I found an absolute treasure trove today. Abandoned antique furniture on the road side. I’m so agitated; I want to put it all inside my car, one trip at a time, and move it from that place to my place. I need furniture; the fact that it’s antique is just a bonus. And it’s in perfect condition, too. It’s sitting out in the snow, getting ruined one day at a time.
One of the three dressers I found will not fit in my car at all. They’re bound to be heavy, being real wood and all. I’m not really sure I can lift any of it even though I happen to need dressers. It’s obvious that someone died and they can’t afford to take care of it properly. It makes me sad. It’s exactly what my brothers would do the moment my parents die.
I’m not going to do that, though. Since I’ve returned and I’m keeping them alive anyway, I’m gradually restoring that which can be restored. I even have an antique dresser in the basement, but there’s no way to drag it out without another person to help me. My parents are long since decrepit and it seems like they’re going senile, too.
It’s the food they eat. I can prove it. Nobody wants me to prove it, but I have already proven it to myself. I fed them spaghetti and stuffed bell peppers. The spaghetti hardly had noodles in it, too, so it’s not carb overload. It’s literally the tomato sauce turning them into sad, tired, derpy human beings.
It’s also what has their blood pressure sky high. It’s what causes most of their malaise. Nightshades.
Potato seems a little less heinous because it’s not acidic. However, they keep dumping this gravy with milk in it over top of the mashed taters and that’s affecting them terribly as well. Our propensity for putting too many ingredients in, well, everything is causing new problems we never anticipated.
Meanwhile, I have accidentally allowed a mouse or rat into the house. He’s been stealing the old apple cores I give my ants, so I’ve gotten an “early warning” that trouble is afoot. I put the uneaten apples in the refrigerator as well as the mandarins. However, God tells me that next he’ll be after the Honey Smacks. That’s right, my dad eats childish cereal laden with sugar. I should buy more cereal keepers. Or start throwing away cereal he’s not eating.
He eats the iconic American everything. Except he’s given up cheese because it constipates him. He’s close to giving up milk, too, it seems. I haven’t seen the milk levels budge in days. The bread is no longer being eaten at the rate of one loaf per week. Are they possibly seeing “the light?”
I could hope so, but probably not… as soon as his symptoms pass, he’ll be back at it. What symptoms did he gain from eating spaghetti, you might wonder, if you knew he had any. He became dizzy.
I suggested that it’s possible the nightshades are interacting with his medications, though I’m seriously convinced he just shouldn’t eat them at all. What do I know? I’m not a doctor. That’s everyone’s excuse to not listen to me.
That’s why I’m going to cure him. And his wife, my mother. I’m going to cure them both… which is going to piss off my brothers. They’re waiting like vultures. Waiting for me to text them that he passed away. I’m not going to. I’m not texting them ever again, most likely. I asked for help of each of them and they rejected me for the final time. I would give them the fucking shirt off my back but they still wouldn’t help me in my hour of crisis.
I was having a health crisis. It’s lasted a long time, but the good news is that I’ve figured it all out and I’m going to be getting better really soon now. All the way, I mean. I’ve been on the steady incline for ages, thankfully. Years, really. God wanted to show me that nobody in the family is worth saving… except my parents. They put me up and they even gave me control of some of their income in order to feed everyone. They pay all the bills except my car insurance and cell phone bill. In fact, now they’re wondering how I can live without a job after a year of soaking up their resources.
I can’t, but I wasn’t alive until yesterday anyway.
Yesterday, I saw the deli man again. It’s not unusual, I know that. His spirit makes me promises of a lifelong partnership, so I wait for him to commune with his spirit. It’s going to happen eventually. It’s got to… or this is never going to go anywhere. He doesn’t think much of himself, feeling ultimately average. But he sure thinks highly of me and the fact that I won the genetic lottery. Or that’s what my psychic abilities tell me.
I’ve wondered at that for a long time… you’d think the man would have a tell somewhere along the way. I stare at him with a stone face because that is what God asked me to do. He told me that this is old-fashioned flirting. People didn’t do much other than engineer ways to be in the same room at the same time… as often as possible. We’ve been in the same room at the same time over 300 times. Apparently, he’s going to know who I am some day and his mind will be blown.
