My Life is not Your Pornography

You know this situation all too well.  You drive down a road only to see traffic coming to a halt up ahead.  You mutter to yourself as everyone else is slowing down to look at some presumed accident, but the second you can see the gore pile on the side of the road, you slow down too.  A perverse smile encompasses your face and you eventually drive past, subconsciously waiting for your next turn with the macabre.

I get email from time to time, or comments on this blog, that admonish me for not examining the ins and outs of psychopathy in a truly voyeuristic fashion.  The posts that I write on the blood and guts of the condition always register more views than those that focus on more intellectually-charged issues.  I hate to break it to you, but I’ve written almost all there is to say about the “sexy” components of the condition.  I do not feel obligated to sit around while you fuck off to my life without giving me the courtesy of a reach around.  My life is not your pornography.

Yet I see this all the fucking time on social media and in real life.  Tumblr is a shithole where serial murderers are idolized by true crime fandoms.  People, in real life, profess their love for those that are terminally incarcerated.  So on and so forth.  There is some compulsion by many to live vicariously through the deeds of the psychopath.  Maybe on another day, my megalomania would be flattered, but not tonight.

The condition is not one to be idolized or emulated.   It is not one worthy of fetish.  It is a devastating condition that renders most of my brethren incarcerated and many neurotypicals in the lurch.  No, I would not pick any other way of life.  At the same time, I’m tired of washing the cum stains off of my shirt.  My life is not your pornography.

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