease. I could hear an echo of the woman I used to be in the way Ben spoke about you. I was so embarrassed to be the palest of shadows in comparison to who I used to be. Ben did that to me. I was embarrassed that I even knew him. I felt bad for you, too, because I figured he was just going to do it again to you. I bet he’s even gotten you sick with mold poisoning and you don’t even know it. I bet everyone you sleep with is getting mold poisoning and they don’t even know it. A lot of people are going to be very surprised very soon when a large portion of the city simply expires of this illness. The apocalypse is here: mold is going to kill us all.
As for Ben… you should know you’re so stupid that Crystal outfoxed you when she was nobody again. She lost her entire life as you watched her puke in your toilet and yell at her for flushing a single Kleenex after she blew her nose to get the chunks out, telling her to go to the doctor by herself after four and a quarter years of being together. You are, summarily, the most undesirable mate in the history of mankind. I’m so glad she didn’t teach you how to blend in better, psychopathic asshole. You keep going on first dates, taking flowers, not knowing why it doesn’t work. You keep rehashing your sob story that Crystal pitied you over, not understanding why it’s not working. You keep spitting venom with her name as you tell prospective lovers how your only long-term relationship went sour and it’s her fault alone. You really don’t understand the human heart at all, favoring your brain and your loins over your humanity.
You made yourself a sex robot, but that’s not what women want or need. They don’t want Superman in the bedroom more than once a month or so because copulation isn’t their prime directive. They don’t need 45 minutes of sex daily to be fulfilled. In fact, that practice takes away from valuable time that could be spent making a woman feel loved. Sex does not make women feel loved, not even when it’s good sex. Not even when it’s out of the ballpark sex, actually. You read all kinds of books to make yourself a god in the bedroom, neglecting how to become a human being outside of it. The bedroom is only a small fraction of your entire existence and yet you want to spend every minute of every day inside of one with your dick wet.
That’s what led you to Jessica, the whore of Babylon… Ben’s terms, not ours, by the way. You thought you could make Crystal have a threesome and fall in love with your idea of having a sex triangle instead of a real relationship. You thought you could pervert and corrupt my daughter. You thought you could buy her out and eat her soul for lunch. You were wrong and you knew it and you saw it, but it didn’t stop you from killing her, did it? You saw her misery. She cried for hours and hours and hours, all because of you and your lies. You told her once that she was enough and then every time you got the chance after that, you made sure to reinforce the fact that you didn’t think that was true. Every action you took was to push her away, to keep her at arm’s length, because you had an agenda that had nothing to do with love.
You could have simply chosen to continue with open relationships with Eleanor, leaving Crystal alone forevermore. She gave you that choice two months after you met, in April 2015. You split on Thanksgiving 2019. In April 2015, you said you wanted to try having a girlfriend. You gave up the woman who tied you up and spanked you for fun who had her own dedicated partner independent of you.
You chose to ditch the casual sex for my lady, or so she thought. Except every time she turned around, you told her how much you wanted to fuck Shannon or Megan or Bill or Alex or Erin or anyone that you saw and thought would be fun in bed. You did it while trying to seduce her, you did it while you fucked her; you did not figure out from all that that she wasn’t interested, not even when she kicked you and punched you and pushed you off of her for doing it while fucking her and left you every time you tried to do it before the sex. She told you in so many ways that this behavior was inappropriate and then waited for you to grow. You stagnated, fixated on a fantasy of watching other people fuck the woman you’d found that was phenomenal in bed.
Later, after Crystal decided to break up with you, you tried to tell her that it was merely “fantasizing out loud.” AFTER you’d already been fucking Jessica for six months. AFTER you told Crystal that Jessica broke up with you. You even told Crystal that she was “the one that got away” just before Christmas 2019, just as she was preparing to move out of your shitty house full of black mold. Let’s not forget how you conned someone into calling Crystal after you went no-contact on her, trying to demand she forfeit the Bluegreen Vacation Club you share with her, making that woman lie to Crystal and say she’s a lawyer. You encouraged someone to break the law for your narcissistic bullshit. The same club you never utilized, that you dragged your feet and kept from going on vacation with her over and over and over again for years.
And now? Now you’d slap her with a law suit? A law suit, seeking to obtain the sole rights to said Bluegreen Vacation Club? The club you wanted her to get rid of or buy you out of? The club membership you bought to convince her to continue to fuck you, thinking you would propose some day. You were going to, weren’t you? Once Jessica dumped you because you were never truthful with her? Or did she dump you for another reason? Did you give her an STI? Did you suggest having a threesome with a lesbian lover since she approached you about a threesome with another guy? Did she actually dump you? I seriously doubt it. I think you lied to me, like a child, to try to make me feel bad for you and your drying dick.
Bring it. I’ll take every penny you have. Do you think you didn’t rape me? Do you think anyone is going to interpret the facts in any way, shape, or form, that indicates you loved me? Do you really think anyone even buys it now that you love me now? That you’re broken up and I did it all to you, you flawless, perfect man and sex god. You have zero faults. You cannot be held accountable for how flawed I am! But me? Me? I’ll have to give up my Bluegreen Vacation Club and you can have… my zero dollars and zero cents. I’m living off my parents’ charity and have been for over a year. I’m too ill to hold down a job, considering I have to pee exactly 45 minutes after any time I drink water. I can’t think straight, thanks to insomnia, depression, pain in my abdomen, pain along my spine and in my neck, and brain fog. I can’t even pay a doctor to give me a script for cannabis, like I had in Missouri. I’m disabled, don’t ya know. Except I can still walk, so I’m not disabled enough to get Social Security income. Maybe my schizophrenia will qualify me some day, but I think I need a therapist to figure that one out.
But you can have my food stamps, bro. Oh wait, I don’t even qualify for that! I have a pittance of money in the bank but zero income, so I have to spend that money on food before they give me a single pretend dollar I can use to buy food with. I’m working on a victory garden, though there’s nothing but failure here.