So, I wrote an entry some days ago about choices. Specifically, me and my choices. I am who I am because of the choices I make.
In passing I mentioned I have a darker side. A much darker side. A side I choose every day not to succumb to.
See, I take in a lot of information. I always have. I suppose it is a personality trait I fostered and mastered in childhood. A childhood filled with alcoholics and abuse. I suppose being hyper-aware was how I survived. I got -really- fucking good at anticipating people's actions, needs, wants, or anything that I might be able to use should a situation arise that needed defusing. Thing is, it wasn't just a tool I could use. I realized at some point, it could also be a weapon. A very dangerous and precise weapon. I pay SO much attention to every detail, every word uttered, every facial expression, every like, every dislike...everything, that I know where ALL the buttons are, and the reaction each button is going to elicit.
ALL. THE. BUTTONS.
And when wounded, my first instinct is to wound back. When it comes to that? I am an expert marksman. When I raise my weapon and aim it at your soft spot? I mean for that shit to hurt. I mean for that shit to hurt you down to your soul. I mean to grab the rug you are standing on, viciously yank it out from under you, watch you land on your ass, and squeal with absolute glee. I've planned it all out in my head. I can, because I already know you well enough to know what your reaction is going to be before I ever push the buttons and I'm prepared. You? You don't stand a chance. Intimate warfare and intimate terrorism, these are things I know all too well. Patton and Al Queda ain't got SHIT on the bitch I keep reined in.
Because? ALL. THE. BUTTONS. YAY!
Me: "So, uh, Kitchenbitch, you put your hands on my girlegg."
KB: "I didn't mean it! I swear!"
Me: "Don't blow smoke up my ass, you little fucker, it's allergic."
KB: "Don't kill me, Hoodie. Please, don't kill me."
Me: "Kill you? I don't want to kill you. If I kill you your worries are over and mine just begin. Nah, I don't want you dead, I want you ALIVE, and SUFFERING. That's why when I find you, it'll be daylight and I'm taking out your knees, motherfucker. Below the waist & before dark? That ain't shit but aggravated battery, I can do that bit on my head. Then, when I am off parole, I am going to find you, move in an apartment across the street, and every time you come out pushing your walker with the lime green tennis balls? I am going to point and laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more. I will make sure every painful step you take for the rest of your life reminds you to never contemplate hitting my child EVER again. Alive and suffering, motherfucker."
KB: "You're a sick bitch."
Me: "Don't ever forget it."
InnerCunt: ALL. THE. POINTS. YAY!
ThatDude: 0
My dark side is that cunt that finds out you're cheating, and instead of flipping balls, or beating someone up? Finds the woman you're fucking, meets her for lunch, goes MIA with her for 3 days, and fucks her. For the sole purpose of hurting you with it.
When confronted upon my return, and being demanded to tell where I'd been (beginning with his harsh shouts and me purposefully waiting until he was at a fever pitch with his eyes bulging), I looked at him deadpan, my voice emotionless and monotone, my right brow raised as it is wont to do, and said, "Well, I'll say one thing. Isn't a bitch when your girlfriend steals your girlfriend?" Then, without missing a beat, I turned on my heel and walked away.
I left him standing there, alone.
Wounded.
Bleeding.
Ego decimated.
Gobfuckingsmacked.
InnerCunt: ALL. THE. POINTS. YAY!
ThatDude: 0
Cold, calculating, cunning, and cruel. The 4 C's of my InnerCunt.
I have that^^ bitch living inside me, and I have to choose not to be her, many more times a day than I care to discuss, because she is my default setting.
In passing I mentioned I have a darker side. A much darker side. A side I choose every day not to succumb to.
See, I take in a lot of information. I always have. I suppose it is a personality trait I fostered and mastered in childhood. A childhood filled with alcoholics and abuse. I suppose being hyper-aware was how I survived. I got -really- fucking good at anticipating people's actions, needs, wants, or anything that I might be able to use should a situation arise that needed defusing. Thing is, it wasn't just a tool I could use. I realized at some point, it could also be a weapon. A very dangerous and precise weapon. I pay SO much attention to every detail, every word uttered, every facial expression, every like, every dislike...everything, that I know where ALL the buttons are, and the reaction each button is going to elicit.
ALL. THE. BUTTONS.
And when wounded, my first instinct is to wound back. When it comes to that? I am an expert marksman. When I raise my weapon and aim it at your soft spot? I mean for that shit to hurt. I mean for that shit to hurt you down to your soul. I mean to grab the rug you are standing on, viciously yank it out from under you, watch you land on your ass, and squeal with absolute glee. I've planned it all out in my head. I can, because I already know you well enough to know what your reaction is going to be before I ever push the buttons and I'm prepared. You? You don't stand a chance. Intimate warfare and intimate terrorism, these are things I know all too well. Patton and Al Queda ain't got SHIT on the bitch I keep reined in.
Because? ALL. THE. BUTTONS. YAY!
Me: "So, uh, Kitchenbitch, you put your hands on my girlegg."
KB: "I didn't mean it! I swear!"
Me: "Don't blow smoke up my ass, you little fucker, it's allergic."
KB: "Don't kill me, Hoodie. Please, don't kill me."
Me: "Kill you? I don't want to kill you. If I kill you your worries are over and mine just begin. Nah, I don't want you dead, I want you ALIVE, and SUFFERING. That's why when I find you, it'll be daylight and I'm taking out your knees, motherfucker. Below the waist & before dark? That ain't shit but aggravated battery, I can do that bit on my head. Then, when I am off parole, I am going to find you, move in an apartment across the street, and every time you come out pushing your walker with the lime green tennis balls? I am going to point and laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more. I will make sure every painful step you take for the rest of your life reminds you to never contemplate hitting my child EVER again. Alive and suffering, motherfucker."
KB: "You're a sick bitch."
Me: "Don't ever forget it."
InnerCunt: ALL. THE. POINTS. YAY!
ThatDude: 0
My dark side is that cunt that finds out you're cheating, and instead of flipping balls, or beating someone up? Finds the woman you're fucking, meets her for lunch, goes MIA with her for 3 days, and fucks her. For the sole purpose of hurting you with it.
When confronted upon my return, and being demanded to tell where I'd been (beginning with his harsh shouts and me purposefully waiting until he was at a fever pitch with his eyes bulging), I looked at him deadpan, my voice emotionless and monotone, my right brow raised as it is wont to do, and said, "Well, I'll say one thing. Isn't a bitch when your girlfriend steals your girlfriend?" Then, without missing a beat, I turned on my heel and walked away.
I left him standing there, alone.
Wounded.
Bleeding.
Ego decimated.
Gobfuckingsmacked.
InnerCunt: ALL. THE. POINTS. YAY!
ThatDude: 0
Cold, calculating, cunning, and cruel. The 4 C's of my InnerCunt.
I have that^^ bitch living inside me, and I have to choose not to be her, many more times a day than I care to discuss, because she is my default setting.
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