I hurt. I hurt not because of pain, but because

I hurt. I hurt not because of pain, but because of pain I have not felt -- that which I must feel to truly know my existence relative to those who have suffered greater.
My one line manifesto for masochists.
"Love hurts."
"but not as much as a machete jammed into your cornea." I thought to myself that it was up for debate, but in fear of a trial, I decided not to voice my opinion. Love and I never
paid for Eharmony. Sure "Love" and I registered to see who we were matched with, but we never had enough scratch to contact those people and that left us utterly
dejected when we were faced with the reality that we weren't good enough to have companionship, that in essence I deserved to die alone, not even to live, as others are entitled to
do. So began my search for a place where I could die alone. I wanted to hear the echo of loathsome self pity without human noises to distract me, but I lived in NYC
on a busy street, with sirens going by, horns honking and my neighbors constantly bickering. No this wouldn't do. I had to get away. I searched for my end of life respit, I held
on to his arms as he plunged deeper into the forests of my consciousness elevating me into new levels of divine knowledge with every singular thrust. This was
the kind of sex hypnotists loved. My last thought was that I never should have volunteered to go up on that stage at the school assembly.

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