To Anna-Marie

Sometimes ones perceptions,
Are not the only thing right at all.
Yet for me I only have myself.
Nevermind anything at all.

Because with you I have everything,
Everything in my life before has fallen down.
Yet I am not one who think am I
The one to sing you lullabies.
     Those rhymes mean nothing to me or you and I know that.

Yet as with life sometimes one enjoys poetic lies.
Half truths designed for anyones comfort,
Yet no comfort at all.
You are my history girl, Anna-Marie.

Who helped me find myself and my place in viewing others.
Though one sees you as murder kin,
One cannot weep for those boys who touch you all o'er again.
     Because you are my murderer girl.

Who helps remove the toxin from myself.

Retrospective

Generally speaking the idea of a woman/girl being decapitated who has had battered wife syndrome has generally been an extremely taboo topic on Western culture from 1800 onwards.

Imagine for example, if at first you were a friend of said girl/woman, and you felt betrayed by the fact that she murdered someone. Then you break all ties knowing a guilty person was beheaded.

Along with the fact that life persists after decapitation something unique even from long drop hanging, although still unjustifiable even if death were instantaneous base on concepts of guilt and culpability, would you really be able to live with yourself from the idea of abandoning your friend because you made the wrong assumption about someone and left them to die?

This is why historically crimes that resulted in execution have historically resulted in execution being a state secret. It wasn't until later the idea of transparency about topics started becoming more common in the West.

It still persists in parts of Asia like China however.

Note that all future novels I write with be based on later criminal cases, and this was an experiment in writing Historical Futuristic Romance.

Thanks for reading.

And yes just because someone is horny for decapitated women's heads, doesn't necessarily mean they advocate the practice.


Sources:

http://unknownmisandry.blogspot.com/2016/02/anne-marie-boeglin-17-year-old-serial.html

http://crimes.mysteres.free.fr/Affaires-criminelles/huissier_diabolique.htm

http://www.livescience.com/15264-brain-death-decapitation.html

Guillotine Western Bible -- Original Guillotine Western Concept

In Uploaded Fairy, it eluded to a future where criminals can be randomly guillotine gunned and beheaded in the streets. Already this diverges from a future that many consider to be likely. Let's take a step back, and speculate about how such a future may come about.

I once saw a television broadcast mentioning that a little known fact was that the founding fathers voted about whether the preferred means of capital punishment, due to their new laws regarding prohibitions of cruel and unusual punishment, would best utilized through hanging by the neck or guillotine. In Europe, many countries still allowed for beheading. Germany still lopped peoples heads off by ax and block, and France had recently adopted the guillotine after the French Revolution as the means of capital punishment for the populace.

For whatever reason, according to Wild West Tech, America never took to beheading. The exception is when people are beheaded due to botched hangings.

Speculated Guillotine Western

Guillotine Western fiction speculates about an extremely subtle form of alternate history where history only varies insofar that the founding fathers decided the Guillotine was the means to ensure for quick and arguably painless capital punishment. The guillotine has specific advantages over hanging, but one also can stay alive for up to two minutes after decapitation, there face having something like a sleepy eyed expression and them mouthing words with no vocal cords.

Specific historical events would be largely the same. Except that Civil War traitors and petty thieves in the Wild West would be guillotined in the square instead of hung by the neck. Various social phrases would develop that alternate from historical facts such as “let's stretch their necks.” Something more like, “Let's harvest the chickens.”

Fashion In Guillotine Western

Largely speaking, fashion would be roughly the same as the history we have. However, like revolutionary France, people might craft guillotine earing styles. It is also an established fact that in countries at war in history, people wore wooden clogs when leather became shorter. But for whatever reason the west always wore boots. However if America had an extended Civil War that lasted until 2117, then leather would inevitably become a rare resource. You would have children in certain circle that were not rich wearing shoes people tend to associate with Italy, France, Belgium, Netherlands, and parts of Germany. The reason is livestock would be in short supply.

Parents would teach their kids have to chop for wood, and learn how to make their own pairs of wooden clogs so they can learn to make a pair of shoes tailored for their fit. Also if leather were a rare resource, then modern concepts of steel toes would manifest differently than if leather were far cheaper to make. Or society might make shoes out of something else, for example steel toes made out of plastic or rubber. But this is mainly a product of the 20^th century, and would manifest differently of there was a perpetual war that shook the nation until 2117.

