They claim that American’s have no culture when they’re the ones lacking in culture…

When they come to this country their morals and values are gone. They say it’s because “American women are just giving it away”.

Are they really? Or are the ’Greater Middle Eastern “men”’pretending to be interested to get into a white woman’s pants?

Aren’t they the ones selling the stories? I doubt they’re the ones who approach women by simply and honestly saying, “I just want to fuck” because according to them that’s “distasteful”. But if the women here are whores then why are they so concerned with logistics?

When they go to their country they can’t fuck around because their government and their people would kill them. They don’t do what they want in the mother land because of their culture?

Hypocrisy is when someone cries wolf while wearing sheep’s skin.

My counter arguments always begin and end with the cold and hard facts;

Culture is something that’s engrained into one’s soul; culture is not a jacket you hang up when it’s convenient, culture is something you love and admire, not something you disregard like the shit that comes out of the asshole.

These “greater” men are the worst of cowards, and I’m disgusted that we gift them our love, so they can boast about how much better they are than others.

They respect nothing and no one—they aren’t even worthy of being called pigs. Perhaps this is why they haven’t the stomach to eat the holy swine.

They have no integrity and they have no culture because they disown it when they leave their country.

Then they go back and marry their women—and feed them the leftovers.

And they proudly state that they respect women, but that women in America don’t respect themselves—but lying and cheating to get the prize, doesn’t really make anyone a winner.

Hear ye, hear ye—that pigs who wander in their feces have no right to talk. Hear ye, hear ye—that boastful cocks looking like withered socks haven’t the authority to use my holy name in vain. Hear ye, hear ye—it takes more than a cat to trample a queen. To: my secret lurking admirer, I am a beautiful god, so I’ll dump this in your pen—so you can choke on my savage address:

To: the cat that storm dragged in: stop lurking in my art seeking evidence to hide from the shame of your failure to launch. I’ll set the record straight: we are not the same. My hopes and dreams come from my heart while the maggots have eaten away at your rotten apples.

Attention needy whore who loves stirring up trouble within the weak: come pick on someone your own size. Relish me to the fight, but don’t forget that I’m the queen of one man’s kingdom. Dear secret admirer, the most loyal of all my fans—no one’s fighting along. Where are thou enemy? Here kitty kitty, piggy, piggy…come and get it—

Don’t get confused, we are not the same. While you’re on your knees begging to suck his dick, my legs are spread like a book and he’s licking away at the gutter.

We are not the same. You gifted him shea butter, (thanks for the present) I gave him a hand job with my smooth silky hands. While you beg for his attention, I can acclaim to being the owner of all of his fetishes.

We are not the same. I fucked him under the covers and everywhere else your dirty mind would have loved to have had him. You sent him presents citing “I’m not done loving you”. Was that the note that came along with the fabulous balm, or was it the one with the book that you thought he would enjoy?

We are not the same. My tongue has licked every inch of his body. Sadly, yours couldn’t even make it to second base.

We are not the same. You feed him lies, I whisper and shout truths and even when I don’t he succumbs to my sweet dandy verse.

Come at me. Don’t hide behind a screen. Keyboard warrior: don’t use my pretty name to unsettle him via text. Come at me—I assure you, that one close encounter will be enough for you to understand why he calls me queen and you crazy.

We are not the same. With you he is civil—I am his civil unrest. To you he talks—by me he is threatened. Of all the disturbances in his life, I am the one that sets all others apart.

You know what’s more distressing and devastating to you than me making him mine? The fact that I came into his life and in a matter of days I moved into his heart—something you could not do for how long? But don’t hate the player, but do appreciate the facts: this king prefers what’s between these fat juicy thighs—checkmate. Come at me, cause I have more moves than X-files in my archive.

You think you are scary? Come at me. I’ve purposely written this for you. Come at me knowing we are not the same because you need to have him while I choose to want him—I try to need him while you beg for the crumbs from afar. WE ARE NOT THE SAME, but I’ll ask you kindly: keep it clean, keep my holy name out of your mouth, or you’ll hear more than my uncomfortable rhetoric.

Someone humbly mentioned or rather tried to convince me to accept that I’m easy. I don’t understand how such an assumption could be made. What does easy even mean? This man highlighted that “white women” were harder to get (fuck) than me, and that I should concede. My simple response is that all women (not just white) are “harder” than me because all women are more repressed than me. Ordinary men enjoy the chase, the chivalry which is basically the neg and yes, it works both ways. Deny anyone the time of day and you’ll have them knocking at the door the very next day. Privilege is hard to reject but easy to identify. Can someone delight me with an opposition to my analysis?

