Journals of a Psychopath



Clarkson will punish the Lady Flarice's girlfriend, the man-woman.

The Shrine

Paying attention to the talk the man-woman and Lady Flarice engaged in, I grimaced.
      “Do you love me?” the gay woman asked.
      “Of course I do.”
Singing, involving my future, the black-angel chorused, and the mantra infused the agenda.
Inflamed, I danced, the cloak glittered and swished, the flames vacillated. Lady Flarice and her dyke began to sex. Watching, I was aggravated, I detested lesbians, I knew the Lady Flarice’s main inclination leaned towards men and not women. The lesbian crawled all over the Lady Flarice her hands explored the Lady Flarice’s flesh. Garbing in the black silk robe, I sang the song of death, the lesbian would know the pain of my law.
      “The man-woman is my aim,” I sang.


Overseeing the Twin Moon Forks denizens from the window, fraught in the lower existence, the incidents in my superior world were described as euphoric.
      “Do you want the check? I can come back if you prefer,” the server said.
Dumpy, her white shirt sported a huge stain on the front. Marjorie’s pale thin lips widened. I saw a gap where her tooth should be.

Waldorf Grove

Shrilling and jangling in my ears the phone annoyed me, I wanted to ignore it, but I did not.
      “Gloria Pinkham has gone into the hospital,” Charlenson said.
I did not answer.
      “You never listen,” Charlenson said critically.
      “Yeah, I do.”
Sis released me from the conversation. Stamping into the kitchen, pouring bourbon into a glass, I dreamed about the Lady Flarice, and the agony I would make her undergo.
      "Do not be miserable, all you desire will come, and much more than you could imagine," the Trees said.
      “I do not see how that can be true.”
      “Trust us, your life is mapped out, you will be pleased with the way it unfolds,” the Orator replied.

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