I think he was a kid who used to sit alone with Warhammer 40k figurines in a gaming store. I went weekly to that store, if not more often, just to role-play with my brothers. If he’s the kid I am talking about, I used to smile at him from across the room because he was always alone, waiting for people to show up. If I’d had any control over the role-playing game, I would have invited him to join us. It would have been something new, probably, for him… but a hell of a lot cheaper than 40k, I’ll tell you that. You invest $100.00 in like five RPG books and the sky’s the limit! You invest $100.00 in Warhammer and you can barely play the game.
I know because I bought an army recently. Maybe a decade ago. Okay, that’s not that recently… but still. You know what I figured out? I didn’t want to put money in shit that just sat around, nagging me to do something about it existing.
One of my problems is that I like to play cat and mouse with people. I don’t go directly for the kill because it has no style. A game like Warhammer 40k is not a game of style. The only thing with style on the board are the figurines themselves. I still remember that once upon a time, I painted the orks I had. They were wearing these shorts and boots together that look a little funky… Well, I painted them in boxer shorts. One of them had white boxers with little red hearts on them with gold dots artfully in-between. One of them had sky blue boxers with silver lightning bolts. I can’t recall what the others had. There were five total.
I sent my orks to battle in their underwear.
I had a Sisters of Battle canoness and a squad of banshees, honestly. I painted them all goth-like, though I was terribly tempted to put them in lingerie. I chose not to do that because I think girls should be BAD ASS just as much as boys are. Flair. We has it.
Anyway, if the deli man is that guy, he’s younger than me. I’ve been through some RP scenarios with God where this occurs. He’s psyched out every time I tell him I’m older than him because he mistakes me for a 22 year old or something. (Try doubling that figure.) I have looked the same since I was 12 years old, basically. The only thing that changes is my hair do and I ditched the glasses with the help of LASIK.
I would declare now to all mankind that LASIK should not be considered an optional surgery. It’s an extreme improvement of quality of life. It is not a cosmetic thing at all. When you wake up and you can simply see, your life is different. I would know… I was near sighted since I was 8 years old. For about thirty years, I wore spectacles. And if that kid is the deli man, he wouldn’t know me without them because I never wore contacts until I was working full time after graduating from high school.
They distracted from my facial features, I do believe. Now, the deli man wears glasses. He didn’t at first — I’ve been seeing him periodically since last year without even knowing it. In fact, he told me he liked my Zelda Tri-Force t-shirt in September of ’21. I was kind of looking at another guy, so I stopped wearing it to the store. A minor blip in my radar was that comment… and I smiled at him for giving it to me and thanked him. He looked boyish that time, like he was doing great.
Now, he’s gained some weight, he looks placid. He looks underjoyed. [Thanks, Jack Off Jill, for making up that concept. Or at least teaching it to me in a kick ass song.]
I’m not sure he knows I’m that girl… I had purple hair then. I mean, you’d think he’d know it. But I don’t think he knows I’m “Choker Girl.” I chopped my hair off randomly and dyed it black. Then I bought a spiked choker from Hot Topic and wore it to Wegmans twice in a row with some red lipstick. He complimented my choker, but there was no smile or boyishness in sight. Perhaps he was traumatized between September last year and April this year? Sucks to be him, if so.
My heart goes out to him all the time… he’s the longest-lasting deli man in the deli. That tells me a lot of things I like. A LOT of things I like. It tells me he has grit and determination. It tells me he’s got humility, he accepts responsibility, he’s a diligent worker. These are all magic words when it comes to describing a man, if you ask me. Or even a woman, I suppose, but I’m not in the market for a woman… I’ll leave that to the menfolk.
I think in June, I actually saw him smiling. He was doing something in an unusual place. Perhaps he’d gotten a promotion? Perhaps it was his birthday? Regardless, he had the biggest smile and he spun around like he was having the best day. It was infectious enough to make me smile, too. I think smiles are… well, sexy, I guess. Attractive in a very good way. It’s all you really need to be armed with in life outside of those traits I mentioned in the last paragraph. Traits he cultivated over time, no doubt about that. Nobody is born with all of those from the get-go.
If they are, then congrats to them… but I sure wasn’t.
