Saboteur's Unloading

Never kill yourself.

I’m not nice. I threw out the pizza my best friend brought home from work last night, a treat just for me. Kind of shit my mom would do if I knew my place and stayed at home, protected my peace. She loves me. I can see that. I took my 8 supplements and 2 laxatives instead. Then I cried for an hour about being a shit friend and a terrible person in general.

The tub has been soiled for months. I remember when I was a particularly driven creature. Freshman and sophomore year, when I’d run on nothing but chemicals and sex drive. I studied computer science, and I’d do three weeks of work in two days, lament, and prepare to get fucked raw by some guy I hardly knew. Met online. I was freshly 18. Two months in, I got him a heap of Valentine’s gifts and obviously received nothing in return—not even a few orgasms. Still loved him though. Disgustingly so. In a manifesting journal, I have his name written in menstrual blood, surrounded by heart doodles, right next to prayers of me begging for a smaller, wetter, prettier vaginal cavity, longer hair, and perkier tits because I thought my beauty was waning when he took my virginity. I hated him for a good month and a half afterward. I felt he ruined my life. SABOTAGE. Sent from hell. Made me ugly. In the same journal, I remember begging the universe to give him a terminal illness, but to protect my karma, I crossed it all out and apologized in writing, binging a family-sized order of Wingstop with extra blue cheese and hurting myself physically.

I was convinced everyone I associated with 1) didn’t fucking get me, and 2) was out to ruin my life. I was so sure none of them respected my “mental health.” They wanted me fat and breaking out in hives from too much sun exposure. That’s why they complimented my glowing skin so much. And when the weather was shit, they wanted my hair all frizzy and grotesque. They called me pretty, and they were all liars, hand-feeding me poison. I was their senile death row cow. All that misplaced resentment could’ve blown me and any building within a five-mile radius to fucking smithereens.

Today, I’m convinced I was always meant to face this world of hurt alone. I was born with this disease. A curse to my mother’s womb. I was meant to move to Japan, sit in my box-sized apartment surrounded by soda bottles, fetishistic anime figurines, physical porn, and condom wrappers. Let the hatred consume me. Become a LOLCOW on TikTok, and when things get fucked up enough, I’ll disappear. Three months later, I’ll return only to livestream my suicide for morbid attention (Best Gore Movie Star coming soon...). Later on, some vapid cunt on YouTube will cover my life story while doing her makeup on camera. 4chan incels will right-wing meme me into oblivion. My mother will cope with the grief by becoming a schizo-tinfoil hat-Christian-extremist. My boyfriend will find a (hopefully uglier) girlfriend on Tinder within a year (her name will be something like Avery or Alexia because he has a thing for the A-names), but he’ll still jerk off to the terabytes of nudes I’ve sent him the years before my abandonment and our fallout. She’ll never know because she’s one of those “cool and chill” girlfriends who ignore the Instagram following and never check his phone. He’ll tell her about how much of a crazy, selfish, materialistic bitch I was, and they’ll laugh at my extremely public mental decline in bed after 34.6 seconds of missionary (they tried doggy, but it didn’t work out. But it’s okay because she loves him and everyone is different. Porn isn’t real, and he shouldn’t be ashamed of the fact that he can’t do what those guys can do).

My cat will die, then my dog too, and they wouldn’t even know what became of me. At least we’d have a few things in common: the rot, the stench, the dirt, the worms, and the forgetting.

— Dead Wife.

P.S. I’m sorry.

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