Diary of a Sociopathic Stalker

 

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.