Now this is assuming that wooden clogs are not part of an underground sub culture, where teens seek to become off grid and not reliant on industrial/corporate prices. You would have eighteen year olds in wooden clogs going to their doom to the guillotine.

Diet In Guillotine Western

For the most part, people in the wild west had simpler diets than we do today. People mostly consumed direct basic by-products from the animal. Cheese was actually cheese, not cheese food product. However with primitive automation allowed for simple food processing, the culture of splitting culinary tasks went by the way side.

Various ethnic backgrounds brought different food styles to the table during this era of technical innovation. Due to large populations coming from different parts of Asia, the US had influences between Chinese, Thai, and Japanese among other other groups. This combined with Irish/Italian culture already present, with British going by the wayside for dishes this includes corn beef and cabbage spaghetti that encompasses a wide range of all five flavors within each individual family variety.

Criminality And Characters

Characters are generally loosely based on characters (usually minors) from history who either have been acquitted or are sentenced to death. The basics of the case are researched, and the rest are left to empathy and similar life experience to the author in order to come up with the best judgment on forming life styles of characters.

Such characters are based on figures from 19^th century French pop culture and the American wild west, in collision that feels very strange to historical purists. The intent of the narrative is a kind of juxtaposition of eroticism and empathic emotional response that makes the reader uncomfortable.

Ex. Anna-Marie Boeglin

Superstition In Guillotine Western

Due to various social factors, and religion losing its influence with a wider range of cultural influences earlier in American history, beliefs became increasingly less deity focused, with more stories revolving around the dead and how they interact with the people. However due to no deities, religion took on a uniquely atheistic approach.

An example superstition would be knocking on an abandoned houses door twice, so that the spiritual residue there doesn't try to kill those who seek to visit the house and learn of its secrets.

Specific Folktales are included for completion.

1. The tale of the haunted door – In this story, a ghost investigator solves the mystery of a haunted door, and becomes one of the spirits of the house.
2. The tale of the animated guillotine and pillory – A guillotine and pillory engineer conspire to automate beheading and locking in the pillory utilizing a arcade style time expiration using coin slots.
3. The tap dancing ghost of a little girl – A young girl who died in her early teens ten years ago haunts an abandoned house. She is visited by adventurous children who go into the house as part of a dare.
4. The corned beef and cabbage that ate itself – In this story, a can of corn beef and cabbage seem to magically eat itself. It is filled with bugs that want more food. Ever sense companies use this folk tale as justification for extreme levels of preservatives.

Childhood In Guillotine Western

Children are still spanked in this largely atheist culture, however the reasonings/excuses focus more on not upsetting the dead. For example a mother may paddle her daughter because she walked into a graveyard at night, and performed blasphemous rituals to specifically Eastern concepts. instead of using biblical passages for reasons to spank their kids. Much like how Asia still paddles their kids, but their reasoning isn't associated with the Bible.

Gaming In Guillotine Western

Kids play on analog arcades after a certain point in an unhindered technical revolution. This eventually creates a more advanced virtual reality arcade system at an earlier point in time than would have otherwise taken place. Therefore it was natural for gaming to take on a dream-like quality after the turn of the 21^st century.

Therefore instead of utilizing wooden swords fighting monsters, children and teenagers switch to their adventurous mindset purely in the draw of games. It's feasible one could live their entire childhood in these analog arcades in certain social circles.

Executions In Guillotine Western

Because executions by guillotine were a relatively common occurrence in the Wild West, this sparked multiple innovations in design that made execution by beheading practically a non deterrence. You could be captured by sheriffs and bandits alike and they would have guillotine models with an all metallic design that had the insignia of specific gangs. Therefore people became apathetic, as beheading began to occur at earlier ages down to the age of thirteen in specifically dangerous locales. This created new danger zones outside of the enforcement of sheriffs.

Guillotine Zone In Guillotine Western

The guillotine zone is a wide expanse between the wild West and New York City where bandits had free reign to use beheading as this cultures form of lynching. Women who took to the horse, and got into the wrong side of the crowd tap dancing in their wooden clogs could easily find themselves locked in the guillotine and see their bodies float away as their heads fall into a basket.

War Of The Sexes In Guillotine Western

In these danger zones, criminality was the law. Very few people live past the age of thirty two. War of the sexes was an earlier and more extended affair. You were more likely to find all male or all female bandit group, with neither trusting each other. They would hold weekly holidays of women captured and beheaded in little all male town squares after being used in the pillory.

