|Shadow Players Guide - ww 6013 pt. 2
||[Aug. 9th, 2007|06:12 pm]
|||||That Nephwrack bastards endless laughter.||]|
IdunnoIdunnoIdunno. This place is a fucking poison of the mind. Goddamned gambling whore with you fucking tickets. You'll die on that stool poor and alone, and I'll probably still be here, clawing my fucking brains out.
Fucking phone! No we're not next to the Peter Pan, that's the fucking Royalty. How retarded are you?
FUCK OFF! Toxic demon ringing device. Fester pox on my existence. Worst than the guests until they're here, blaming me for things I can't control. But James, they say, it's all your fault. The dining room, the pool, the AC, all of it. And it's not so important to bring up except when we want a discount, because we're cheap bastards and we know you aren't allowed to respond in kind no matter how vicious we get. You just choke it down and get quiet, because that's what you have to do. Just curl up into a little ball like the grade school beatings and wait for the bullies to leave. Don't fight back, that'll just make it worse, you'll lose your job, and then you'll be seriously fucked. Nope, nope, so swallow that vile little pill and accept our abuse. And the others wonder why we can't differentiate between masks anymore. Smile James, be happy James, no one likes someone who's angry James, gotta make the guest happy James, no one
cares that you sacrificed fuck near everything (sanity, health, social skills) that you're collapsing into an acidic, burnt out husk of a corpse, so long as they get to stay in their shitty ass rooms and think they're important. Of course we can't determine who we are anymore, the only us we ever knew was trying to come to terms with his own paranoia and molestation, only to be shackled into this cyclical Hell. But we're being presumptuous again, trying to place all our problems on something that happened 14 years ago. No, no, we're the fuck out, the sole cause behind all of this, because we don't like to take risks. We'd rather stay in this deadend hellish nightmare of an existence than risk losing it for something far worse, or possibly better. But we're not stupid, for all our pain and suffering, we know it doesn't get better, just different shades of bad. We ramble, cycle, gibber and die, a nightmares eternal dance. Round and round we spin. Of course we think in abstract terms, linear reasoning is far too simplistic. Of course we slack off, we know we're good enough to succeed in the end.
Of course we're a coward, our successes only bring more failure. We want a girlfriend but we don't meet our own personal requirements, nor do we want to risk the friendship it might cost, nor are we willing to hurt someone like that, not after Liz. Oh, but we did hurt her didn't we? A tormentors guide if ever their was one. And we're never going to let you forget that, no sir. No matter what, when, or how, we'll remind you of the pain you bring to her, have brought to others, and will bring once again. We'll always remember you yelling at a 9 month old, we'll always remember you dishonoring your sensei by putting your fist through the door in anger,
we'll always remember every negative act, monstrous deed and transgression, and we'll bring them up when you need to be hurt the most. But we won't end you, nor will we let you end, because, in the end, we're the only ones left who can truly love you, and that's the most painful observation of all. You turned yourself into a toxic monstrosity to protect those you love, to drive them away so we couldn't them, so you couldn't hurt them either
but in the end they didn't turn away, they wouldn't THEY WON'T! And you can't explain why. You've poisoned yourself to the extent you know your mother is right, you'll be dead from a heart attack at 30. You don't sleep, you barely eat, you do nothing to relieve the stress, what food you do consume puts more of a tax on your body than eating powdered glass I bet, and still, still, despite
all that, all you've done is hurt yourself. You'd think, bein' the smart guy you are, you'd stop. But that's the funny thing, for all your brains, we're smarter than you. We know you inside and out, what's good, what's bad, and what really happened every time. Plus, you trust us way more than you should, so we can change shit around and you and leave you more lost than someone trapped in a living maze. So, you don't stop 'cause you don't know how, and anyone who does know, we try to keep away. Sure, there's someone who could, but we're smarter
Fucking insufferable cuntrag, of course you didn't want the room, your kind never wants the room. You want a room crafted of the purest platinum, inlayed with r
I know it's right you bloated sack of human waste, I fucking counted it. I can count. Funny that, someone to do capable of basic fucking math. And you don't need a comb, no one cares about your hair. Or your appearance. Or you for that matter. Fucking worthless trashheap of a person. You'll die on that stool, mark my words. rubies and diamonds, while being waited on hand and foot by $10,000 an hour hookers for the low low cost of free. Of course that's what you wanted, and that's not what we off, so you treat me like I shit on your granddaughter during her first grade Christmas play and fuck off. because we know we've made you so paranoid at this point that you won't take their advice no matter how good it is. The pain, the suffering, the toxicity of your existence has become so familiar, so standard and stock that you honestly don't know how to exist without it.
