I am a twisted, twisted motherf*ck. I always have been. Not in the amusing way, not like the S&M people or the punk rockers who drink Ajax dish detergent. I’m twisted in the “I can never express myself fully or I will sit in the electric chair” way. In the Columbine way. In the Stalin way. Deep down inside, I am forty percent Lama, ready to kill myself to save a mosquito, and sixty percent butcher, ready to destroy, to cause immeasurable pain and suffering.
It’s why I could never be a real activist: I’d kill somebody. Or why I could never be an S&M freak: I’d kill somebody. Deep down inside, I’ve always thought that some day I will kill many, many people. Torture them, probably. Pull their limbs off one by one, watching them scream and writhe in pain, tearing the raw flesh off their dismembered limbs in front of them with my unbrushed teeth as they bleed to death in horror, twitching and vomiting between final sobs.
I am unfit for society. I always have been. Since the first day of kindergarten, when I realized that my parents lied to me about everything and was kicked senseless on the ground by everyone in my school just because I was Chinese (and I’m not even properly that), I have been ready to destroy.
So far, I do my uncontrolled destroying in secret. I demolish a possession, squeeze a drinking glass until it shatters and I have little cuts all over my hands, make cuts in my arm with fingernails or pencils… but someday, when something pushes me over the edge, I will be Timothy McVeigh, Ted Bundy, Saddam Hussein, Adolf Eichmann. I want to see people writhe. I want to see pain. I want to pull the legs from humans like a small boy pulls the legs from spiders. I want to transplant cow ears onto their empty, screaming eye sockets and the cock of a bull onto the place where I’ve grated off their nose with with the rusty heart of a broken light bulb, one stroke at a time.
I want to damn my enemies to hell, to exercise the power that Satan would exercise, were he here. I want to push pins into eyeballs, over the course of hours. I want to remove skin one piece at a time with a pair of pliers, pulling it off inch by inch. I want to break each bone in each body by hand with my own strength, grasping every bone directly after having sliced the flesh wide open with an oily screwdriver, one rip at a time.
I hate. I have always hated. I was raised the target, and now I want to exact one pound of flesh for each act through which I was made to suffer. I have never forgotten the face of any of those who hurt me, and someday I will be the angel of death.