Diary of a Sociopathic Stalker

  Tony Tulathimutte page 223

Do you remember the Oily Stickers from the 80s? When you pressed on them the oily colors swirled around and sparkled. They were truly mesmerizing to my child brain. They're still around, I guess. I only know this because my niece had a few. She sent me a card she made and stuck one on it. I sent a photo text to her dad to confirm receipt of said card and his response was, "She gave you that?! That's love." I'm not good at love. I don't understand it. I don't know how to do it in a way that other people recognize it for what it's intended to be. I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about it. Dissecting it on my laboratory table with razor sharp tools that slice and parse the meat and bone into separate piles. When I'm done all I have is a bloody mess. There's no longer anything that resembles the shape of love. Only carnage. I guess you can't pick a thing apart and expect it to be what it was before the operation. I suppose that's ...

Realization hits me in waves. I always manage to outsmart truth and reality, but sometimes it smacks me in the face and I have to sit in it for a moment or two. I’m sitting there now. None of it was real. How could it have been? There’s no chance. I gave it no chance to be real.  You never had one shred of honesty from me. Never one true acknowledgement that what you were experiencing was true, that I was on the other side of whatever anonymous account was befriending you, seducing you, attacking you, diagnosing you as schizophrenic, telling you to kill yourself. You think you know, but you don’t know you know. After all the gaslighting and victim blaming coming from every direction you will never respond in sincerity to, trust or believe anything coming from my passive aggressive, cowardly approach where I try to coerce and incite you into action, so I don’t have to take responsibility for anything that happens in a potential outcome. I see this now. I have seen it before, but I p...

Funny, how when I Play by your rules you call it cheating and yell foul

I love being a troll. I was poor white trash growing up so me and all my friends were trolls before trolls were even a thing. We didn’t have the internet. No one did. We were just what you would call, basic assholes. Tact? Never heard of it. Feelings? Who cares? If there was an opening for a joke you took it. Clowning the other person is a sure way of establishing dominance even if you don’t have the muscle to back it up. I was wimpy when I established my skull crushing psychological techniques, but I pump iron now and am super buff so I’m in triple threat territory yo.   Ohhh I loved it so much; growing up feral. Running around in shorts and nothing else, basically naked, scratching my balls and sniffing it, telling a POS off any time I please because I don’t have a job and don’t answer to no one but me! Now I’m an “adult” and there are all these rules I need to follow to be “polite” and get paid and just literally lick ass in general. Fuck ‘em! Fuck you! It’s too late. There’s an...