Upon further discussion it was brought to my attention that in order for a man to want a women she must be subtle in her approach. I think I vomited a little in my mouth. I’d rather drink bleach than hide my intentions. A real woman knows what she wants and doesn’t hesitate to take it.

Now, I’ve been in two serious relationships and countless affairs because I don’t fuck around when it comes to commitment. I’m 39. My first relationship lasted fifteen years, my second only a few months. I’m difficult. Most things bore the shit out of me and I crave intellect and not so much dick. But when I get bored and there isn’t much more on the table, it’s hard to say no.

When a woman has bigger balls than the men who possess the world it’s a true conflict. Okay, okay, I’ll admit it, I’m easy, I agree, so I refuse my right to remain silent to accommodate to others frail sense of being.

This individual revolts in the wonder of my vulgarity yet hides under sheepskin. And I render him “easier” because his logic is backwards. According to him, he cannot be easy because he does not flirt with women he wants or likes. Again, this is called the neg. Flirting with everyone besides who you like that’s called being a tease. I’ll call that a conflict of interest. According to him I’m easy cause I flirt openly with guys that I want or like. It’s called confidence and I have nothing to hide nor do I have anything to lose. I don’t acknowledge other men when I have a man. He counts for me the women who acknowledged him throughout the day. But I’m easy and he’s the perfect man.

When I truly questioned what he was giving me that others could not, I realized everything he does for me I can do for myself—and everything else I can get without a commitment to a nag.

If you haven’t already guessed it this man is serious relationship #2. The only difference between a #1 and a #2 is the water saving option for the flush.

We put such high value on being in relationships that it’s better to have been in a million “serious” relationships than to have casually fucked around until being ready for a commitment—some fucked up terms and conditions, if you ask me.

Besides, who am I to withhold this “tight pussy (his words)” from the world.

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in despair. She broke all the rules and found herself possessed by the masses. She became a weak and pitiful thing. She felt like a castaway because she could not “feel” emotionally distraught. She believed she was broken and lost. So, she took to the streets—

Her forsaken becoming. She played in the dark despite knowing that all she wanted was a savior. She circled their towers and took from their wells—she housed her holy delusions in their power.

She continued exploring within the damned and found herself a holy whore. She took from those who thought it natural to fornicate voraciously and without will.

What she brought to the table was the illusion of lust because she neither kissed them nor performed for them in the sack. She despised watching them pound her against the wall, but found more atrocious her ability to overcome.

And she waltzed in the dark pretending that all was fine and dandy. She defiled herself further and became a ruthless mercenary to any sister whore who defied her by disturbing her gory sanctuary, for the heads on the platters were hers, and hers alone—her trophy’s, the evidence of shame.

Yet, she felt nothing. Confusion was in her thoughts but not emotional distraught, not chaos, remorse, or guilt. She continued laughing, singing, preying, waltzing in the dark, circling around and around—shifting partners ever so often as required to “feel” alive.

Then one day she had enough, and she blew down their castles like the big bad wolf that she was. She stood there in the silence of her own despair, and noticed nothing in the pitch black—her body vanished the raging wars and she ushered out to the sluts: “this is my body given to you, you can have it no more”. She exiled herself not because they were bad, but because she had learned all that she needed from them. She conquered their world which had been hers too, and a new name emerged from the wreckage.

It was very becoming of her, and she feared it greatly, but she contended it was time to penetrate the system without a disguise—

She threw down her Clark Kent suit and traded it in for her truth—she yelled to the masses: “armageddon is here, and with it, I am, the exorcist, throw down your swords—fearful whores, redemption is here.

Exorcist:

I don’t proclaim any religion.

John Doe:

Our faith doesn’t allow us to lie to the police.

Exorcist:

What faith do you practice?

John Doe:

The Truth

Exorcist:

Ahh, I see (I remember my daughter pointing to the sign labeled "the truth" as we drove past that place of worship)

John Doe:

Ya, we get a lot of people who think we say that in an arrogant way, but that’s the name of our community. Truthfully there is no legitimate record of the what the life of Jesus actually was, but the preachers in our faith are the poorest individuals in the community. Most Christian and Catholic priests or preachers, are the wealthiest among the congregation. That's not us. My faith isn't like other religions (states many rules).

Exorcist:

I don’t proclaim religion because it’s based on idolatry.

John Doe:

Our faith doesn’t deal with images, statues, or saints like the catholic church.

Exorcist:

Idolatry is much more than worshiping images and objects—

John Doe:

Idolatry is putting anything before god...

