Poor twisted me
I'm writing this because it is a part of my life, and I feel if I didn't post it here for all to see, the idea of having a weblog at all would lose all relevance. My mind will be scripted, for all the public to see (as if I have any readers anyway), because I believe it should be. I have nothing to hide. I vowed never to lie again, and while I've separated "lying" from "witholding information", I still think this deserves mention. No human, ever, has ever heard me utter these things, no one has ever read these things. So without further ado, here is my mind, scripted:

As far back as I can remember I always wanted to be a gangster As far back as I can remember I've had these urges. These undeniable urges that, while certainly sexual in nature, not really sexual at all. Although I've always contributed it to a lack of sex. I even wrote a book once (ironically called "My Secret") where the protagonist (who is really an antagonist) had these very urges (of course it was a "fictional character"). So basically I've always subconsciously wanted to get this out in the open. But there is really no way I can think of to explain these urges, no word I can think of that defines it. So I'll just write about past experiences I've had when I've acted on them.

I go to some semi-remote location, but not completely remote. Sometimes bring some shoelace, or rope, or something. Find a place where not many people go, but some people go (or choose a location that people certain frequent, but no one I know frequent). Take off my shirt, tie myself up. Why? Because I want to be the victim. I want someone to look down at me and say "awww". It is completely insane, but that is the "reasoning" behind it. Usually I'd be able to untie myself (it's almost impossible to tie yourself up in such a way that you can't escape, or at least that I can't escape).

I remember one time, at Centennial Centre park, there were these two baseball diamonds. At the side of each diamond were "dugout" sections, little rectangle cubes of fencing. I took off my shirt and threw it onto the "roof" of the dugout. I went over to the nearby water fountain and dampened my hands and wrists. With my hands/wrists wet, I could slide my hands through the chain-link "ceiling" of the fence from underneath. But without the water I could not. My plan was to make it seem like I was trying to get my shirt down but got stuck. But my plan was also to get stuck. And I did. Three kids entered the park, I saw them from a distance. They were coming toward me. I panicked. Against all logic, I actually escaped the fence, ripping much skin off my hands/wrists. I had no time to get my shirt. The kids were chasing me, for reasons I really can't explain. I ran to the other edge of the baseball field and, knowing nothing else to do, pretend to fall down and go to sleep. The kids came up to me and started trying to wake me up. I pretended to just wake up after a long nap. "Is your name Clifford?" asked one of the kids. To digress, "Clifford" is the local "creepy guy" in town. He has been charged with such crimes as masturbating in a public park while school children waited for the bus. Anyway, the kids ran off and stole my shirt. It was a bad day. But my urge was quenched. There is this thrill that goes through me. It's like nothing else. I have that feeling now, just writing about it.

It's a part of me I hate, and I have successfully surpressed the urges more and more over the years. Last week I could've said I had gone two years or more without acting on it, but last weekend I did. I won't regale you with all the details, but suffice to say, I shaved my chest hair this time (also can't explain this).

What is wrong with me and how do I fix it?

Ahem, thank you.