I am, no doubt, projecting onto him. We’ve never spoken outside of these two compliments. Our eyes beseech each other often, however… and he’s getting bolder. I almost hit him with my shopping cart last Saturday. I was too busy staring into his eyes, noticing they’re not grey. They are not silver moons at all…
And that’s when I decided I’ve gone crazy.
I should stop trying to court someone like him and just go to a therapist. Get told I’m officially crazy, get SSI, and dissolve in mediocrity forevermore.
That’s not God’s plan, though. I’m sure you saw that coming by now, if you’ve ever read another entry. I sound sane enough, it’s true. Just wait for it.
I admit, silliness isn’t an indicator of mental health in a way that supports my synopsis of my current state of mind. It would, in fact, indicate that much of my brain is actually in-tact, since it happens on purpose. However, most people don’t laugh at their own silliness and talk to thin air as if it was another person entirely with their own thoughts, feelings, and emotions. [God doesn’t have a body or we’d be having coffee right now.]
I asked him about a dozen times if he’s sore about that. I have come to understand, now that my health is returning, that he has all the bodies everywhere. We are all parts of God. The entire Universe is His body. We study him tirelessly, examining this aspect or that, declaring Gravity is a force that acts upon us. Entropy is another force, the insertion of chaos into order… we fail to understand, of course, that order is simply a construct of the human intellect and it never existed to begin with. It’s something we created… out of nothing. So, in essence, we are like The Creator.
However, if you think he didn’t create evolution, you’re an idiot. Natural Selection is brilliance, if you ask Him. Why? Because he barely has to do a thing. He can just watch it all unfold, the greatest experiment of all reality, taking notes.
We have been unnaturally selected to die now. I hate to break that news to you. I know you’re really busy with your romance novel life and making breakfast, lunch, and dinner out of containers and boxes of stuff that is delivered to a supermarket near you(tm). I know you’re busy going to a job you hate, talking to people you hate, doing all the things you hate. Your hatred is the reason you’re going to die. You don’t just hate yourself, you hate everything. It’s time to pull the plug, as they say.
You undoubtedly have feelings about this clinical fact He’s provided. You undoubtedly have doubts he exists. How could we have gone so long without knowing Him intimately? HOW?!?!?! Well, you did. He is your conscience. He is your inner self that tells you right from wrong. And you stopped listening about twenty years ago, Benjamin Andrew Carter. You created a brand new voice inside of you to act as God but you gave him perversions to carry you through your loneliness, to give you hope that you could make up for lost time, to make it okay to rape, rape, rape.
You pulled down your sister’s underwear when you were 17 years old. She was 9 years old. You are a sex offender. A pedophile. You told your former spouse that you wanted to “see what was there.” You didn’t mention your age or remind her of the age gap at all… then you realized that you were in the wrong and telling her more was going to hurt your ego, let alone your reputation. Forget that you’re in love with her, daydreaming about her every time you cum like a fucking monster. You’re raping her in the back of her head three to five times a day. Are you proud of yourself?
You should be put down, child. You do not deserve to live.
If you’d done that in a different decade than the 90s, you’d be in jail already.
So, tell me, son… are you fiddling with the nieces you love babysitting? Did you touch them inappropriately to see what was there? Especially now that you’ve raped your former spouse over 3,000 times? You’re well aware of what is between a woman’s legs and always have been, thanks to Penthouse magazine, which your dad hid under his bed. Your excuse is flimsy at best and I’m now telling the whole world that you are a pedophile, a rapist, and, subsequently, a murderer. You’re a psychopath because you don’t even care that you’ve murdered. You’ve done it, you got away with it, and now you’re repeating the experiment with a new girl: Laura.
Laura is going to die.
Spoiler alert.
Once Laura dies, you will be unable to deny that you attempted to murder your former spouse. Laura is going to die of exactly the same things that happened to Crystal. Mold poisoning will lead to mold toxicity. She will go on a health quest. No one will figure it out. You know your house is extremely moldy and you ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. You have created a death dungeon. Are your walls still barren and beige, your favorite color? (How is beige someone’s favorite color? Anyone else out there on Urth have this preference?)
Never mind about him… he’s just one of a billion psychos on the loose. He’s mostly harmless, especially if you aim a shotgun at his forehead.
