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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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