average shark cultist

I used to drink my own blood a lot due to my several bouts of nose bleeding, some kind of allergy thing or something. That sweet red ichor was so all-consuming and hypnotizing like a portal to hell; I remember the big smile I had on my face when my mom looked at me in horror as I had caked the entirety of the bathroom sink with my own tissue. That’s where it began, the scared look. I liked the scared look. Recognition. Forced confrontation of something directly in front of you. Forced confrontation of me, recognition of me. You saw me as an abject horror.

It definitely didn’t get better since then.

Yesterday I’d bombed the hell out of my chemistry exam enough to make myself go for a walk around campus, there was more people than usual because of some kind of sports event happening on the field. I was forced to confront my own kind of horror, that I craved to do something really really bad again. It’d began with hunger, but I’d already eaten. What was I craving? My saliva glands were swelling like a pregnant dam holding back a flood, my eyes were wild like a starved thing. My memory kept going back to a handful of images and nothing else, meat.

We used to go to this Korean BBQ place monthly I think, it was a shitty idea but I always went with the safest option because that’s the kind of hermit crab that I am. The marbled meat. Sweet and rich flesh. Fattened to perfection. There was an article I read that the diet of the human population had reduced human limbs to something akin to well marbled steaks, nothing from the extravagant world could compare to them. I kept thinking about Them. The both of them. All three of them. What if all five of them were in a room. Is this objectification, am I being gross again? I don’t know. My head was pulsing, it hurt like hell. I was holding it while walking around the park like I was struggling to carry a wedding cake, my glasses crashed onto the pavement enough times to look like a lame gag.

It was nothing new, I’ve been fantasizing about gulping down sweet metallic nectar for months now. Plans to do it always rose and fell upon remembering that I no longer had the privacy I once was so accustomed to, everyone would see, and I was so terrified of botching it again. Digging too deep. The flesh stares back. I would pour it into a mug brought over from my aunt’s house and savor each mole of a molecule like it was the last drop of water on Earth. Did I used to do this as a kid too? Did I get nosebleeds on purpose to taste it just one more time? God what is wrong with me.

Why am I so gross? Why couldn’t I stop myself from thinking about something so disgusting, it’s so gross! It wasn’t even romantic anymore, romance requires a party of two. This was gluttony. Pictures of pig-like kings and low-income neighbors with acne dotting their potbellies came to mind as I tried to rid myself of this train of thought. Why, why, why? Why am I so gross?

God what I’d do to have a connection that close again, not my previous relationships but literally that amount of closeness. I want to feel that hand tease the inside of my ribcage, cut me open like a blanket and use me. Take something from me.

The only victim of abuse as of late has been my poor Terry the Blahaj, I just tore another hole in him an hour ago because I remembered something or other. I still feel guilty about it, guilt so dearly that I began stroking him like back when I’d confide with my dogs. I’m sorry Terry. I’m sorry Cayman and Cooper. I’m sorry I do this. I’m just glad they can’t talk so I can at least pretend they hold some kind of anger or vendetta against me, hearing some kind of forgiveness or acceptance of my flaws would only break me again.

I used to drink my own blood a lot due to my several bouts of nose bleeding, some kind of allergy thing or something. That sweet red ichor was so all-consuming and hypnotizing like a portal to hell; I remember the big smile I had on my face when my mom looked at me in horror as I had caked the entirety of the bathroom sink with my own tissue. That’s where it began, the scared look. I liked the scared look. Recognition. Forced confrontation of something directly in front of you. Forced confrontation of me, recognition of me. You saw me as an abject horror.

It definitely didn’t get better since then.

Yesterday I’d bombed the hell out of my chemistry exam enough to make myself go for a walk around campus, there was more people than usual because of some kind of sports event happening on the field. I was forced to confront my own kind of horror, that I craved to do something really really bad again. It’d began with hunger, but I’d already eaten. What was I craving? My saliva glands were swelling like a pregnant dam holding back a flood, my eyes were wild like a starved thing. My memory kept going back to a handful of images and nothing else, meat.

