Hello again. Tonight I imagine some of you brought popcorn for my nightly edition of ‘Your Friendly Neighborhood Psychopath…’
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Have you ever wondered what it is that makes you…you… and me, a psychopath? There are definitions, of course. According to Wikipedia a psychopath is a person suffering from a chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behavior.
God, that makes me sound so boring and unoriginal.
I don’t describe myself that way and I certainly don’t think I have a disorder. I simply have a different way of thinking about the world, and who gets to decide that my way is wrong? Should I trust an internet site devoted to the simplest definition possible? There are variants in my brethren, but that’s not mentioned. I, for example, don’t randomly kill people. There must be justifiable reasons for me to take action. Killing for fun holds no appeal for me. I consider myself a psychopath with range.
I think quite often about emotions. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like you do. Even at a young age my emotions were not exactly linked to my psyche. I liked television. It helped hone my responses to how people expected me to behave. You smile at things you don’t find funny. Did you know that? Do you remember the first time you did it? It’s how you fit in. You learn that early, to smile on cue. It’s the hardest thing for a psychopath to learn, smiling just to keep other people happy. We don’t understand it, the lying. What if you were all like us? Wouldn’t life be easier without all of the bullshit? If you could just say what you meant. Maybe wars aren’t just about power grabs and money. Maybe they are about finally getting to do and say whatever the hell you want.
Haven’t you ever noticed that so many of your emotions are useless and force you to act against your own best interests? Maybe I misspoke. In my opinion your best interests should give you pleasure, but that’s not how you see it. Shall I give you an example?
Last night my lover was handsome, married and rich. He’d had just enough to drink to lower his inhibitions, but not so much to render himself useless to me. I led him into the bathroom of the club where we engaged in multiple acts of debauchery. All were delightful, until his darling wife rang and suddenly he was a mass of quivering guilt. I watched him change from lust to self-hatred. I have no concept of what that would feel like, but the trauma invoked by these feelings seems like an exhaustive waste of energy.
People like you, non-psychopaths, you enjoy guilt. I’ve never really figured out why and I’ve done exhaustive research. Guilt is such a delicious little morsel of stupidity and stands in direct conflict with pleasure. Why do you deny yourselves pleasure? All the rules, all the social constructs, and no one questions. Instead you just feel guilty.
Lust: ‘No, no, I can’t do that. I’d feel guilty.’
Gluttony: ‘No, I can’t eat that. I’d feel guilty.
Coveting another person’s spouse: ‘No, that’s wrong. I’d feel guilty.’
My favorite aspect of guilt is the hypocrisy which surrounds it. ‘I can do whatever I’d like as long as I feel guilty about it.’ Let’s begin with lust, shall we? It’s everybody’s favorite sin, and often the one you will ‘sacrifice’ everything for. Why you believe monogamy will satisfy you is unfathomable to me. You stay faithful because you believe the guilt will ‘kill’ you if you cheat.
The biological imperative to protect the family, versus the need of the man to spread his seed. And what of the woman? You don’t like to think about that, do you? The myth of male sexuality rules the narrative, but here’s a little secret. I have as many women in my office confessing to cheating as I do men. They talk about their guilt, of course, but they always return to the guy who is getting them off. And often times it isn’t because women need to get their emotional needs met. It’s because the hot pool boy is offering multiple orgasms.
But let’s go back to the story of the rutting man who simply can’t control his biological need to have sex with as many women as possible. Faithfulness was created by the church because men wanted to make sure that their offspring were actually theirs. As a result, lust and hypocrisy is your favorite emotional combination. But you’ve created a loophole to satisfy all of your emotional nonsense into one happy package.
For example, a man cheats on his wife, has fantastic sex with his mistress and then tells said mistress he feels tremendous guilt, thereby satisfying his ‘good guy’ image by feeling guilty about something which gave him tremendous pleasure.
However, when the guilt dies down and the lust revs back up he will repeat the exact cycle over and over again until he gets caught. And then he will say to his wife, ‘But it meant nothing. It was only sex.’ As much as I don’t understand stupidity I understand even less, labelling fantastic sex, as ‘only’ sex. You will deny yourself a most basic need to sacrifice yourself on the altar of guilt and for what? A lifetime spent apologizing to one’s wife, until you repeat the cycle with a different woman. It’s almost as if you’ve never heard the sentence, ‘The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.’
