Part 2.3. Twitchy Fingers

Already.
I'm only two girls into this game and already I'm having problems. Television really makes this seem a lot easier than it is. I just don't know if I can house them anymore.

First of all, it's become a hassle. Hiding them Is one thing.
Keeping these things hidden from my neighbors, my landlord, my roomate. It's just tough.
Oh. I never mentioned that. I have a roomate. But it's okay. He works in advertising and he's hopping around the country via airplane and styrofoam cups of coffee 3 weeks a month talking to fat women about their digestive habits and regularity.

Anyway. If you take the tape off and try to have a conversation with them because you're feeling a bit lonely, they will... everytime, without fail... scream. Why? Is that going to help them? I don't care if someone hears them... they'll be dead before someone saves them. Screaming doesn't do anything but piss me off more.

Now, if they wanted to discuss the Top 40 with me, I'd be much more inclined to let them walk out of the door. Not that I would, but I'd be more inclined.

Second is the cravings.
People have cravings for cigarettes or alcohol.
People have cravings for attractive girls.
I have cravings to disembowel attractive girls and everytime I see them in public, it becomes harder and harder not to smash their heads against the train window, Or at the supermarket. There are all sorts of pointy things there. Frankly, I don't know how much longer I can stop myself from acting out.

Maybe I need to take some group therapy.

Anyway.
You know, they always make a joke about how asian people all know karate. I'm not sure if this one does, but she's got some feisty fucking gumption.

I had to act a little prematurely and I didn't even get to make her dinner first.
Obviously, we couldn't have a conversation, because she was still in her coma or whatever... so I had to resort to talking Rosetta Stone Spanish, con una botella de vino. Or three.

So I come to and try to take a piss. There I am with junk in hand when I look in the mirror and see that little bitch standing behind me with a fucking knife.
The kind you may or may not have cut someone's head off with.

So. Cock flopping around, I wrapped my hands around a 2x4, which I still don't know why it was in the bathroom. I cracked the giddy little bitch over the skull and broke it right the fuck open.

This is the equivalent to psychotic orgasm denial.
Believe me. I'm as disappointed as you are.

Part 2.2: Olympic Fever

I'm sorry. I know then I've been neglecting your needs. You're the blood-thirsty voyeur and you can't wait to see more of the pretty...
pretty..
pretty..
..
..
pretty girls!

But I have to admit that I've been completely swept up in the thrill of victory and the agony of complete and utter, world-wide, televised failure. You tell yourself that it's really no big deal and that you won't get addicted. There you are, praying that the other country will fall and break their leg and then you'll get too see the bone jutting out of their gymnast skin on every website for the next 3 months.

Now THAT would be the ultimate voyeur. I can only reach so many people with this, but the whole world watching you become disfigured? I think I'm getting a little aroused.

Oh, also. I understand that the people who are supposed to use this stuff [doctors] know how it's supposed to be used, but they should really put directions on these bottles just in case...
for some reason...
some guy...
decides to steal a bunch of it, because he doesn't want to have to listen to another whiny little girl for the next week.

I was feeling awfully adventurous and found my way wandering the halls of the local clinic.

So I yelled at her. Made her stand against a wall while I whipped drug-filled syringes at her. It's like family game night.

She's not DEAD. I mean. She's breathing and her fingers move occasionally. So I know she's still pumpin' that heart.
Delicious... heart.

But I think. I may.
I may have put her into a medically induced coma.

Part 2.1: Weather the Storm

There isn't a single thing I hate more in this world than people.

Pretty much every single last one of you deserves to die for some reason or another. Disgusting creatures that waste most of their lives on pop culture and here... now.. on the internet. Shouldn't you be off somewhere, teaching your children that the boogeyman will eat their heads?
Or that...
Or that..

That if they don't put the toilet seat down, their dick will get chopped off?

Or! Or!
Or maybe... that if they keep on the path they're on right now, this world is going to become a worthless ball of Hannah Montana swag and memorabilia?

If any of these children had a decent parent to raise them, maybe they'd turn out just a little better.
Maybe they'd turn out a little more like me.

