Diary of a Sociopathic Stalker

You know I love Christmas. I hate writing this shit on here because you think it’s for you, but it’s not, it’s for me. I’m sitting on the toilet taking a shit thinking about how I just want to get fucked raging drunk and eat 20 pounds of burritos but I’m so fucking constipated and “responsible” at this point in my life I can’t even do that when my whole body is begging me to.  What about the headaches? What about my relentless hangover brain stream about how I’m the biggest piece of shit on the planet for the entirety of the next week because of like fucking dehydration or something?  I can’t, I fucking can’t… then I imagine your id antagonizing me, and how it would influence me in the most beautiful and decadent ways, and my id takes off in a fervor of delight, raging into a fifth of vodka, eating entire pizzas in the span of 10 minutes, sifting through garbage for something in an unmarked baggie, and now we’re off to the races in love, blowing dust on all those sad mother fu...

  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...

 

What does "I love you" mean when you’re also orchestrating DMs from “people” telling your beloved that your end game is for them to kill themselves? Do you? Do you love them? Do you want them to die? Why would you tell someone you love such a thing under any guise? Why would you ever say that to anyone, barring the fact that you’re a complete fucking psycho that will say anything to illicit whatever response from someone, beloved or otherwise? Just to get a rise out of them and feel powerful in the moment, consequences be damned? I can’t answer that because I am in fact a complete psycho and I have no true sense of self awareness. Everything I think and feel is twisted to meet the needs of my ego. You saw those text messages, didn’t you? The ones I posted earlier where I said I knew at least one or two other people were stalking you but I let them get away with it because it had a beneficial effect for me. Hahahaha, what kind of psycho allows other people to torment someone t...

I love talking about myself. It feels so good. Apparently talking about yourself activates the same part of the brain that turns on when you’re having sex. Maybe I just made that up. Fake News y’all, do your research. No, but really, it activates some pleasure center that lights up when you’re eating food or taking a dump or something. Google it. Or just have a small chat with some rando at the grocery store and you’ll see what I’m talking about. It’s no secret we all love to blab on and on about ourselves even if our conversation companion is clearly dying to excuse themselves to go walk on some tacks, still we persist because let’s be real, we all have a little covert narcissist hiding inside our wormy and lonely souls.  But, the big but… I am trying, I am, to be more self-aware. I am aware that I can be boring. I tend to repeat myself on a loop in an effort to assuage my anxious feelings. My mom didn’t have the time or presence of mind to teach me how to self-soothe. My ego defe...

Another Valentine’s Day without you in my arms. Who is “You” anyway? On that point I’m not always so sure. Who am I writing to? My ex-bandmate, my dead husband, my mom, my niece, my brother, my first crush in elementary school… Composite characters, Dear, not YOU. All of life is my Muse. Who do I love? No one? Everyone? Probably mostly myself. Usually, my best stuff is about myself. I write about “you” the way I want someone to write about me. All the heroic and admirable qualities I expound upon are based on my own virtuous behaviors and the grace with which I carry myself through the world. Those are the ones that get the most likes and upvotes. I know you think this blog is about you. I know you think the thousands of poems and stories I’ve written are meant for you to see and for me to wank off to. You’re wrong, of course. Just because I sprinkle in details from your phone calls and emails doesn’t mean the whole thing is about you . I just use your mundane specifics to add a touch...

 https://soredemonao.tumblr.com/post/187827900239

 

 The comments I have my trolls leave when you post are golden. They are good at their job.

Who wrote this?? It wasn't you?? https://www.reddit.com/user/Acceptable_Key_848/comments/1aoos4r/a_famous_person_cyberstalking_me/

Have you ever stopped to consider that? I mean really consider it? There is no me. I never noticed you at all. That was just your over inflated ego telling you, once again, that everyone is into you. I may have looked at you because you were in my line of vision, then you took that and ran with it, told yourself the things you need to feel are true to make it through the world in the way you want to see yourself, contrary to the evidence at hand. You believe you are desirable. You believe you are irresistible, charming, radiant. You believe your aura oozes out from an ineffable source, casting a spell on all who step within your reach. Being alone so much as a child, misunderstood, criticized, you needed that narrative to obscure the truth that you were unloved and unwanted. The story you have created about yourself is in direct opposition to the reality of who you are. You love to use the word delusional on me, but that’s just you, seeing yourself. I believe the armchair diagnosers li...

 The never ending negotiations, rinse repeat.

When you posted your evidence online, how many dozens of people DMd you saying the exact same thing happened to them? Almost too many to count, hahaha. They had all been duped into believing a small time celebrity named Soren was communicating with them through his blog posts and surveilling them after having hacked their cell phone and computer. Luckily for me they all either came to the realization that they were schizophrenic or being gang stalked and I truly had nothing to do with the situation. I was being framed!!! Pffft! Truth is stranger than fiction, am I right?

Here's another one of my characters you talked to on the phone... Was is me using Auto Tune to alter my voice as Hanley suggested?? Noooo, sounded too real , right? I love it when you're confused, hahaha.

This was January, 2018 on Tumblr. Ugh, so many platforms, so many years, so many characters!!! Good thing I'm OCD with my record keeping otherwise I wouldn't be able to keep any of these details straight! This was like the 5th or 6th character I created to message you saying they had your same exact story... you know the story (this story!) where they are being tricked and / or baited into thinking they have a relationship with me because the things I post on my blog are referencing their real life. They are sure I've hacked their devices and I'm spying on them, come to find out it's actually schizophrenia! Hahahaha! That was my gaslighting 101, planting the seed that you were schizophrenic, being gang stalked or persecuted by witches. I'm bummed you never believed any of it. I did so want to see you check yourself into a mental facility.  There's still time! We have all the time in the world, Bella. xo