What if the family was taken out of the equation? What if the need for a man to ‘take care’ of his family disappeared? Would the morality change? Would you still feel a need to ‘own’ people? Could all of you ‘love’ without expectation? Without jealousy?
Of course not.
You demand loyalty because you love control, because you think if you can just guarantee that your spouse won’t cheat then all will be perfect in your little part of the world. But control is an illusion and until you learn that you will suffer.
You see that’s the secret of not having empathy. It’s not just that it allows me to kill people on occasion. It also frees me up from those other sticky emotions that make you so miserable. How you live with that bubbling up inside you all of the time is beyond me.
But, I refuse to believe you have to be a psychopath to see the idiocy of guilt. Not only that, but the sins you make yourself feel guilty about…honestly, it makes me laugh. Let’s go through them, shall we? They are called the seven deadly sins, after all. The name alone appeals to me…
- Vanity: only a sin because so many people are ugly.
- Greed: made up by poor people.
- Lust: decided by men who need Viagra.
- Envy: evolved from a combination of the previous three groups.
- Gluttony: created by middle-aged skinny white women who like to body shame.
- Wrath: only deemed evil by those who don’t understand the true joy of revenge.
- Sloth: completely unnecessary as a sin. These people are simply stepping stones for the rest of us to walk over. One always needs minions.
So, you see, all of that attention paid to sins that really shouldn’t be sins at all. Sinning is all about what you are against. What are you for?
Let’s take a look at that.
As far as I can tell you have a love for depression, and most certainly the drugs that accompany it. Every day clients walk into my office moaning about their unhappy lives and their misery. Of course they’re miserable. Everything they do is designed in direct conflict with pleasure. Sure, get pregnant three or four times and wonder why your life has gone to hell. Your days are spent wiping snot from noses and watching reality television, thereby ensuring your every waking moment matches the intellectual equivalent of a three-year-old. The brightest women of a generation are reduced to being a ‘Karen’ meme on social media and for what? A mid-life crisis where the only high point is some mediocre sex with a twenty something who has mommy issues.
And the men are no better, working in jobs that can only be described as some new ring of Dante’s hell, where the eternal hamster wheel of mundane talent spins until you retire, or die of boredom.
The majority of you will turn to drugs and alcohol, making your wretchedly dull lives even more pathetic, while some of you will come into my office invigorated by an extramarital affair. You are, by far, my favorite clients, unless you tell me about the guilt you feel. Then I just mentally strangle you as you speak, but those of you who come in with a grin on your face, then I know you are a little less ‘humane’ than the rest of your peers. You’ve discovered something.
Depression only exists when we deny who we truly are, when we exist within the confines of man-made guilt. Depression cannot exist within pleasure. But I will give credit to guilt for one small thing. It seems that illicit sex does give a thrill. Unfortunately that’s an experience I will never have. Without feeling guilt, one cannot feel illicitness. Sex is just a delicious pleasure for me, occasionally marked with torture and murder.
Now, let’s return to the topic at hand before my need to satisfy myself overwhelms my need to tell you my story. My colleagues in the “shrink” business make money spouting on and on about insecurities. There’s always some nonsense about an inner child that wasn’t loved enough. It’s all such bullshit, excuses to ensure the balance between guilt and pleasure remains constant, in order to line their wallets with the money of the eternally miserable.
You’re not depressed because your parents didn’t buy you a bike for your tenth birthday or because you are no longer the football star you were in high school. You’re not depressed because your father was a drunk or because you were a latch key kid. You’re not depressed because you haven’t found yourself. You’re not going to eat, pray, or love yourself into a happier existence. You’re depressed because everything you do, you hate, and then you feel guilty because you’re supposed to like baking cookies and driving carpool and listening to your child’s inane chatter, and having mediocre sex with your husband who also feels guilty because he hates his ‘good-paying’ job, doesn’t want to be married to you because you stopped being interesting after the first kid was born, and secretly is fantasizing about Stacie (with the ‘ie’ because her parents thought just using a ‘y’ at the end of her name wouldn’t make her feel special) in his office while he’s having unremarkable sex with you. Your lives are slow deaths by mediocrity.