Perfect.

And then they can realize how it feels to stand on this spit-shined ivory tower [that, yes... is VERY phallic and symbolic] and look down at the sludge writhing beneath it.


So here I am. Given this gift of being damn near a 'God', and I'm supposed to Shepard something... or set a bush on fire? Is that how the story goes?

I'm sure if I had spent more time in church when I was younger and less time doing drugs with the pastor's daughter, I'd be much more well-versed. Then again, if her father weren't such a terrible parent, I wouldn't have lost my virginity when I was 12. Whose to blame? Who knows?

After my first victim..
[I'm not going to sugarcoat anything. That pretty girl was victim and subdued my pure carnal lusts].
After my first victim... I began the search for a new one this week. Of course. And nobody really seemed worthy. It's not about punishment anymore. I could kill billions of you, and nobody would say a word. That's our way, is it not?

So moving right along to plan B, It's time to save a soul. And I couldn't have picked a better image if I found the angel forcing her out of the birthing canal along with all of that lovely, lovely placenta and amniotic fluid.

I, myself, am a victim. My parents made one minor mistake, which many, many parents do, of allowing me to get addicted to television. I sit on my couch day in and day out. Sometimes with a headless corpse body next to me... sometimes not.

But. I watch all the educational television. Discoveries and Geographics. All the places that I will always want to be and go and see.

These are all of the places I can never afford. Next best thing? Travel the world through the bodies of their native people?

Like this cutie.
She's...
She's...


I don't know? Asian or something?

Her skin is darker than mine and she's fucking adorable! Let's just hope she can keep her mouth shut, yeah?

The Midnight Interlude

The life of a photographer is that of a spastic idiot. I don't know what it takes to get used to this schedule, but I don't think I'll ever be able to completely handle it.

Would you believe I actually had to leave that body sit on my floor for 2 days because I had to fly out of the city? The smell is horrid. Let me tell you, though. Bless those kind folks that make the Flex-Force trash bags. I drug that fucking bag across streets and sidewalks in the middle of the night without letting out a drop of blood.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to dispose of an adult female body in one of the most populated cities in America?

(Not very.)

Suppose I'm just tired out for the time being. Worked all weekend, took photos of some girls that would look fantastic dead, but when there are a gaggle of magazine and style executives around, it tends to push back the urge you have to beat her head in with a light stand because model-brains sound delicious.

Along my travels, I even had the opportunity to take in a couple of shows at the local theaters. Call people like me unfeeling monsters, and you're way, way off. Music is there to be felt, and oddly enough, incites more feeling than just about anything from my body. If I were any sort of religious, I'd swear that the band is my Jesus.

So now that work is out of the way for a little while, it's time to get back to business... of killing... girls... which I don't get paid for, so it's not really business. But whatever.

I'm feeling saucy.

Part 1.5: Thirty-Minute Meals

A cage.
That's what I need if I plan to keep this up on a regular basis. Or at least more rope and possibly some poking things. A cattle prod! That's it!

So if I had to take a guess at what you're thinking, my bet is that you're wondering what happened to Mae. Let me tell you a little bit about Mae. This girl can talk.talk.talk. If I didn't keep her mouth shut and constantly beat her, she'd drive me out of my mind.

But when you're in my situation, you'll do quite a bit for eye candy, and she was fun to look at. A point was made in the introductory post that I, in fact, am not a pervert. However, when I was putting Mae in her dress for our big dinner date, of course I had to strip her naked. Let me tell you, her body more than makes up for her mouth. If I could get an erection without the necessity of death, she's probably the type of girl I'd take to the Olive Garden.

This thought actually crossed my mind at some point, but then I realized: If I take her out... she's going to fucking tell somebody that I have stalked, kidnapped, and planned to kill her. That would, very likely, put the kibosh on the whole plan.


The next best thing, I decided to make us a lovely dinner at home. Just the two of us.
A bottle of wine.
A little bit of music.

Oh.
P.S. I lopped her fucking head off.

I'd like to reintroduce Mae. Victim A.