Welcome to Hell

nothings private hell

welcome to my own private hell. comfortable? oh, not for long, i hope. you see, this place isn't meant for comfort. not by a long shot.

what am i about, you ask? suffering, and pain, and more suffering. that's the nature of my self, of who i am. is that wrong, does that offend you? oh, i'm sorry, i didn't mean to. but perhaps i'm being a little harsh, after all. one mustn't be too harsh.

it's rather hard, being stuck in this stinking, fat, slovenly body. i don't like bodies. though i admit at times i enjoy what i can do with them. like carving on this one. she doesn't like it, though, does she? that stupid bitch i have to put up with. the others won't let me kill her, not right now anyway.

who am i, you might wonder? the gaurdian of pain. the keeper of all that dark dreaded pus of the soul that no one else would ever want to have. i am a coalescence of that, that made spirit, at least. nice, pretty poetic language. i'm not a nice, pretty, poetic person. you don't have to like me. hell, i don't even expect you too. i don't like people. i don't like her damn fiance, getting in my way. it's harder for me to stay when he's there.

doesn't she know he'll leave? they all do, all those stupid fucking people. i'm not antisocial, i've just realized that people in general are scum and in specific they're usually worse.

you want to hear about what i do? i keep her in check, keep her from getting too full of herself. stupid fat whore that she is (and she is a whore, weither she knows it or not). i keep her from thinking that unicorns and roses and happy fucking sunshine is all there is, because that's not how life is. life fucks you over then strangles you and rapes you're rotting corpse. no, no pretty language here.

Journal of Pain