Depression is caused by the innate boredom that humanity inhabits. Look at me. If I’m bored I find someone to play with, or destroy, whatever I feel at the moment. I don’t hold myself back from pleasure and I can truly say I’ve never had a dull moment in my life.
For example, I have a married man I’m currently ‘seeing’. He’s decided, ever so inconveniently, to have an attack of guilt. Normally such a bourgeois reaction would have me sharpening my knives, but he has a phenomenal cock and he’s so much fun to play with. Plus, I take great pleasure in getting a man to break with his ‘principles.’
I went to his office as a client, locked the door, and closed the blinds. He said nothing, of course, because his delightful cock was already bursting to be free of his pants. I undid his belt, released my favorite part of him, lifted my dress, no underwear because it would have impeded my efforts, and rode him until we both came on his desk. I stood, straightened my dress, re-applied my lipstick and left, no one in his office being the wiser. And when he went home to his wife, I guarantee he felt guilty, instead of what I felt, which was satisfied, thanks to a tremendous orgasm. Of the two of us, who do you think is more likely to be depressed?
You define yourselves as ‘good people’. The only word more banal in the English language is ‘nice’. The musical “Into the Woods” has a perfect lyric. ‘You’re so nice. You’re not good, you’re not bad, you’re just nice. I’m not good, I’m not nice, I’m just right. I’m the witch. You’re the world.’ Surely Stephen Sondheim had some sociopathic tendencies.
And that’s who I am. I’m the witch and humanity is the world. You’re killing yourselves, trying to be ‘good’, rather than happy. The truly unambitious of you aim for contentment. What is that? It’s not even an emotion. It’s essentially a non-thing. It’s as if you’ve given up on life before even trying to live it.
Do you know what I know intimately? Life is short. You hear that said all the time, but you don’t really get it. You say it when you want to get drunk on a Tuesday or overspend on a pair of shoes that you can’t afford, but you don’t really get it.
But when you take a life, when you see the very essence of what makes them human fade away, then you truly understand what living is, and that we are only here for the slightest of moments.
I feel sorry for you in a way. I read a question once…’If you knew you only had sixth months to a year to live would you be doing what you are doing now?’ Considering that I had two lovers lined up for my afternoon and a flight booked for Paris the next day I could equivocally say ‘yes’.
Why am I asking you this question?
It isn’t because I’m ready to lead you to the promised land of a life without guilt or depression or the overwhelming need to shoot yourself in the head on a Wednesday.
But I want you to understand me, so you need to understand the rules I live by.
My ‘obsession’ with Mr. Smith isn’t the story of a woman who doesn’t understand pleasure, but rather one of a woman who understands that pain and pleasure are often combined. Would you understand the high of pleasure without the agony of pain? Can you truly live without understanding what it is to die?
All of those sins, all of that guilt, and for what? So people will call you a good person at your funeral. No one will call me good. I may not even be mourned, but I will have lived and I care nothing for what they say about me when I’m dead. To be fair, I don’t much care what people say about me now, but it’s easier to be a hidden psychopath who is well liked than an outed one who ends up in jail. I have no desire to be locked away from the delightful games I get to play in the world.
Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith…I say his name at night before I fall asleep. The pleasure and pain combined in such a wonderful tango. Neither of the pair winning, but always dancing, always in motion, much like Mr. Smith and myself.
Does it matter that he is unaware that I have once again re-entered his life? Is it significant that he doesn’t know it’s me watching him from behind a fake Facebook profile?
Does that mean he’s not dancing with me?
Don’t you understand? I don’t care. My revenge will be served whether he recognizes me now or in the moments before I end his life. Although, in all honesty, it’s best if he doesn’t know quite yet. My Mr. Smith is clever, too much so at times and my plan takes precision. It wouldn’t do to rush the pain, when I derive so much pleasure from the anticipation.
Please don’t think there is any emotion attached to my musings, unless of course, you wish to talk about wrath. It’s one of my favorite ‘sins’ and I have never once combined it with guilt.
Evolution from humanity. It’s the true key to survival.
So, goodnight my lovelies. I hope I’ve enlightened you, or at the very least caused you to question your sincerely held moral beliefs. One should always be evolving…
As always, sweet dreams…
Your friendly neighborhood psychopath…