Pillory has replaced jail sentences for women, who men felt female criminals could be used as replacement horses on buggies in case they had to put one of their horses down. Therefore a culture of “horse women” was born. Women were more likely to be slaves than men, with Asian boys being highly prized for their beauty and an example of why men can be pretty too.

Guillotine Zones Not Without Honor

An Asian boy could have a white female slave. If you owned enough slaves you could have one of them beheaded instead of you, if your slave loves you well enough to protect your life. Special honorary rituals are placed in honor of said slaves. Sometimes this creates the necrophiliac complex, where Asian boys fall in love with their slaves, and they choose to haunt cemeteries being with their loved ones forever.

Final Epilogue -- Reincarnation Database

I

It is the year twenty sixteen.

Life has never been like a crazy girlfriend, twirling around with your book. And then tripping and falling into your chest. It's really more like her tripping, falling into chest, and trying to hide away her tears.

So few delightful memories of earlier times, except in the small period of children's rhymes. The old crone who watches the young, moving onto to younger children. And her trickster cat tap dancing on a mocking tap dance, hammering the floor with its cane. "This is the life, quite profane." And in the darkness, so few live to thirty two. So begins the story of a young woman, who never dated. Though she had many a desire to do so, she simply never really found the time.

Michaella found herself constantly busy grading papers, and reviewing books when she was on her off time. The very desire to quite and sail around the beach of Seattle was something she had held off for a while. Partially from the memories of her father taunting her about sailing around the world, but partly because she had wanted to settle in some other part of the country, with a lower living expense. But since her hours had increased, she had gotten rid of the idea since, and now only the vague promise of a better life that grew steadily fainter remained the thing that kept her going.

She worked every hour she could to pay the motel rent, even knowing living an apartment could be cheaper. She resisted her temptation to be a sleeper, but was a chronic weeper. Sometimes she would feel sad for no reason, and yet at other times knew all to well the reasons she cried.

It was since the girl that loved her went away.

She left the world, and died.

When they were in school, they would sometime come across each other. Michaela had always been the one into computers. So she spent very little time, much as she does now, actually finding time for love. Her life was the draw of the monitor, and how it looked inside its enclosing. And the various JRPG ports she used to play when she was a teenager. The girl she knew was a cheerleader, so the idea of them dating was largely hopeless from the start.

One day the girl tried asking her out. I'm not ready, Michaela said. Because she knew that in dating her she would someday break her heart. It was a kind of self-fulfilling about this from the very start. They would from time to time see each other. And you had to admire the cheerleader for her determination. But by this point Michaela had drawn herself into the net, and began to snag pictures of media girls. She felt heart broken whenever she lost the power supply.

Then the girl that loved her lost hers.

Her electricity went out in her brain when she was ran over. And from that point Michaela had sub consciously tried to date dispassionately.

Michael didn't see her life going anywhere.

She didn't want to see anymore at all. So she waved to the world goodbye, see you later world. And then jumped herself in front an eighteen wheeler.

The next girl had had crushed on her, a coworker, remembered her fondly. She became the children's story of nursery rhymes. She told gentler versions of the life of Michaela.

She wanted to see Michaela smile.

II

It is the year eighteen ninety eight across the pond North East.

The feeling of a final caress, the feeling of a lady in complete undress. The feeling of everything at peace, despite the rot. She didn't think she'd want to see her go, yet it was better than them together in misery in the snow.

She remembered the first time they came to the residence. Their wooden shoes were warmed by the fire place, after a quick brushing. Neither of them wanted to leave each other, despite minor political disagreements that could be resolved. One was pro death penalty, the other anti-death penalty. And yet this conflict only came up during conversations of other hostility beyond the scope of this final account of their eternal embrace.

Haley wasn't used to the idea of being truly alone, though at times she had considered the idea do to underlying trust issues she had with her parents. And now she began to regret the last statement she made to her, how she would rather never talked to her again. She had always been one to want any noise what so ever, and for many years she would do anything to make this noise--to fill the silence that filled the room. And yet for the life of her, she also preferred the idea of someone else talking while she peacefully reflected about quieter Summer's evenings. An idea that was very far from the present moment, when they move to higher provinces.

She had not considered the idea of eating human before. Her father had been part of a science team in genetics, and would discuss the problems of eating people at times. All this to say, despite how much like pork men may taste, it was never a good idea to have a steady diet of them. And yet she also did not want to see her body rot in isolating in the snow forever. Haley had feint tear drops from the idea of her lover being torn apart by wild dogs. Even as she would kick her with her clogs, they would tear her apart viciously like wild hogs. And unlike pigs, were wild and were not trained by men and kept largely as the official other white meat.

