Chapter 2. If Not Me Than Who Am I?

My life was like a poetry match, dueling between different foes; only the most attractive wins the deals in life. As much as you try to orate your country song, only the sexiest women go on to become stars.

Yet as one goes on in life, they find other competitions. And you'll never win one. Sometimes competitions are for the chosen few, not for the girls with wooden shoes. Because being a country girl, despite a city girl mentally does not bode well for the urban life. And you go through life thinking everyone besides you is so pretty, and thus resentment builds. There is always that feeling of wanting heads to roll.

They call me Hemato Tomato, I like bloody necks. So give me this muse, and let me tell the story of my forsaken life.

The time after graduation is always quiet; you never know when the sounds you hear are only things you think you hear, much like my vision that declining a little bit every year, I always seem to see something in the distance. But you can't let things like that get you down, when you have a book to write. You might have only this life to write the story of your life.

High school was a boxing match filled with deranged men, and you're not the one wearing clothes. You're also female, and a peaceful protester in the field of the game of resistance movements. If high school were like a government, it would be paddling your body forever and ever with no stop in sight. The only reason I never was, was largely do to luck. The region was not exactly liberal. You were liberal if you were a high school that bragged about how little you paddled students. Apparently some pretty boy student I heard about never guessed it was a liberal school.

In art class girls would wear potato shoes, and spend their time doing shit to tease me that was not explicitly mean. There was a blond who would do things to try to get my attention, and then claim "Oh shit now, I knew I shouldn't have cut my hair." She were a little lengthy pixie cute, her greenish eyes the color of prairies and country girls murdered by robot soldiers, her head displayed on the sidewalk going splat. You was exactly that kind of girl: cute as fuck, total buzz kill.

She and her friend would pay particular attention whenever I drew or painted something weird, especially it was different. Even if I got a bad grade for it. So most of my time in art was spent trying to do weird things to see her potato shoes.

I like girls in clogs.

Although every now and then this would go to far, and girls wearing shoes you liked would dangled them exposing their feet. It took thought control not to ask for a date out of impulse. So most school days was reading books checked out of the library. That wasn't the only reason, cyberspace girls and characters were the only women I didn't hate, or get weird trigger feelings whenever someone made a sex joke.

You would still have a mysterious cheer leader checking you out, even if there wasn't any of them to find you attractive. Before the complete and total French took over the United States when the British still had territory, it wasn't uncommon for me to even dig the French girls. I'd probably still date one, as long as they didn't mind hate fucking.

Even if I hate you personally, there was always a chance I took a picture of you out of a yearbook, and keep it as a desktop wallpaper. I kept it in a folder full of girls about to get the chop. I imagined stories of girls using the term chopping day in the same way girls in the country would use shopping day. There being always be little knick knacks related to guillotine trinkets being sold in book shops and other stories. I would be walking around my room with a constant erection, and it never went away unless I read the stacks of serial killer novels on my bookshelf.

Why do I choose to retell my young adult years?

Cause I had no childhood. I was a child, and my characters were a child. But there was no Kingdom by the sea. I drowned in poems by Edgar Allen Poe, who for a long time I had considered my artistic influence. His poetry standing in defiance despite the approval by the established order. It didn't occur to me that would feel like plan, but life can be weird. I wonder how Annabelle Lee was doing in her poetry world, I haven't drop in to have a chat.

If you are wondering what being a plan means, well if you watched the amount of UFO documentaries I did then often they might mention people who would come out of the blue to reveal some big secret. The secret usually being some aspect of hidden technology held from us by our government masters. However at the time I would have put it in far more generous terms. After all, I was a child and my favorite author was a child, but some of the UFO community can kind of be total jackasses.

So I would spend my time reading or watching.

Used to skateboard, not anymore. When you have a cousin who always calls you a poser, it's bound to effect your self-esteem in some way.

I want to die in my own way.

