False Self Control


I sometimes have these thoughts, you know? Sometimes I want to get into someone’s house late at night while everyone is sleeping. I want to pick up one of their knives and I want to cut them. I want to feel their warm skin turn slick as they sweat the life out of their bodies. I want to feel their hot blood on my fingertips. I want them to breathe their last few breaths into my ear as I slowly listen to them fade from their pointless existence. Then, when it’s all over, I want their family to wake up and see what I’ve done. I want them to feel pain, to feel tortured by their loss and the fact that they can never fully recover from such a horrible things. I want to do that, so badly it hurts.

I don’t, but if I did, it would start with the receptionist at work. Every morning I show up, and every morning she’s there. She smiles from ear to ear, a fake one that we all can see but she continues to pawn as if it’s as real as the caked make-up covering her normal face.

Don’t misconstrue my last comment and think that I don’t like the normality of the real human. I do. I love how people smell unwashed, how people look without make-up. I love how their emotions break them, and how they break themselves more than other people do. It’s fake people that I despise, and I’m sure most of you will agree with me, right?

Just this morning, when I got to work, I stepped inside the lobby, and there she was, just sitting there with that little phone device clipped to her ear. Her thick brown hair bounced over her shoulders, three of four strands sticking to her lipstick. She laughed that fake laugh and breathed those fake works into the phone, but I knew. I always know.

That was the moment I knew I wanted her to be my first. Sure, I’d taken out cats in the past, even cut out their tongue because I hated their wailing and moaning and insincere cries for love and attention.

That’s what I wanted to do to Lilly.

That was her name. Lilly. It was cute, sweet, and unequivocally not a representation of what sat in that chair. No. What sat in that chair was a woman who cared more about her appearance and less about her true self. She looked through you instead of meeting your eyes. She talked at you instead of with you. She was a prime example of a human being gone wrong, and I refused to speak to her.

This morning was no different. She greeted me, and I thought about those cats, thought about insincere gestures and thought about cutting out her tongue. I thought about splashing acid in her face to give her a reason to wear that god-awful makeup. I even thought about cutting out those plump lips, which had to be fake, too.

Instead, I just walked past her, ignoring her yet again.

I don’t know why she bothered making an effort to talk to me. I’m not an attractive man. I never have been, and I never cared to be, but my acknowledgement of this and my understanding of such facts, meant that I knew when people were bullshitting me. She bullshitted me a lot.

By lunch, I had calmed down. I had rice and teriyaki chicken. It was good, juicy. A solid meal that wasn’t too heavy nor too light. The problem was that the people in the food court across from my office took too long to cook my meal, and so I got to work later than I usually do. This meant that I got back to the lobby after Lilly, and that I had to once again deal with her. I’ll make the food service employee pay later.

When I arrived back in that lobby, something was different. She continued to look down at the computer at her desk, clicking away. There was no smile, just the slack face of an uninterested person sitting there, uncaring and bored. I furrowed my brow and walked all the way up to her. She continued to ignore me, but I knew she knew I was there. She knew my smell. She commented on how rare the cologne I used was, and was even able to name it.

It’s worth mentioning that I don’t wear cologne because I care what I smell like. I don’t. Other people do. You don’t become as successful as I’m smelling like a rotting onion that bathes in shit if that shit where the diarrhea equivalent for flu-ridden rotted onions. It doesn’t happen. Manipulation is key, and cologne to mask the reality of human decay is always top of the list.

Anyway, I sat there for a moment, and commented, “Hot outside today.”

She simply nodded, and continued to look at her computer screen. She blatantly ignored me. At least if I had said nothing, it might have seemed like maybe she didn’t even know I was there. Maybe she had a cold and couldn’t smell me. It was certainly possible, at least, until I opened my mouth. She remained silent.


When I got back to my desk, I sat there for a moment and thought about how she reacted to me. If there was anything I hate more it’s when people treat me poorly. I can’t stand it.

At the end of the day, I went home. I sat here for a while, too, and then sat there a bit longer. The whole time it was silent, so I was able to think about what she did to me. Then I realized she could make it up. I knew she lived with her mother and father. She had no children and no husband. I’m sure she had a good fuck she enjoyed from time to time, even if it wasn’t always the same man, but there was no one serious in her life. I wished there was because then it would make everything so much sweeter. However, her parents finding her in the morning would have to do.

Now, I wait until the clock strikes one in the morning, whereupon I’ll make my way to her house at the address provided to me by the computer systems at work. I’ll sneak in, and I’ll cut her. I’ll taste her blood. Smell her fear. Feel her pain, and when it’s all over, I’ll revel in the additional pain her death causes. Maybe I’ll leave a note. Perhaps I won’t. I have yet to decide, but I’m sure whatever decision I make, it will be the right one and it will be glorious.