You wanna know what makes a human into a serial killer? Lack of repercussions while raping others. They continuously edge themselves over your boundaries. It starts out small at first, such as peeling a sticker off of something you bought last week that is not at all harmed by the fact it has a sticker on the bottom of it, where no one will ever see it. He slowly, patiently peels back the glued paper, backtracking over his steps again and again, until he has removed said sticker and all residue with it.
Alas, your friend Ben has a vendetta against all stickers. And, he knows you won’t care that he just invaded your space, running over a natural boundary. He wouldn’t know there was sticker to peel if he hadn’t picked it up and looked.
He touched your newfound object without your permission, but you fail to care because so far he’s been harmless. So far, he’s done nothing truly wrong. He didn’t observe a basic boundary but it didn’t really hurt anyone, did it?
He’s advertising his inhuman patience and willingness to clean up the mess meticulously. Just like a serial killer. He’s practicing, figuring out what he can and cannot get away with. Every human being is a new test subject. He has no feelings about your feelings, but he expects you to have feelings about his own. He expects you to side with him because he’s quiet most of the time, stuffing his face into his phone while barely listening to you speak. He’s so clever and intelligent, he knows everything you’ll ever say and you’re despicable for not being as incredibly gifted as he is. In fact, you should die because you’re not him. Everyone but him is a travesty on this planet. That’s why he has no friends.
He only has alibis.
Every Monday night, he attends Polygamery meetup at Shameless Grounds. He did this for nearly two years without making a single friend. Is anyone else that inept at friend-making? You have your common interest in your fucking face. There is no reason never to talk. There is no reason to fail to bond, even incidentally. Yet, when I ended up going there, around the 1 year mark, he had no friends. Nobody smiled at him in greeting. He was like one of those tournament chess players in The Queen’s Gambit. Cold, like a fish. He was there to show off, to compete, and maybe drag someone unsuspecting to bed eventually because he has objectified all women and sees them merely as talking sex dolls. But they never talk to him in sultry tones and he has no idea why. In fact, he’s starting to get angry that never happens.
And he’s there for that iron-clad alibi.
He misses game night sporadically, but it’d be difficult to point a finger at which nights. There’s no obvious pattern at all to anyone but him. He’s so clever that no one will ever figure out that it’s the blue moon when he decides to miss out. Or leap day, if that ever happens. He always takes leap day off of work, turning it into a holiday. I wonder what a leap day holiday means for him?
Obviously, those people will say sometimes he misses game, but if pressed, will “remember” him there 99% of the time. He goes even in big snow storms, it’s that important to him, despite it being dangerous to drive about 100 miles. He goes home from work, trades in his work gear, picks up a board game if relevant to the theme, and drives to downtown St. Louis.
Maybe I wouldn’t think such dark thoughts about him if I hadn’t learned he adopted a stray black kitten and it died shortly thereafter in his care.
He hates cats, by the way.
He tried to kill mine and/or get me to put them down because they were inconvenient. He’d shut them out of the bedroom 24/7, so finally I moved to the other bedroom to be with them at night. He followed. And subsequently just lived with the cats being in bed, too. Why? I have no idea.
Regardless, imagining Ben as a serial killer is not a very big stretch of my imagination anymore. Not since he’s been in my head for so long. He thinks all humans ought to die. He wants the apocalypse to happen. He wants life to cease on Earth. He wants it all to end. Not his life, just everybody else’s.
These poor animals like Ben need to be put out of our misery. Clever or not, intelligent or not, all he does day in and day out is play video games and bitch about everything being shit. This is a first world problem we have here, not an existential crisis, that he is determining all the rest of mankind should die for. His own ennui is being projected to everything outside of him. He hates himself and he will never realize it because he does not learn from other peoples’ mistakes.
If more people died for making egregious errors, we’d have all the encouragement in the world to learn from there mistakes, n’est-ce pas?
Therefore, I am for the electric chair, specifically. God is pro-death penalty, officially, as of today. Benjamin Andrew Carter just proved to me that it’s the only thing he deserves. He murdered his ex-wife, Crystal Lynn Scordias, without a trace of remorse on his part whatsoever. She is dead forever now, a true and rare gem gone from this world.
But why?