That's why you won't even allow yourself to cry anymore. We've so convinced you that it's a waste of time and energy that even that natural release has become anathema. We've left you with nothing, nothing at all, save for your fists, and everytime you use them you just feel worse because you see it as a loss of self control. Honestly, if you were more like us you'd be astounded at exactly how great a job we've done destroying you. But yes, back to those precious masks of yours, those ghouls, garish devices you so wantonly dawn to avoid external threats while we fester and blight inside you. They really are quite impressive, so much so the others never really get it. I mean, they say they understand, but they don't, that's why it bothers you so much. Hell, that's part of the reason you're smiling right now but you wanna ball your eyes out, because you're starting to wear us in the hopes that this'll be easier. You never have been any good at train of thought. This is where you'll note to anyone reading (as if anyone would) that every "paragraph" so far has in fact been an interruption, some real world event that's pulled you from this page to pretend to be something. Each stop is the dawning of a perfect mask, so much so that unless a person really knows you, like your mom, or maybe Liz, they'd never be able to tell there's anything the least bit wrong with you tonight. But the others do get hints every now and again, glimpses and glimmers of the false faces when you shift between them. Don't believe folks
then just ask him for the toll free number. He'll give it to you, always does, usually doesn't mind a call in the wee hours. But you can hear it when his voice changes from the paper introduction to his more standard tone. I mean, they're both masks, don't get me wrong, but the difference lay in how real they are. The paper one is totally fake, built and bent by his job because it's necessary. The flesh one is also totally fake, it's just crafted by who you are in relation to him. That's all it is, that's all it ever is.
Well, he's, we's, we're starting to feel very tired and more than a little bit depressed folks. It's unpleasant to really consider that every flaw in your life is your own fault, and if you were more of a man, your life wouldn't've gone this far
down the shitter. But hey, at least you're not actively thinking about it all the time, right James?
Just remember the important parts: no one'll ever love (least that's what people keep sayin'
right? I mean, that is how he's taking it when you say "You can't love anyone until you love yourself"
I gave you FUCKING keys so you could go down and have a FUCKING look you grizzled old bastard. What the fuck did you do, go look at the door and decide "yeah, this is good." Fuckin' shittard.
that he'll never be loved, because he can't bring himself to love, or even care about, the twitching corpse he's made himself. Don't you get it, everytime you say shit like that, you're just playing into our hands, because he can't love himself as long as we're here, and he can't BE himself if we're gone. So really, in this respect, to his friends who've made that or similar observations, we tip our collective hats. So nice to have a helping hand from the audience), you're going to die alone, insane, and probably from the stress, and in the end, you'll never be free of this shitty hell hole because we won't let you muster up the energy to fight us. Sure, get mad, twist and writhe against the bonds, but you'll never break them, because to break them, you'd have to outsmart an enemy you created and designed to be better than you. You wanted an opponent, a bad guy, a villain, and you made sure to have the best one of all, one without humanity. So, go ahead James, poor out that acidic, maggot ridden waste you call a heart. It won't make the pain go away for long, if at all, and we'll always be waiting here when you come back. Oh, that victorious, villainous laughter, how I love it so.