Twice the Trouble


She walked up to me, her finger wagging in the air like an excited puppy, but she was anything but happy. “Ooooh, I am so mad at you right now.”

“Me? You’re the one who decided it was a good idea to go outside!”

“Ugh! I can’t even with you right now!”

“Bitch, please. Had you stayed inside like I told you, they wouldn’t be hunting us down.”

“Whatever, I could turn you in as the fake, and then I wouldn’t have to hide, like ever.”

“You can’t do that, they would know.”

“How? Unless your ass grew three sizes too big since I last saw you,” she said, eyeing me. “Look, we both know you created me to be perfect. Better than you’ll ever be, so I’ll never be the one they figure is the clone.”

I gasped, and looked out at the ocean. Okay, maybe I was looking at the profile of my ass in the shadow. She didn’t know that, though. A good thing, too, because it meant I would be inadvertently admitting that she was getting to me.

“Don’t you look away from me when I’m talking to you, Missy.”

“I created you,” I said, and finally met her eyes. “I’ll do what I want.”

“I’d like to know how you plan on doing that?”


Now she was the one gasping. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

She eyed me, as she usually does when she doesn’t trust me. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

I smirked and pulled a small device out of my pocket. It was about the size of a car remote, but instead of alarm buttons, it had a small screen with buttons to set a date and time. It was Chronos, a time-travelling device I created for emergencies. Just then, it seemed like a good time to use it.

I started typing the new time, and she said, “You can’t do that or I’ll use the black box!”

“The what?” I said, and looked up.

With wild eyes, she produced her own small device, and started typing on it. I said, “No, you can’t do that! It’s not fair!”

She laughed maniacally as the sky started to darken. The wind howled through distant trees, and the clouds raced across the sky. Then, just above us, as the black sky gave way to purple, the clouds swirled as if the small epicenter of a hurricane.

I returned my gaze to her and then to the device in my hands. If I could just get back in time to stop her and destroy that black box, then none of this would ever happen. If I failed, then the world would perish.

After a moment, I finally entered the time, three weeks prior to this day. The small red button in the center of my device blinked in and out, and just before my thumb pressed the button, she knocked it out of my hands.


“Yes!” She screamed, and looked at the sky. The winds descended upon me, the clouds reaching down like large hands. They grasped me, soon to take me to unknown places. I had lost the battle here and now, but the war was far from over.

I screamed, “Mom!”

“What are you doing you little brat?” Loretta said.

I called again, “Mom!”

“What, honey?” she said from under the shade of a nearby picnic umbrella.

Loretta tried to cover my mouth but I fought her as I said, “Lori’s not playing fair!”

“What did she do, honey?”

I didn’t know how to explain that my bitch of a sister had cheated, so I said, “She said a bad word!”

She gasped. “Ugh! I did not!”

“Did, too!”

“Uh, huh! She said it! I swear!”

“Did not! Momma, she’s lying!”

“Both of you stop it right now!”

By then, Loretta had me laying in the wet sand and was trying to push my face into it. We both looked up, and our mother was staring at us over the rims of her dark sunglasses. Loretta quickly crawled off me, and started playing in the dry sand. I stared at my mother, who continued to stare at me. I scowled, puckered my lips, and then after picking my Tamigotchi off the ground, I ran off to play in the tide pools. There was a giant sea creature living down there, and I didn’t have time to pay mind to my mother’s neutrality. The world needed me.


hand over mouth

I was going about my important business (read: scrolling through Facebook posts hoping to find something interesting), and I saw a meme about the slang ‘fuckboy’. I saw the term used before this, and, based on context clues, figured it to mean a dude whom a woman keeps on the side to get laid whenever she wants. However, some of the memes didn’t entirely agree with my guess of what the word meant, so I did what every self-respecting internet user would do, and googled that shit.

It turns out that ‘fuckboy’ has many different meanings. Some cultures reference it as a piece of shit, some as a womanizer (also a piece of shit), and some follow my perceived definition of it. This I didn’t really think twice about since a lot of English language vocabulary (especially slang) takes on several different meanings. If you don’t believe me, look up the word ‘set’, and you’ll find it has more than 100 variation. (Source: dictionary.com)

Again, this is nothing surprising. No, what was surprising was an article I found by one Kara Brown. She apparently had read an article written by white authors who had made a passing reference to ‘fuckboy’ during an article about Tinder. From this, she went on a rant about how white people steal words like ‘fuckboy’ and make it seem as if they’re the ones that came up with it instead of giving black people (or anyone not white, really) the credit for it.

