The Daily Chaos of Kalamity K
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Something I Have to Say But Just Can't Tell You...
In response to an original e-mail that reads like this:
"I also don't consider either of you stupid either.
you'd not know it the way you talk about your lovely wife
and the dumb hicks she hangs out with.
and the overweight thing?
you may not walk around thinking, "My wife is fat," but
have acknowledged it in the past.
don't fucking lie to me.
I'm in no place to be charitable to her right now. I'm
sorry. I think I normally do a good job at keeping this
away from you. I said normally. I didn't say I'm
perfect. But I hate her. I hate her for all the things
she is and I'm not, which are considerable. I hate that
you love her so much. I hate that you ever have happy
moments with her. I hate that she likes her position in
life. I hate that half the time you lump her in with all
the rest of the dumbfucks you live with, which sends my
head into a tailspin because it makes me wonder what you
really think about me when the truth starts coming out.
I don't hate your youngest daughter but I hate that your
wife is her mother. I hate that she could give a shit
about being a mother half the time. I hate that I torment
myself with wondering how bad a mother I'd be while all I
hear you say is how you think I'd be a great mother
because I put everyone first and how you don't want any
more kids but still how you'd love to have a kid with me
and how you'd want a daughter so she could be just like
her mother...it tears me apart because I can't see how
anyone could think that of me, something so beautiful and
heartfelt and absolutely untrue in my eyes but I trust
your judgment and know you mean it and I just can't see
how anyone would want a copy of me around, as fucked up
and stupid as I am and can be, it negates all the good I
have, all the good and intelligent and caring and lovely,
all of it gets wiped away by the immense darkness that
inhabits my soul...I hate that I sometimes wonder if
you're exagerating about her (though I don't believe
that). I hate that you can go out and have fun with her
at something you might be inclined to hate - even though I
encourage you to go and do it and forget the other morons
and just have fun.
I don't hate that you're happy. Not one bit. I hate that
a stupid fucking small town uncultured lush can make you
happy, or partially happy. I hate her for her lack of
work ethic and for her girliness and for all the things
I'm not that clearly make you happy. I hate that I'm not
better than this. I hate that I'm not stronger than
this. And I hate that all I want to do is hurt her.
Badly. Her face. How I'd like to punch her and see her
nose bleed or swipe a razor blade across her cheek and
watch it bleed and watch her cry over it. Her nails. I'd
like to break them one by one and watch her cry over it.
Her knee, fuck I could do a really good job on that one.
And how I'd love to pull her hair and scratch her and
scream at her that she doesn't deserve what she has
because she takes it all for granted...But I won't. Even
if I had the opportunity, it's not in me to act on this.
But in my fantasy world it's a lot of fun, evil sadistic
fun, to make her sit in a room and listen to how she's
completely fucked it all up, how she's managing to turn
her daughter away from her and still she thinks it's a big
fucking joke, how she doesn't care about the things you do
and makes no effort to really understand or share in your
joys and interests and achievements...and all of
this...and it's really a lot of evil sadistic fun in my
mind to let her see you with me and how happy you are,
truly happy if one is to believe what you say when you're
with me, and how she'll never compare, never be capable of
loving you like I do, never be near capable of
understanding you like I do, never be capable of feeling
things like we do, never be capable of making love to you
like I do, though I know she's a pretty good fuck,
probably better than me, I don't care, I don't want that
to be part of my fantasy...that part's more like a
And know I can't send this to you, either. So I'll just
have to let it sit and fester in my twisted, sick little
head. It's too mean and evil and telling of the kind of
person I really am. It's telling, too, that I'm in
absolute tears as I write that, that I can't believe I'd
say this, feel this, do this (liar, I can believe it, I
just normally try so hard to fight it, get rid of it,
ignore it, but today, last night, I'm losing the battle
terribly). I will never begrudged you your happiness.
Not ever. Not ever. Just don't expect me to like her.
Or give a rat's ass about her. Ever. Please. My charity
does not extend that far. And while we're on the topic,
the only reason I hope her knee stops being swollen and
sore is because it will affect you and give your normally
lazy wife a legitimate excuse to "traîne" her lazy ass
around the house and do nothing and to let you take more
care of your beautiful daughter. It's the only reason.
Other than that, I hope it hurts her for months and that
she has to sit a long time on the sidelines and think
about what a stupid idiot she is and miss all the fun with
her backstabbing friends. Except then she'd always be
home and drive you nuts. But whatever.
I hope...[-tears-]...I hope you know I love you so much
it's driving me crazy. That's what I hope you know. I'm
sorry for this. I'm so fucking sorry for this. My head's
gone off the rails a while ago last night and it's not
getting any better. [-chokes-] I'm sorry. I'm so so
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