You know what? I'm bored with this shit. Being a good person, BS. It's just so ... dull!
Yeah, I hink I'monna start acting like DT and HW and BC, over here. Just, go up to people and start grabbin 'em by their privates, demanding sex, tellin' em how good lookin' they are while in the next breath how I'll ruin their careers and lives if they tell anyone how I acted, then maybe rape a handful of 'em, just to prove I can. And I'll be very rich and very powerful, so I'll be able to buy off anybody who wants to tell the public. It'll be awesome. It'll be an awesome cycle of conquest and power, conquest and power, and more conquests and more power.
Course... in some tiny corner of my brain, I will be silently weeping for the young child - one born with goodness, love, beauty, and promise - I once was. Because now, this is all I can do. This is what I am, now: my whole life is assault and cover-up, assault and cover-up, assault and cover-up. And, deep down, I know this means that I am a criminal. I do not belong in society. I belong in prison, probably in solitary confinement. I should be stoned by my victims, and I know it. None of the people around me could ever dream of being as disgusting and terrible and hateful and small as I am; and if they really knew how I was inside, and if they did not need me for something (money, power) ...they would turn their backs on me, and shun me forever.
But after dozens and dozens of victims, I am so small, by this point, in my own mind so insignificant, so full of nothing, that I *must* continue to seek out victims because it temporarily shuts off that part of my mind that tells me that I am nothing. And most other people don't hate themselves like I do, they can't imagine living as I do, that anyone would, or could... and so they are trusting. So it won't be hard to find one after another, after another; each one will present themselves to me like a lamb at the doors of the slaughterhouse.
And, sure, each victim comes with a potential price tag. But I can afford it. So there I remain, trapped inside my own worthlessness and nothingness, forever, because now that tiny corner of my mind (where I used to simply weep for the small child I once was, full of promise and dignity) has become Trump Tower-sized, Weinstein Company-sized, and Cosby Show-ized. And now inside there, I no longer even have any pity for that small child. I hate that child, too; for it was me, but is no longer. I killed it. And it's too late to go back; there is no mythical offspring who will take off my mask, and tell me I am loved, and beg me to come back from the darkness. The light inside is as faint a memory as the dodo, or the horse-and-buggy, or the rotary phone. I have spiraled down inside my own dark loathing so far, I can no longer even remember what it felt to be a human being. I have destroyed my own consciousness, the one and only gift that makes me not like an orangutan, or a cockroach. I have destroyed my human-ness, obliterated my whole self, and I have no nameable emotions except a never-ending cycle of panic and rage. For I know that, without money and power, I am nothing to those around me, and I am completely and utterly alone.
Which is what I feared -- and felt, deep down -- all along. That I am disgusting and horrible and hateful and unlovable, and that I will forever live in a cage, because that's the only place I belong. A child's nightmare, self-taught, made real. I am a self-fulfilling prophesy. My mind is a prison of it's own making, and if I could pray, if I believed in an all-knowing being outside myself who would lower themselves so much as to even listen to any of my prayers, I would pray for the sweet release of death.