First of all, let me make one thing clear. I get that there’s a problem with cultural appropriation. There are many important issues concerning it, and a lot of misunderstanding surrounding it. There’s also definitely a fine line between actual cultural appropriation and the ancient realization that one can find something negative in anything if they look hard enough, but right now I’m more concerned about why Kara fights so hard in this rant to have something so stupid be attributed to her culture.

The truth is that minority cultures shouldn’t have to fight for their cultural significance in today’s society. For example, black people shouldn’t have to fight to let the world know that blue rhythm inspired rock music. However, when there is a larger culture of people that exists among small cultures and that larger culture uses something from the small culture’s uh culture, then it tends to be assumed en masse that the larger culture pioneered it. This in turn takes some of the smaller culture’s relevance away from society as a whole. This is not a good thing.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about Kara Brown’s rant. She takes it upon herself to call out these white authors for ignoring the fact that ‘fuckboy’ came from black culture, and that the black culture should be right, justly, and solely attributed to the coining of the term. As a human being and an America, she has the rights to ask for whatever she wants. However, what she gets might be an entirely different thing, and in this case, she didn’t get what she was expecting.

While it’s true that the overall tone of her (very angry) piece was about cultural appropriation, the centerpiece of her argument, the correct attribution of ‘fuckboy’ to the black culture, destroyed her whole argument, and degraded her culture as a whole.

Let me put it simply: why would anyone from any culture want to have ‘fuckboy’ correctly attributed to them? It’s like being in an elevator, smelling the most rotten, eye-watering fart, and then raising your hand and taking responsibility for it when it wasn’t you.

The term ‘fuckboy’ is without a doubt, a stinky, deadly fart. It’s a stupid term that means nothing and adds nothing to society. It’s neither a revelation nor a game changing proverb. It’s like screaming YOLO before you jump out of a plain without a parachute or swallowing a match after drinking a cup of jet fuel. Why would anyone, especially a minority culture, use this word as the basis for an argument of cultural appropriation?

They wouldn’t. They shouldn’t.

By writing a rant where one needs their cultural validation to come from a term such as ‘fuckboy’, you effectively degrade your culture. Yes, I’m well aware that each culture’s dialect is unique to that culture, but that doesn’t mean that everything members of that culture come up with should remain exclusively attributed to that culture. I mean, would you want to be part of a culture that fights to have ‘fuckboy’ correctly attributed to them? Hell no. That’s some embarrassing shit.

This brings me to my last point, which is this: when you fight for your culture, you need to do it right. You need to pick your battles because we are a people of judgment bastards. Fight for blues inspiring musical history. Fight against blackface, yellowface, or other ****face issues that degrade your culture.

If after all that, you still want ‘fuckboy’ to be a staple of your culture, then fine. Enjoy the term. We don’t want it. I’m sure other cultures don’t want it, either. Just don’t be surprised if someone comes along, and comments on how atrociously stinky your fart is, because you asked for it.

Here’s Timmy!

Once upon a time, there was a man that worked and lived with his kin, and his family did not cooperate with him. Though his mother called him something other, he lovingly called himself Tim. He boarded with three others, his daughter Karen, his son Daren, and a wife named Kim.

Tim and Kim and Karen and Daren lived at odds with each other in that house. Tim had to work while Daren loudly played with his mouse. Karen always screamed on her phone while Kim cleaned and dusted their house. Everything was as it should be, but Tim could never focus, causing him to become a raging spouse.

One day Tim took the time to take Karen and Daren to a faraway park while Kim cleaned the floor. The kids played and played, and they played some more. Soon passed an hour, maybe two—maybe four. When they looked up Tim had gone, and they let out a loud cry as loud as a lion’s roar.

When he got home, Tim axed Kim in the back. He gave her one, two, maybe four times the whack. With Karen and Daren gone, Tim hid Kim in the shack. An hour later, the bell rang, and behind the door with Karen and Daren there was a man named Zach. He took the kids into the house, and Tim began to yack.

“You see, kids, your mother has left us. Karen, Daren… I must put you on a bus. You will ride and ride, and ride some more until you reach your aunt May and your uncle Russ. Just know I love you, now please leave without a fuss.”

And so the kids left the house, Karen with her phone and Daren with his mouse. Finally, Tim found the time to work, three less a louse. At the end of the day, he cleaned the house and rid any trace of his family, even burning his wife in her favorite blue blouse.