Madness 3

the girl was something i dont even want to talk about. not even on my diary. in fact, i have reached this stage of self control where i dont even dream about her. i dont even think of how she screamed..and then laughed..in that high pitched voice kids have that drives me crazy, like hearing a hard chalk on a blackboard, or a steel cup scraped along a floor, or that incessant meaningless loud chatter when a group of them accumulate....sounds that makes me want to ram something down their throats, something short and abrasive, something that will scrape and scratch and shred their oh so soft pipes, drawing blood, raping that thing that the educated call the 'mucus' or whatever..i think of muck when i hear of that word..muck, shit, slime..all the words in the english dictionary that define these pests.

it was all right till the time i had one 'of mine own'. i fact, since i wont lie to my diary, let me confess that the only reason i finally decided to allow one of these smelly bitches to share my bed and commode was the fact that i could have one of these things to play with, away from the prying eyes of neighbors and 'concerned' doctors and teachers'. dont get me wrong here..i am not one of those choots who are (what the educated call) paedophiles...how can one think of sex when all one wants to do whip those bastards into total compliance? there's another english word for this of kind of fetish as well (i dont remember, nor do i care)...we live in a world where every abnormanility can be termed (and thereby justified) by some medical or psychological (or whatever term)..this so called abnornamility that i had had nothing to do with all that..is discipline an abnormality?

when the time came when i had to start listening to the clamors of marriage, all i used to think of was having some of my own..and after the first 7 months of our marriage (yes, dear diary...i had made sure that the waiting time was as less as possible..the bitter half was chosen accordingly) things started taking a rosy turn. in fact, i couldnt wait to get back home, when the doorbell rang and i could heard the sound of pattering feet, hear the scraping of the lock as he struggled to open the dual locks, hear the frantic struggle to take out the latest 'painting' he had excreted, hear the bitch put on the final touches to her hair before the door swung back....and then see the expressions change when they looked at my face, see the shrinking away, almost hear the pounding hearts, almost smell the naked smell of fear when i stumble in with my whiskey breath and bloodied shirt.