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5 The Worst

Want to hear one of the worst things I’ve ever done?

I saw Kay kissing another guy shortly after we broke up but were still fucking, fucking the night before, in the dirtiest of ways because at that point, why not. I scaled the building somehow, I think I grabbed wires, hopped onto fire escape, and climbed up to her second floor studio window. I knocked, breaking their embrace. She let me in. I confronted them, holding in a rage. I remember asking them to at least wait until I moved out, I told them I still loved her. I told him that Kay and I had just fucked the night before, Kay told me to shut up, said I was disgusting. My mania must have scared her. I couldn’t handle seeing her kissing him, I didn’t even understand why, the heart of my brain forever confused by the mother who leaves, returns, tells me “someday I will understand love” as she leaves, returns, has the car set on fire up by her ex-convict boyfriend, leaves, I don’t understand my heart/dick, I can’t figure out XXXXX Section deleted because scarecrows shouldn’t talk about their own history of being abused; they will say that’s why you have a predilection for predation, that’s why you grew up to be a bad man, a bad kid, in high school, working at Big Dogs Sweatshirt Co, loving fucking, everyone fucking in the mall, everyone in high school fucking in Big Dogs. The store I worked at specialized in sweaters to be worn too big. Huge sweaters were a thing in the late 1990’s, at least in Niagara Falls. I worked with a young woman, a year or two older than me, she lived downtown, nice, gorgeous and tough, always swearing and talking shit. She didn’t finish high school and I wanted to fuck her, and we hung out once and she offered me heroin and I got scared. I was way too musical theatre for this girl, in over my head. I think I’m harder than I am; mostly, I like chilling out, just a slime-encrusted bonehead with comedy and tragedy mask tattoos, an abuser who never abused (pairs well with those who want to have an abuser without having to be abused), who watches too much hockey (and is a liar), struggles to write this (and has exploited people), goes to bed early (and is a maniac with abandonment issues who absolutely loves fucking) and I never identified as a “survivor”, but I’ll start identifying as one if I overcome being accused of being an abuser. My Accuser > My Abuser.

What an ugly thought. So much ugliness. Ugly to cheat on so many partners; Ugly to lie about it; Ugly to be so out of control that it can scare people; Ugly for accusers to abuse the word abuse; Ugly to cloak vengeance behind moral duty; Ugly for a shitty lover to call on the nuclear solution of a call-out to ensure the other shitty lover alone suffers the consequences for a shitty relationship; Ugly if accusations were made as a way to absolve oneself of their own complicity and guilt; Ugly to tell someone you hope they kill themself and die alone; Ugly to rally others to shun, dehumanize and destroy a human being out of personal vendettas and shits and giggles ugly to peepee on the couch after a dance party to harass and threaten friends and loved ones if they don’t come out against the accused to combat your struggles by erasing a less powerful surrogate fake your suicide to keep your lover from leaving you love them when you are just afraid to lose them call and text someone you treated like shit beg them fuck your mistress in your girlfriend’s bed to omit details when you know they would weaken your argument not take enough accountability because you are just too angry and feel it’s far too late for it’s all ugly, or none of it is in this wild jungle of wonder and muck.

I wish I had never climbed up to Kay’s studio window, I regret doing it, I regret saying those things. I just couldn't let it go. I grabbed his skateboard and smacked him across the face with it. He fell back, knocked out, and I took off his glasses and snapped them in half and stole his wallet. Kay was screaming for me to stop. Then I started hammer-fisting his unconscious head. Kay tried to pull me away, and I grabbed her, lifted her over my head, and threw her out the window, right into a butcher’s dumpster.

No, I'm lying. I didn’t really do all that. I embellished the story to make me seem worse than I am. It’s easily done.

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