Why would he murder his ex-wife years after she left? Why would he go through the trouble of driving cross-country to try to find her, literally slit her throat, and then dispose of the body? He’s calm, careful, patient, and calculated. Surely, he can do a better job of getting rid of the evidence than a crime scene investigator can gather the evidence! Surely, he will have an alibi on December 12th with his gaming group. “He hardly ever misses a day! Surely, he was here, detective.”
He’s going to pay in cash every step of the way. In fact, he’s withdrawn extra cash just in case. He has no plans of a place to stay because he’s going to choose on a whim once he gets to his destination. There will be no electronic trail. He’s been practicing for this moment all his life. All he has to do is throw away his receipts while he keeps mountains of past receipts for years and years of his life. “See, officer? I don’t have receipts from then. Nothing in Pennsylvania at all. I was at my board gaming group. You can check,” he’ll say. Meanwhile, he’s planned to execute the deed and drive back by the time Monday night gaming rolls around. It won’t be ironclad enough, sadly.
He’s going to buy a knife from a pawn shop because they rarely have cameras. (Or do they? I bet they do.) He’ll pay cash, surely nobody will notice in this world of plastic. Surely no one will check a pawn shop for recently purchased knives. The man won’t even stand out now that he’s got designer glasses. Whoops. He forgot he changed that and it makes him stand out more than ever before. It’s okay, guys, he let his hair go and it’s now silvery white instead of brown. It only took a couple months. Nobody fucking noticed at all! They didn’t notice me grow the hair dye out and go au naturelle, he thinks to himself. More like… nobody commented on it.
Even so, he will just dye it again after he gets the girl. After he commits an atrocity against God, let alone mankind. [Hey, I’m partial to the messiah, after all.]
It’s no problem at all, you see. He’s going to go to her home town. He’s going to cruise the streets, looking for her make and model of car, scanning for Missouri license plates. She just renewed those plates, if memory serves him! Just before she moved away!
They went no contact in January 2020. Nobody will suspect me! [It was me! I was the turkey the whole time!]
Nobody knows me there, either, except a woman who let us use her AirBnB in 2017 when there was a massive snow storm that deposited 5 feet of snow in 3 days. That won’t be suspicious to police at all.
Why are you being so negative about this, Richard? I ask the voice in my head that I named. He’s so skeptical. He thinks I can’t pull it off. I can’t murder a sick woman who should be easily recognizable by vehicle, if not on sight. She’s a dirty fat bitch who deserves to die. I can’t believe how she humiliated me. For years and years, she humiliated me! I can’t let her get away with this. I just can’t. I won’t.
What do you mean she’s onto us? There’s no fucking way. It’s not even the anniversary of our breakup anymore. It’s a month later, just about. I haven’t tried to talk to her in years. Nobody is going to think it was me.
Yeah, but you talked about her to anyone who’d listen to you for years, imbecile.
I gave that up months ago. There’s no way anyone would think I’m harboring a grudge. I stopped name dropping last year to prepare for this and you know it. It’s going to work and I only have this year to do it because next year she’ll be renewing her plates. I don’t remember exactly when she is due, I think it’s March or April. I am on a time crunch here… I have to find her first, which might take an entire weekend if not two. Then, I’ll have to stalk her surreptitiously to somewhere that has no surveillance so I can use chloroform to knock her out and shove her in my trunk.
What if you can’t lift her? What if she’s too fat for you to handle? Richard was taunting him, he just knew it.
I’ll find a way. Forget about it until it’s relevant. I am sure I can move her with my upper body strength. Although… I never really tried, did I? I never tried to pick her up to find out. I’ll figure it out… though you’re right, I need to know for sure I can handle it. I wonder if Laura will let me pick her up? I’ll have to try. Good thing she doesn’t live with me yet; I’ll just make up some family things to keep me busy all weekend.
You really think you’re going to pull this off without a hitch first shot?
Why not? I’ve already planned it out enough. People are sloppy when the facts don’t add up; I already know that. That’s how I pried all her friends away from her. They sure adored her, fat bitch that she is. They don’t know how she humiliated me. They don’t know what she did to me! That dirty whore didn’t clean herself up before I went down on her and it was disgusting. She absolutely 100% disgusts me to my core. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!
I HATE YOU, TOO. [If only he could hear me.]
What was that? Richard, what are you saying? You hate me? How could you?
Angel-Sansara 