Consumer Name; John Doe

Medical conditions:

schizophrenia, depression, limited mobility, severe lymphedema, morbid obesity, incontinence, tourette syndrome, anxiety, hypertension, vertigo, allergies, cellulitis, pure hypercholesterolemia

Medications:

Atorvastatin, Fluvastatin, Lovastatin, Pitavastatin, Pravastatin, Rosuvastatin, Simvastatin, Chlorpromazine, Fluphenazine, Haloperidol, Perphenazine, Thioridazine, Thiothixene, Trifluoperazine, Aripiprazole, Aripiprazole lauroxil, Asenapine, Brexpiprazole, Cariprazine, Clozapine, Iloperidone, Lumateperonee, Lurasidone, Olanzapine, Olanzapine/samidorphan, Paliperidone, Paliperidone palmitate, Quetiapine, Risperidone, Ziprasidone

Prognosis:

Poor

Exorcist:

Many people think I am arrogant too. One of the questions I get asked a lot is if I’m afraid of going to hell. I am not. When people hear this, they feel troubled, and I respond: is it not my father who knows what’s best for me and for the rest of humanity? My heart is available for all of my father’s will—I am happily forsaken to loving him through anything and everything, and I am unafraid of his commands because I am here to submit to them unconditionally, whether I benefit from it or not.

John Doe:

(Speechless)

Exorcist:

It was so nice to meet you John (I extend my hand).

John Doe:

(Hands me the empty soda can in his hand then realizes I’m actually there to shake his hand. Seems confused. Shakes my hand. Says nothing.)

Exorcist:

I’ll take that empty can too. I walk away.

John Doe:

Are you coming back?

Exorcist:

I don’t know. Let me check my schedule really quick. No. Looks like you're not on my schedule any other days.

John Doe:

So, you'll probably only be back if my regular person is out doing something...

Exorcist:

Probably. Have a wonderful day and it was really nice meeting you John.

John Doe:

Thank you.

Exorcist:

Thank you.

Where are those who say to love and trust in god unconditionally? Where are they when situations start to shift? Where are those who gather in the masses and choose to sit and dwell on themselves? Where are those righteous people who swear to know their father, but choose to be others karma? Who are those who prey on their knees and ask for others to vanish so they can be free?

Who are those who manifest in hatred and greed? Who are they? The one’s who hide from themselves, like quivering dogs. The ones with the “deed” to heaven, but hold no keys to their hearts. Who are they? Where are they? The ones who protect themselves from hell, but claim to trust in the father. Where are they? The ones trying to control the outcome of life after death.

The soulless are here. They go to church everyday. They obey like sheep but scatter like roaches. Who are they? Where are they? They’re the cowards hiding behind the words—spray painted on the asphalt in pretty powdered blue. Where is their father? Far, far, away.

What is the meaning of “shame”? Is it that story about Adam and Eve? The one where we pretend that original sin is a thing, but fail to see it’s someone’s cheap philosophy. As a psychopath, I’m not at liberty to say or much less feel anything. And yet, I’ve felt the need to hide from those who proclaim normalcy. How can this be?

What is shame? Where does it come from? Perhaps from that time when I terminated the life that was growing inside. Maybe it’s from all of those times when I gave up my body in a monetary exchange. I’m still not embarrassed enough to flee and escape me. Shame on me, or shame on you? Could the contempt come from the countless encounters of rape? I mean, I know I was too scared to say no. Too goat struck for fight or flight to kick in.

Tricks really aren’t for kids under fifteen. So, is it their fault or mine? Or is anyone at fault at all? How about privilege, or better yet, oppression. How to blame them when they only exist in my mind.

There are crimes, and then there are criminals. Am I a criminal? Have I committed a crime? Am I a psychopath? I am a psychopath. Does that make me flawed, or imperfectly capable of surviving this life?

Vulnerability is a superpower I possess. I take responsibility for who I am and hold others harmless. I do not feel “bad” about not being perfect, and I am incapable of hate. And even with all the turmoil, I still remain of public domain.

Confessionals aren’t big enough to hold the bold of statements coming in and out of my mouth, so where do I go?

Does being a psychopath make me crazy? Does it make me incapable of love? Incapable of compassion? Does it make me incapable of empathy? Does it make me disabled? Of course not, if anything it makes me divergent. It allows me to see who we really are—people who bestow judgement on others. Not that I’m any different. I’m like you too, minus the disgust, the distrust, and the indignation. Subtract the obsession with being “perfectly meek” and you’ve got me, the psychopath.

I don’t conform to a society that lacks empathy, compassion, and love for those who don’t fit into a square box. My heart belongs to the masses. I fight to protect all of humanity, not just the “morally correct”. And all of this makes me a psychopath, but everyone else normal. How can that be?