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Choose your ingredients and mix a Cocktail for you and your friends.
Hier findet ihr nützliches Zubehör für Rollenspiele.
Einfach einen Würfel auswählen und das Ergebnis erscheint im Chat :)
The next time you want to go shopping on Amazon, you could do it with this link:
Amazon for Belletristicans
(Only works for amazon.de at the moment)
... because if you get to Amazon via Bellatristica, we get up to 10% of the value of your shopping cart, without making it cost more.
The same thing works from everywhere on Belle, no matter if it's a book recommendation in our Blog or an Amazon link in a profile.
Everything we earn this way, will be added to Belletristia's development budget.
Thank you very, very much! :)
- Ben & Sebastian
I tell James I will be going far away forever, that I'll miss him.
The thing about friendships, it's never been an an easy thing for me. When you find yourself constantly befriending other people with questionable morality, you find yourself constantly doubting yourself, doubting whether you really are not just like them. Doubting whether they really are as you perceive them to be. Often one finds themselves no longer trusting anyone, assuming that every one you know is some kind of serial killer, or at least a molester. And yet do to your self-doubt you constantly stay quiet, and learn to take things as they come to you.
While one can never guess the true goings on in a killers mind when you aren't one myself, though I've wondered this about many of the friends I have made, if one has any amount of empathy in them they may try to rationalize the killer's action if said murderer were young enough and female enough. For me, this used to always happened whenever I read about serial killers. There were several things going on in my life, and largely I chose not to become parricidal--because I like eating Broccoli beef to much. Hey a girl's got to eat your know. Obviously there are other reasons, but I simply liked eating Chinese food way to often.
But on a serious note I found myself trying to rationalize the behavior of Anna Marie largely do to my own upbringing being similar in nature.
Certainly my own father was almost never around, and much of the time he was around he would largely spend this time spanking me with a belt, or strangling me. Among other things I'll leave to your imagination. Point being the matriarch of the family always chalked it to him having a bit of a temper, but didn't mean to hurt me. It was this process of gas lighting that made me begin to doubt my own perceptions. My mom would always say I was at risk of becoming someone evil myself, asked me if I was a pedophile despite her own weird ... things about her. While I don't think this was the case, what I do know is I was raised since birth to doubt myself.
So when I met my darling Anna Marie, she was the one that was able to remove the doubt from my eyes, and make me see things for how they really were. When we would go for the morning newspaper, me being well enough not to wear clogs, she herself digging her finger in them to adjust things to make sure her wooden shoes fit, we would pick up a newspaper from our friend James. She was part of the time be raised by James, who she had grown to trust. She introduced me to him as well, where we spent half the time when otherwise we could never meet.
And so we became mended broken birds, at least for a time. And so she never told me exactly what was going on with her, although do to certain body language I always assumed she had similar issues.
So for the first time when she died, I needed a box of tissues.
I was ejaculated and crying at the same time.
There are some women who give off an aspect of the innocuous. There are some who give up the vibes of complete disdain for humanity, and yet in reality things are much more complicated
The thing about me and loving women, I find that my first instinct had always been for so long to hate and distrust them. Often this would get me into trouble emotionally, as I would later freak out and try to late to kindle friendships. So often my friendships with girls were few and far between. At the time I was still dealing with my own issues about the status of my own gender.
Guillotine Families were not exactly liberal families, with a financial incentive on maintaining the death penalty. Thus I already felt alienated from them anyway, so I would never tell them about my gender issues. The matriarch would just use it as a another excuse on how they never should have had kids. So here I was isolated and alone, wandering through the world reading the diary of Anna Marie lest the state should seek to obtain and burn it. For there is much about Anna Marie I do not know. She could have been a tap dancer, a rodeo girl, or an actress in the play of life.