And yet Haley could resist. And yet she always found that what she loved about her girlfriend lied inside her heart. So she plucked it out, and kept the body with her always despite the stink under the house.

She consumed her heart. Made it part of herself.

And she was careful not to tell the guests. If they asked, she would just tell them that they were mistaken. It was also simply a natural gas.

III

The year was twenty seventeen.

The thing about the death penalty, is it is rather inefficient, cruel, and expensive. The only reason the death penalty even exists in the modern world is that religious people cling onto the idea as some means of gaining closure.

Yet the truth of the matter is that no matter how cruelly you decapitate a woman, and allow her to strangle to death, there is nothing like allowing her to life with the slow realization that she had just murdered someone she loved. Yet in this context, the society did not understand this aspect. They just assumed that because she took off her girlfriend's head, that she must be an absolute monster.

Joana did not intend to kill her girlfriend, but she was caught in a kind of crazy were she legitimately thought it was more merciful to take off her girlfriend's head than have her secrets revealed to all. She had promised to her that no matter what awful memories she kept secret inside, that her secrets can follow her to the grave. So she chose to give her a slight shave under her shin, which soon escalated to her sawing back and forth, and then eventually removing the head of her beloved. She tried to calm her in her soothing voice, and her girlfriend's eyes bulged. She had known her girlfriend had secrets from her childhood she wanted locked away forever. Secrets about hyper sexuality that had plagued her throughout her youth.

And yet now that the deed was done, because she loved her sweet heart to much, the total realization was in front of her eyes. And then so silently she tried to scream, and never went outside of her house the following week. But when her employer tried to ask about why she didn't come in for work, she found out that she was apprehended by the local police department.

It was a short trail, they didn't even consider mental health. Or the effects on the victim's family as the both had none. So it was a simple affair.

She was taken outside the courthouse, and then shot with a guillotine gun. Her head was kept for mental examination, and allow to stay alive long enough to feel the sheer impact of severance. To extend the length of time for her to die, do to the nature of her criminal act.

And yet, Joana did it out of love.

She had loved nobody else. The little storyteller that her girlfriend was, came to her as if from a dream, caressing her head gently in a final kiss before the dark consumed her completely.

The kiss of death.

VI

Sometimes in the darkness, one doesn't realize they are dead. Yet at other times they amount of time they tap dance through the darkness, the amount of time between one incarnation and the next is rushed into the next life.

Lives scatter about on dimensional planes like government databases. Some say there are markets for different kinds of lifetimes, yet most are to poor to be able to afford the life of their choosing. And so it becomes a continual cycle of abuse over the ages of mankind.

Thus Michaela expected to be called Michaela again.

Beyond the light, she found herself young again. Yet it was an earlier period in human history. She found herself among peers of fairies, goblins, and elves. They wanted to read stories to her, and make simple jokes. And yet the years of incarnations have made her weary about anything. Michaela saw many points in time: past, present, and the future time. She found herself recollecting conversations between cyborg men, people with wearable computers, and other girls in wooden shoes more sinister than she about to hang from the rope. Their neck snapping mercifully. Yet there was always the thought in her mind why we really need to take human lives, however merciful. Her body was thirteen, yet her mind was ageless. She wanted to bless people with herbs and spices, and make them pumpkin pies.

And yet instead her world fills her with lies.

No children's rhymes and cherry pies. She felt uncertain what this new life may mean for her, as she had only reincarnated in the past once before. At the time she was the thief among thieves, the murderer among murderers, and longed to stab the throats of angry law enforcement men. And yet at this point she found lifetimes to short.

She hung herself all o'er again.

Because this was the same world she had reincarnated in, and she wanted have a normal childhood again.

Epilogue -- Part Eight -- Farewell Lisa-Marie

Tiredness. That common feeling among all people. It reeks in your bones, it sucks all your marrow. At the end of the day, you no longer feel on the straight and narrow. You don't feel anything at all. Nothingness.

That's how it feels to exist, as one merely rots in their bed. My anger for others builds in disembodied fashion, it lurks behind the shadows on the wall. It lives, it breaths. It is its own identity, with myself as a separate identity. We are as one, yet separate. The resentment for others forming into its own kind of characters, that manifest in my dreams. It creates stereotypes of images, it creates mocking of my very core. Little lyrics play inside your mind, little short simple nursery rhymes. Little girls dancing through the halls of inner hospitals. Memories of times best forgotten. The old man at the end of the hall has the power to end all lives. You can here the sounds of vague projectile slices cutting through flesh and bone.

