Fair Trade without  robberies

Fair Trade without  robberies

Chapter 1 of Dark Memoirs

There are at least two types of people in the world: those who write this half-assed introduction to a story that tries to distinguish the unusual from the common, and those who are aware that it is an overused framing device but choose not to use it. I tend to be in the latter camp, not the former. In case you were curious. if you asked the question in your head as if you were praying to God, Santa, or that person who was with you for the first two decades of your existence. You are aware of it. the man who went to bed with your mother that night. Looking back, I believe I was always troubled. No, I am aware of it. issues with being disconnected and detached. I really like people, but they are full of cliches, like they can't be trusted and are always wrong. Because the world is cruel and people have hearts, people are cruel. Their hearts are erratic and dishonest. You are already familiar with the kind of cliches I'm referring to. I rarely look in the mirror. Concerned about what I might see? No.  I already know what I'll see, and it's not something I like. It is a waste of time to look through a looking glass for every second. Self-loathing is my full-time job, and I'm good at it without looking at that horrible jerk. As the last person so many people see before they expire, I do feel they're relieved by death's imminent arrival.  As a result of the darkened realization that dances across their face as I call time, there will be no robberies. I'd say that it gives me a sense of purpose and even joy, but I'm much more than just driven by basic human needs. Glib.  That is a word that is rarely used. It feels appropriate, even in my memoirs, which are heavy on erudition and grandiosity. According to the Collins Dictionary, the term "glib" refers to something that is simple and effortless, but frequently in a deceptive, superficial, or insincere manner. Perfect.

The poor and needy should seek refuge in my arms because I am not your savior and am neither kind nor compassionate. I can assist you. Allow you to enter a new plane of existence—cessation—and help you shed all of your internal suffering. It's okay if you don't immediately comprehend. In time, you will or you won't. Anecdotally, my greatest wards are characterized by a strange combination of incomprehension and pale terror. There was once a woman who was older and larger. Soft-spoken and, depending on whether you were a crass bastard or not, voluptuous or top-heavy, I suppose. She had been looking until she was in my peripheral vision. If I hadn't spent months preying on her and watching her fold inward, giving in to the damp, desperate pleasures she sought in those parts of town where life is lived and destroyed on dice or under the crack of broken leather, I would have been taken aback. The moment she attempted to dress the word "cunt" in intellectual attire, her awkward, on-the-nose flirtations—bright, overly eager—died. Her celebratory and complimentary candor made her stand out. She might have been attractive in her prime. if she had a prime time. She was intrigued by my promise of cessation, despite her eagerness and open mind. She took her time carrying out the rites I instructed. As I observed, she was detached and disconnected while stripping and cleaning herself. The flesh was just an amuse-bouche compared to the essence beneath, which was waiting for me and writhing in need and want. She in and of herself. The last thing she said on this side—the only side of existence she ever knew—was, "Don't be gentle." I didn't. I wouldn't use the word "pride" but it will do. The subsequent crash barely registers any longer. I'm well past feeling anything, even the smallest desire or need. When your self-destruction finally brings you to my door and your imagination fails you. Keep in mind that it will all end. *

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