Chapter Three

Growing up as a trans woman necrophiliac--at least so I thought at the time, before I realized it was something else, that puberty is 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.

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