I had issues with blond girls for a very long time, that was part of why it was out of character for me to court Anna-Marie. But sometimes you got to break your preconceived ideas about people to give them a chance. Unfortunately most of the blonds I met never gave me the chance. If you don't want to give me the chance, I feel like, life is way to short to spend time where you're hated. And if you hate me, there is a very good chance I'll give you three fold return. It's just how my mind works. So most of the time instead of trying to court anyone, I spend more time watching crowd source videos of decapitated chicks ripped from movie scrolls.

Although this was fun, it also got more boring. After a while even reading serial killer true crime books got boring after a while. On some level I related to Dahmer, before I realized I wasn't actually a man or necrophiliac. Or going around slaughtering girls on the home range. I do like my free range meat, although that's generally exclusive to eating chicken or fish. Not spring chicken. Some of the smaller women in my class, I have considered licking their toes.

But I'm not much for long pig.

Doesn't taste as well on a spit. You might find me a piece of shit, but for now I'll leave you to my kitchen to eat a banana split. Besides Banana tastes better than people. No not dicks, I'm not gay for men. It was only later I realized it was because I'm not actually a man at all.

I prefer peanuts in a free fall.

Nuts falling, falling, falling into my mouth. Young women's Jesus clogs being licked with, with my mouth. God damn, I need SRS.

I hate my erection.

Growing up as a trans woman necrophiliac--at least so I thought at the time, before I realized it was something else, that puberty a kind of paradox; sometimes the cat was in the box, but if the cat wasn't inside the box that cat made be somewhere else trying to court the woman you could have had. But you didn't want to subject anyone to know your kinks because you felt so guilty. You were someone who technically should not even exist, you would be treated as among the damned if they knew. Even if there was some small home you were not a killer.

There was a mothering instinct I had that made things even muddier, and it made coming to terms with my true feeling about girls a constant head ache. I also had a thick growing beard, despite being referred to as pretty indirectly. I distinctly remember one girl passive aggressively saying in law class, "Why is it always the hot guys that turn out to be gay." So most of my life was spent unsure of what kind of bizarre sexual fascination I had, and trying to deflect being called queer as someone who always felt more like a girl than a guy.

So the end of high school came as a kind of relief, as I masturbated to cute women in boxer briefs and potato shoes, while taking showers sobbing constantly because I so often felt so dirty, so unclean, so evil. I want to not exist, I wanted to be permanently erased from the world.

Well, didn't turn out that way.

I came to my own, my own merry way.

I spent at nights dreaming of girls I could never date. I dreamed of girls like Gordan James with cute boy names laying on the bed in potato shoes and short shorts, inserting my cock into their well shaped lips. There was something about the delightful shoulder cut, that reminded me of a good beheading length cut. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'd only ever court a girl cause I want to lop her head off. Besides I wanted have a good hate fuck every once in a while. I worked as a stocker for the local charity foundation, the name of which I shall withhold to avoid lawsuits. Besides I want some future opportunity of maybe finding some job training.

Maybe. At nights I would also lament the lost Annabelle Lee, who died far to young for Edgar and me. It's just not fun to see poor Edgar Poe unhappy.

But it's kind of sexy, that pretty man. I also had dreams of giant spiders strangling me that would came from the sky, starless at night. Sometimes the stars would scorn me and my beautiful nightly bride, the widow out of time--who lopped off the heads of the forgotten girls who hated them self.

I was me, and I hated myself.

Over time I began to go to church less and less, and in another book I cover that period were I almost got permanently involved in a UFO cult, so I shall not go into that to much here.

It was my most depressing year.

My gerbils had just died of a cancerous tumor. So I drew a drawing in their memory, the very giant demonic gerbil cutie hopping, hopping, and hopping up and down. And eating my beautiful brides.

"Bad gerbil, don't eat my brides." I took out an ax in the drawing, "Here let me take their heads off first." The image would often switch to French revolutionary scenarios, that would only later become my own reality. The thing about reality is often your reality you think begins to effect other people. I would only get to sleep when mom wasn't constantly knocking on the door. Or when dad wasn't fussing at me for some reason, and I would have to attack with knives to get him away from me because I would be constantly fearful that he would knock me down and strangle me.

Sorry, a little choked up.

And then they murdered my pup.

For much of my youth I was completely lost.

I didn't know who I was at all.