Then dripping blood on the floor.

Silence fills the air. The widow took her children, she consider it mercy for the young. Her screeching echoing through the halls. Yet the mourning mother longs for her lost children, as she walks toward the end of the line. This is no ordinary widow, but one with a blade. The widow when you "talk to the lady." The lady has achieved a kind of portability, a new kind of frame. One not easily put to the flame to end the practice, to spare the young from being to young to be executed by its sharpness.

It is 2016, the practice introduced.

The hick countries people seduced by new measures. New measures against serial killers despite the EU demands. It had left the member nations, forced its people into rations. A kind of war hysteria, not easily solved by doubt. The new Prime Minister, a blond woman possibly of her late forties, demands absolute obedience.

A new hero is needed.

A girl from afar.

Yet how can you help anyone, when you are always in bed. Deemed to crazy to die, you are to broken to live. How easy it would be to hang yourself, if they were not watching from every corner. Yet at times one says fuck the security cameras, fuck everything in this mortal coil.

Fuck the rope that hangs one as Lisa-Marie jumps out the window into forever.

And so the shotgun that could fire many rounds, is used instead to shoot someone's dog, as those security forces storm in to late, as she dangled from the multiple storied window.

She didn't die from a neck snap, or a strangle. But from a broken heart, the yelp of her dog. The security forces new lamb chops.

The silver platter of giants.

They serve the hanged ones head on a platter.

Ambiance of the night.

As someone prone to night terrors, these are the kind of images I see all the time. And yet my room mate often dismisses these as racism. Keep in mind most of the time bigotry against something may be justified as racism, however in the context it mainly comes down to political disagreement. My mom was also among the worst at dismissing such fears as racism. That's how she would try to squelch any and all political issues aside without really addressing them. With mom it was one thing, she was a sociopath.

With my room mate, entirely another thing. I only allowed her to take me on as it was a chance to mend my broken wings. To late to mend them, if you've already fallen.

And you merely stare to the sky.

I have many political opinions, as I see many tragic narratives unfold before me. Many images are strange futures I do no understand, no ever care for anyone to experience. With my brokenness I may seem hard to understand, understanding me to much of an errand. A chore for someone like yourself. But there is always an open ear. And yet no friend has ever lent this.

I remember many things, many I choose to hide.

And yet they see a bullet to the brain reveals all secrets. Some of which one may wish to keep inside their head.

I once chosen poison, I once chosen hanging.

Yet now I choose to simply rot.

Epilogue -- Part Seven -- The Tea Glass

After the firing of the guillotine gun blade, my head fell onto the street. I found myself hallucinating remembering a previous time.

I was in a cold and dark kitchen, with a giant woman the size of the entire room sleeping on the floor. At times she would have heavenly beauty and splendor, and at other times covered in silhouette. At night she would be sleeping. I almost certainly did not want to wake her up. This was the woman that I would eventually come to put poison in her drink. If there was any lingering doubts about this, keep in mind I had had this planned for months now. It is only recently that all our money was spent, and there was no longer any financial motivation--only the pain and scars that came with living here with my verbally abusive room mate.

I had decided that for the occasion, I will use bathroom cleaner. After all it was what I used when I tried to poison myself three different times before. So I walked into the other portion of the kitchen, making sure she did not wake up from her sleep. I knew that by the time the morning came she would be expecting tea. So I got a little bit of it, and carefully hid an amount in a plastic bag that I shall not specify, in case others seek to replicate my experiments.

Night was almost over now.

It was almost time for tea. I would then slip a little bit of poison into my own drink, partially to assure her this was how tea normally tastes. And the other half to make sure I didn't live to tell the tale.

It worked better than I was expecting. She dropped unconscious after writhing in pain. I may never understand the full experience of being another person, however I could reasonably imagine her vision fading into night, her eye balls losing that glow that all living souls tend to have. That loss of brightness just kills me. So there I was sitting down on the floor, contemplating when to have my drink. Eventually I swallowed just enough of the poison to make me sick, but not die.

To my detriment.

Keep in mind it wasn't as if I didn't personally like her, but I needed her to stop doing what she was doing to me, my self-esteem gradually fading nightly as the hours of my waking drew to a close.

