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June 16th, 2004

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01:24 am - terrible.
Sunlight shot through the living room and profiled the
venetian blinds in an amber hue.
Quite an unsettling contrast to the gore of one Mr.
Richard Victim - an unfortunate
old man with an unfortunately well suited last name.
He was a mess of utilitarian practicality and one size
too large for the pinstripes that
defined him.
I hated him.
l loved him.
I ended him.

The most common downfall for almost all "failed"
killers is the sense of attachment between the
assailent and his or her work. This attachment is the
result of yet another commonality within the criminal
community: narcissism. Because so many killers are
sticklers for both complacency and pomposity, the
purity of their trade is tarnished. The destroyer
becomes a slave to his or her own device. A sense of
preciousness sets in that disarms the creative freedom
naturally bestowed upon a true destroyer of life. The
killer disreguards the notion of allowing the work to
speak for itself and instead allows it to take the
place of conception. The most apprehensible and
dangerous weapon is the latitute of the human
imagination and when that latitude is taken over by
self-indulgence there is nothing left.

On my way home from work,
every day,
I make sure to stop by Arthur's bakery.
I order a nice white cake with some nice flowers on
top, they are pink.
I make the guy behind the counter write "Happy
Birthday to Donnie" on it.
Donnie is my name, but it's not my birthday.
I put it in the car, in the passenger seat where your
body used to sit.
I pour a little Jack Daniels on my steel baseball bat,
I make it nice and shiny,
I take it to the old baseball field, and I smash the
Every day.
I know I am not going too far.
I am the master now.

My Friend Frank is bi-polar. Sometimes he acts like
Dan Marino's high school protege and sometimes he acts
like Aristotle and Charlie Manson's lovechild.

o for revenge, sweet to the tongue,
retribution, temptation, lust, tribulation.
enter now vengeance, sweet to the eye,
where a good blade finds a good friend.
a crack in the floor is to my conscience,
as an apple is to an orange, sweet to the tongue.
but blood tastes of copper, vengeance is sweeter.
o for the demise of a villain.

The judicial consequences that go hand in hand with
the results of my actions
are of no concern to me.
These men. These - creatures.
They actually believe that the printed word of their
ancestors can stop me.
The law?
There is more blood in their ink than their hearts.

Hi is Donnie home?
-This is he.
Hi Donnie, it's Richard, how are you?
-I'm sick.
I see, well this is the second day in a row that
you've been absent from the office.
-I know.
Donnie, are you familiar with this company's insurance
and attendance policies?
-Are you?
What is this Donnie? Have you been to the doctor yet?
Listen, the board is on my ass to fire you.
Why do you think Donnie? Your productivity has been
at a minimum, you
haven't been to work in two days, you haven't called
me to explain
yourself, no doctor visits and no insurance claims -
let alone the fact that we haven't fucked in at least
a week.
-You're a married man Mr. Victim.
That's it you god damned psycho, don't come back. The
last thing this company
needs is a nutcase handling our confidentiality
-What about us?
Donnie I swear to god if you speak one word to anyone
about us I will come
to your house and kill you. I'm a married man, I have
children, and I'm not gay.

Frank uttered assertively, "Shut the fuck up Donnie."
"I just need someone to read my poetry Frank"
"No one wants to read that shit man, it's fucking
Frank's eyes darted like he was trying to speed read
the mirror in front of him
"Anyways, check this out - I'm supposed to meet this
girl here tonight" he said.
"What does she do?"
"Get a load of this, she's an olympian"
"That sounds interesting."
"You better believe it man. Bronze medal for swimming
or some shit. By the end
of tonight I'm gonna get some mouth to mouth, on my
dick. BOOYA!"

On my way back home this evening I saw a cat get hit
by a car.
It was alive.
It's movements following the collision were so
sporadic and fluid.
It was dancing.
On my way back home this evening I was bitten by a
I killed it for stealing my blood.
I was dancing.

I am going to kill Richard Victim tonight.
First I am going to remove his eyelids.
Second I am going to remove his legs.
Third I am going to remove his genitalia.
Fourth I am going to remove his heart.
Fifth I am going to watch the sun set.
sixth... sixth...

Do you want to read my poetry?
Why not?
You're scary, leave me alone.
My teeth are too sharp.

It is imperative that I am given a chance to relay the
history of my process through the role models, ideas,
and chemicals that have preceeded and inspired me
(dare i say that have shaped me). In saying that, one
must understand that I truly feel that I am not
allowed to speak about my own work, because I feel
that I am a stranger to it. Looking quite literally
at my work, it can mean everything and it can mean
nothing. My murderous hand is a contraption set aside
for left brain thinkers, punks, sluts, upstanding
businessmen, politcians, bums, jocks, nerds,
cheerleaders, bookworms, couch potatoes, hipsters,
assholes, bitches, bastards, and (the collective) you.
I am a product of the human race and because of that
I am exposed to life, which naturally is beyond my
control. In being constantly and im-permissively
exposed to such an abrasive and confusing experience,
I as a human am instinctively inclined to ascertain
meaning through creative expression. So what does
this say about the relationship between my work and
me? It is the product of everything around me and I
am nothing but the means through which it is expressed
(hence the separation that I feel from it). My work
exists outside of me not because I exist outside of
myself, but because history, inspiration, creation,
destruction, and life in general exists without me. I
am the martyr. I am innocence defined. I am taking

"Be the change you want to see in the world." -
Mohandas Gandhi.

I did it.
I killed Richard Victim.
I thought that there was no feeling comparable to the
one you get after killing a man.
Then Donnie came in through a window.
I did it again.
There is no feeling comparable to that which proceeds
the killing of lovers.
I have a date tonight. I can't wait.

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Date:January 15th, 2006 10:10 pm (UTC)

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