We used to go to this Korean BBQ place monthly I think, it was a shitty idea but I always went with the safest option because that’s the kind of hermit crab that I am. The marbled meat. Sweet and rich flesh. Fattened to perfection. There was an article I read that the diet of the human population had reduced human limbs to something akin to well marbled steaks, nothing from the extravagant world could compare to them. I kept thinking about Them. The both of them. All three of them. What if all five of them were in a room. Is this objectification, am I being gross again? I don’t know. My head was pulsing, it hurt like hell. I was holding it while walking around the park like I was struggling to carry a wedding cake, my glasses crashed onto the pavement enough times to look like a lame gag.

It was nothing new, I’ve been fantasizing about gulping down sweet metallic nectar for months now. Plans to do it always rose and fell upon remembering that I no longer had the privacy I once was so accustomed to, everyone would see, and I was so terrified of botching it again. Digging too deep. The flesh stares back. I would pour it into a mug brought over from my aunt’s house and savor each mole of a molecule like it was the last drop of water on Earth. Did I used to do this as a kid too? Did I get nosebleeds on purpose to taste it just one more time? God what is wrong with me.

Why am I so gross? Why couldn’t I stop myself from thinking about something so disgusting, it’s so gross! It wasn’t even romantic anymore, romance requires a party of two. This was gluttony. Pictures of pig-like kings and low-income neighbors with acne dotting their potbellies came to mind as I tried to rid myself of this train of thought. Why, why, why? Why am I so gross?

God what I’d do to have a connection that close again, not my previous relationships but literally that amount of closeness. I want to feel that hand tease the inside of my ribcage, cut me open like a blanket and use me. Take something from me.

The only victim of abuse as of late has been my poor Terry the Blahaj, I just tore another hole in him an hour ago because I remembered something or other. I still feel guilty about it, guilt so dearly that I began stroking him like back when I’d confide with my dogs. I’m sorry Terry. I’m sorry Cayman and Cooper. I’m sorry I do this. I’m just glad they can’t talk so I can at least pretend they hold some kind of anger or vendetta against me, hearing some kind of forgiveness or acceptance of my flaws would only break me again.

Been too focused on real life to tackle my emotional issues again, the only pros to this is that I now have maybe enough money to begin therapy again and yet I’ll never feel comfortable enough at home to participate in it, it’s truly become a full house here.

Do you know exhausting it is to be so important to so many people’s lives despite how little it means to you, you do things only for the sake of your own interests and everyone suddenly worships you. My family thinks I’m well-adjusted, just a busy bee, so mature! They don’t know how rotted my mind, how I lust at the idea of cutting these arms open and chugging their contents after funneling them into what used to be my favorite mug. Favorite mug. I used to have a favorite mug didn’t I? Front row seats to its funeral with no fanfare. It was a shark, very typical of me.

Am I even real? Do I exist to someone outside of the internet and these halls? I hope I’m haunting someone, it feels like the only way I exist these days, I’m a rumor. Beware of the towering thing that wanders. The Grafton Monster is what I am, fear my noxious pores!!

Scaring people isn’t fun anymore when you’re the only person in on the joke. I spoke to a professor during lockdown at my campus, was a real fun. His voice was so shaky and he audibly gulped when I spoke in the weird way that I do. Didn’t even realize it was the first time I’ve spoke that day.

Spoken. Speak. Talk to. Will someone talk to me? No no no, you’re still in confinement like Hannibal. The skin hasn’t even been pulled from between your teeth and you ask for what, a connection? That privilege was lost long ago buddy. Keep whoring yourself out, you’ll find the right one next time. Well what if there isn’t a next time? What if it never happens? What if I’m never accepted anywhere? Dogs aren’t allowed in doors. I’m a bad dog. I’m a bad dog. I’m a bad dog.

Bad dogs go to sleep. For a long time. Why are my dogs being put to sleep? They were so good, the best of dogs. Why can’t I be put to sleep in their place? Oh dear, your gray muzzle and mud mottled fur, why are you leaving me, please don’t leave me. You’re the only thing that’s real to me, please please stop dying just stop it. Stop dying. You’re leaving me aren’t you? This is on purpose! You’re dying because. No.

You’re dying because nothing lasts forever. You’re dying and yet you still love me. I wish I wasn’t real. I wish I just like those other cryptids, just urban legends. I don’t want to be real anymore.

the new episode was like if those my little pony gore animations were canon

I just wanna be part of your symphony~