I remembered when we first met each other at support group. I took her as someone that was an opportunity to leave my unpleasant mother who was sociopathic and a horrible kink shaming bitch, who at times treat my like I was hell spawn sent to punish her from god almighty--if you believe in that sort of thing. We moved to the north west portion of the United States after the French imperialist take over. I wasn't sure what would happen if police caught her with money enough to pay six months of rent, and a car heading down the headway at one hundred and fifty seven miles per hour.

It's not like I cared if I got beheaded.

But she was my friend.

In China we would have already been shot, but it wasn't as if we stole a car. I was just glad to be out of my mother's hair. So here I was hoping that I could start my new life. However the reason she is so big is all the alcohol we got, and all the cigars that I got to smoke in the motel room. You wouldn't think we would have ran out of money, well you wouldn't believe how much this bitch smoked! Well eventually when she would help me explore my traumas, she would at times poke me around my under garments, and then try to gently sooth me.

When you have weird issues about sex anyway, it wasn't like this would help me. Although her saying I would be really cute after HRT helped somewhat. So it was this period where I eventually decided to end everything.

I poisoned her, I tried to poison me.

Instead I enjoy the last few seconds of city lights, while my severed brown pigtailed head takes in the last bit of scenery.

I never knew the stars could be so faded.

I know wake up in a forest filled with elves, fairies, and dragons. And they welcome me home

in to a new world.

We had tea.

Epilogue -- Part Six -- Trust The Optimist

You know how it is around an optimist, at times it can lift your mood. At other times it can be completely grating. The one I know personally is unwilling to accept the idea that I already know as much of myself as I'm ever going to.

People get this idea in their head that they know someone better than they know themselves. It never factors in that maybe one is misreading people. For one, that is what scares me about people. I'm never really certain how to read anyone. They could be hiding any amount of negative aspects of themselves, put a positive spin on themselves. They go on with their life buying groceries living their life without even really comprehending the sheer level of visceral feelings people have for others. For me, this feeling of the sheer visceral is something I've taken for granted all my life. Visceral emotion was what feeling I had to survive on.

You wake up at night, think you see shadows on the wall. They are calling your name and waiting to mock you and make you feel down. They weigh you down in bed and make you not want to get up. I find that people weigh me down. I find that if a person is hiding something from me, it is usually something negative about themselves. For all I know, that person may be carrying a stiletto in their person. I find myself attracted to broken birds, because that's the only honest way humans can be. If you have something who is perfectly sunny all the time, maybe you run. They probably have an ax behind their back, and waiting for the chance to strike.

On some level this is how I feel about optimists, they create a positive spin on things and their idea of human nature. Because they don't want to acknowledge how truly alien other people are. Keep in mind I've known friends that went on to commit petty crimes including theft. Try putting a positive spin on things to them, and they'll find the opportunity to take your car keys. People are more likely to steal from you if you trust them, and you have something they want. For a long time about this optimistic, I've wondered what ulterior thing they wanted for so long. She has this idea that being pessimistic somehow make you less complicated a person. That's like literally the opposite of the case. I've tried being optimistic, and many times in my life I've been burned about it. People making fun of me for finding their jokes funny, people gaming a board game session so they always win.

It's all par for the course.

It's all a game they play.

Whenever I see people marvel at optimistic cut scenes, I have to resist the times to remind them, "Hey hey there. You know that's a work of fiction right?" Their grasp of the real world is extremely flimsy. No wonder they are willing to just latch onto feel good things.

I've never been much of someone that likes to be a buzz kill. But when you get to the point you assume you know someone more they know themselves, I have to stop you. You only know as much about me as I'm willing to tell you. I am reminded of a guy friend I knew in high school, that would play this exact same kind of shit. Usually it would follow along with him trying to talk me into buying something I didn't really need. The only real time he bought me anything was going out to dinner or that time he got me a magic orb to predict the future with.

You probably the idea of what I'm trying to imply about people that claim to know what you want, so I'll spare my breath. Look I thought I was a necrophiliac for years, and the fact that it turned out I had a sexual thing for blood was about as optimistic as my thing was going to get. It's not like optimistic mood is a bad thing, but it's important to keep things in a little perspective. Allow that communication to happen rather than have a one sided conversation.

Anyone know me as well as they claim should know this.

I'm very bad at multi sided conversations when someone. So many of my friends so far have been this way.

Why should I expect you to be different?

You never have been. Trust the optimist, not the know it all.