And yet on some level isn't everyone's life a kind of play, to learn to smile when you are sad, alone, and forsaken. I imagine myself picturing Anna Marie in her bedroom in her closet crying until she falls asleep. There is much within us all that we choose to hide from the world. Certainly I'm one those. I had first acquired the taste of human blood when watching movies where girls were threatened by execution. The inevitability of these movies is that none of them show the depression that lies within the darkness of human heart. I had grown my interests over time as someone who already had issues with women anyway. And thus I wondered if her own issues were exacerbated by some cause that we still have yet to truly understand.
And yet in our society if I try to empathize with her, I have blood on my hands. For her sake I shall not masturbate and perpetuate my own cycles of misery and despair. For me and her were beyond sisters in the game of life.
And so as my life loops all over again in constant repeats of memories I wished to forget, I found myself longing for the lost Anna Marie. A lot of my mothering-girlfriend feelings in a way stem from witnesses all those years ago, seeing someone who inside was really a little girl, far to young to die at the age of seventeen. Lost in life, in a pit of despair, she would have chosen to kill herself just as once as did I before. I saw her with tears in her face all alone in a prison, being mugged by starving children in a universe where there is no longer sunlight.
On some nights I saw monsters stalking me, and I wonder whether she had some of her own night terrors. I dream about her own fantasy world, where somehow I had not truly grasped the implications of her statement about forgiveness. And that I should first try to take care of myself.
I found myself masturbating to images of beheaded princesses and queens, I found myself engaging in a self-destructive path. It was my personal path, and I wouldn't change it for the world.
I would indulge in the fantasies of the flesh in pictures on cyberspace. Yet nothing would take away the feeling of being alone. Every time I masturbate I imagine that some lost young woman had to lose her head for my own core inner desires. I constantly relive the memories finding some way to cope with what I have done. I found that I withdrew further into myself, as I watched my family capture other malcontents in the street scrounging for food and stealing others clogs so that may have something wear on their ugly blistered feet.
And yet at times I wondered what it would be like to live among them. My interactions with James, who had become something of a father figure more than my own dad, became fewer and fewer. And I continue to play the music box Anna Marie once gave me as a gift before she had said her statement that made me realize I was unwanted. And yet I suppose on some level everyone is unwanted at some point temporarily, and yet she never had the chance to change her mind, and come back to me another day to try to apologies.
Or she may have left me for good, but the point is a girl like a sweet flower girl had to die at that particular morning in the rain, and toxic clouds overhead made breathing impossible in this particular section of the city. As I hugged her severed head, and said goodbye earning the ire of my family.
Because masturbation equals heaven, and ejaculation a kind of mental redemption from of my personal sorrows. It was a way for my to cleanse my mind of tears that would well up inside that nobody else could see. And yet nothing in my mind could take Anna Marie away from me, my darling and my bride to be.
We all have things that we wish to keep hidden from the world about ourselves, whether it be our depressing childhoods, or even for some the lack of a childhood they have lived. Some people have different definitions about the definition of childhood, from those who live in the slums and the hood, to those who live off their parents wealthy estate rotting in their bedrooms alone and never coming outside to play with the other children. Because they felt alienation within themselves that is hard to verbalize, hating the fact that every aspect of their life has been a lie.
We all have pains from our past, and most people may wish to undervalue others experiencing, because for the most part mankind are inherently selfish bastards. And yet even the bitches among us have happier adventures in their youth, even when said adventures are only in the mind. For me when I had met the executed Anna-Marie, I found myself living her life as if she were myself. I adventured with her are sailing ships, explored the children's books she had read in her youth, for my love for Anna-Marie was a love beyond mortal love. And yet over time our adventures became fewer and far between. I tried to rescue her from her brothers that would sometimes spank her instead of her father, who also whipped her as well. For like me her family treated her as if she were a demon spawn from hell.
I remember when we would explore ancient ruins, explore the inner kingdom of the mind, while feeling all over each other to make a connection across the many plains of human consciousness. At at once my memories went back to when she was led to the scaffold, and I saw her trembling with fear and loathing for man. And on some level there was something in her that I could recognize. That distrust on others that made her flinch with agony and despair.
For there were only strangers there.
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