Sociopathic Misanthro-pissed

Friday always comes so unexpected. This week, it brought me to a place that I've never been to before. This Friday brought me to where the trail goes. To the bottom of the rabbit's hole. I found the center of it.

I was in a crack-house, I knew that. The basement was large and green-and-white-striped. It would have been cold, but the water heater that I was near warmed the room so I could relax. I sat on the ground with my back against the wall and a crack-pipe in my hand.

How did I come to this place? What was happening? With every hit of crack I took, I walked further and further down a crystal hallway towards a monument of amethyst. There before me was the Rock of Ages, the throne of God.

The great rock bellowed, "Who are you and why have you awakened my spirit?"

I had tapped into it. It was the center. It was the vortex that I found in my acid trips. Here, in the basement of a crack-house in Harlem, I was meeting God for the very first time. The drugs were serving as some kind of mental gateway.

"I am Sam," I said. "I have come to ask you what the greatest thrill of the universe is?"

God rumbled, "Look into me and see your reflection. It will take you to who you are."

And as I looked, I saw a sea of red blood. Literally, there was an ocean of blood and I was in it. I was humping a blue demon from behind. The female demon and I fucked in the sea of blood, her wings flapping in delight. I then realized that the demon that I was fucking looked just like my mother. And I began to see that my arm was tied off as I had done some heroin. And there was a joint in my mouth. I had discovered my greatest thrill—being stoned off my ass fucking a demon version of my mother in a sea of blood. That's my nirvana.

And here is what I learned, after meeting God in Harlem:

I treat being a sociopath as a fun thing, and much of the time it really is. I can't tell you the pleasure that I get out of my life and I know that the average jackass on the street won't ever feel half the thrill that I do in any given month. But there's another part to the disease—another part that's not glamorous at all. There's always the knowing, the constantly being cognizant of the fact, that you have no soul.

When I lay under the stars at night, I don't ponder the nature of existence or the possibility of God. I only think how great the sky would look if I had some acid and Pink Floyd to listen to.

When a girl tells me she loves me, I don't feel any joy in my heart. I only feel my dick swell because I know I'm gonna get laid.

When sitting in class, I don't ever think, "Wow. So that's how that works," or "Jeez, that actually happened?" I only daydream about whether or not I think I can actually get away with murdering someone.

Because I'm a sociopath, I feel no remorse or sympathy for anyone. I don't believe in true beauty outside of a good high or a brilliant con. I think Shakespeare is garbage and I think the only goal in any woman's life is to be a good little cock-sucking slut.

And the funny thing is that I am fully aware that I am somehow missing something that all people who are not sociopaths seem to see. I don't get people who dig sunsets. I don't ever wake up in the morning happy to be alive. I don't fucking understand anyone who isn't a psycho like me. All you people are so trusting and so stupid. I don't understand why all of you don't think with your brain more.

But sometimes, usually after I smoke some weed, I wonder what it's like to be a person that actually feels love. What is it like to feel things like passion and forgiveness and fear of God? What is it like to be a normal human being? And I can't help but think, there's got to be something in these emotions that I'll never understand. There has to be some part of "being a good person" that makes people into priests and artists and scientists and teachers instead of criminals and drug-dealers and lawyers and politicians like the rest of us sociopaths.

And I'll never know.

But I will know my ways. I will know what it was like to flip off my boss and throw a donut at his shiny, bald head. I will know what it was like to rape a Russian virgin under a porch. I will know what it was like to take enough drugs to kill a horse and spend a week thinking I was dead. I will know what it was like to have killed each of those kittens and what it felt like to hang them by their necks on that old lady's tree. I will know things that no one else will ever know.

And as I met God in that crack-house, I realized that the entire thing—my entire sociopath syndrome—was some sort of cosmic a trade-off. It was a blow-job for a sunrise. It was heroin for Jesus.

And I now knew that being a sociopath was just as good, if not better, as being an ordinary person. Don't you think?