Family

I have no idea why my family likes me so much. That's actually a rather unreasonable statement, I can tell full well why my family likes me so much, I just wish they could recognize just how hard I'm forced to try while I'm around them. When I was younger it used to be I could be as morose as I wanted, sneaking off during family functions to play gameboy or something else to cement the anti-social attitude my preteen self decided felt right. Lately though my feelings of inadequacy force me to try and impress those extended reletives of mine, putting on a bright smile, playing the part of the jovial guest. When truly my only wish is that these very nice and caring people would stop giving so much of a shit about me.

Again, it's mostly a problem of my percieved lack of success in life, contrasted against the other members of my family. I am a real bastard in this way, secretly pleased that my older cousin still works in the grocery store and that my aunt and uncle are getting a divorce because uncle Rick can't stop smoking pot and gambled away all the family's money over the course of the last two years. These are the things that strangely put me at ease, that convince me I don't have to try so hard.

I only bring up my family because next week is Thanksgiving and I'm likely presssed to make an appearance. It's not that I have anything against eating a decent meal, it's simply knowing that I'll again be forced to defend my current position in life to people who for some reason have a vested interest in my prosperity. There's something wrong with me psychologically I must assume, or likely I've just taken to heart that old idea of working not for your own sake, but for the sake of your family. I am the last male heir to our patriarical name, not counting the retard and the six year old. There's a certain burden; at least in my mind; to do something good with that name, and so far I've done little of note. It's one thing to have been in a state of flux, at least when I was in college I could pretend to have plans of some sort, pretend my success currently persisted in a quantum bubble which would snap once I fufilled the requirements of my degree. Now I simply have a well paying job doing nothing special, at which everyone can remark "That's nice" and move on. Maybe that's enough then. Maybe they'll settle that I've arrived at a crossing of points, and will stop questioning me about my plans. That was always the worst part, trying to adequitely describe what your future held. All I could do was mumble something about wanting to be a journalist, or looking into a graphic arts degree, never really getting down to the real truth.

The real truth? I am a monster.  I've given up on god, most times viewing the world as a moraless playground for me to play in, or better yet an illusion of some sort, a construct of my mind which my immortal self created to entertain myself through eternity. I steal constantly, curse at strangers attempt to provoke fights with anyone who glances at me sideways, and any ambition I might have pales in comparison to the horrible sexual misdeeds I commit on a regular basis.

Currently I have plans on Saturday to meet with a girl whose name I can't even remember. She has a daddy fetish, which means she dresses up in juvinile outfits so we can essentially roleplay her incestuous pedophilic fantasies. This involves us watching cartoons while I fondle her crotch, or take her across my knee for a spanking before laying her down, forcing a pacifier into her mouth as I fuck her. She's the first girl who's not only let me do her in the ass, but actually asked for it. I'm torn throughout the whole thing, both turned on by the obvious sexual gratification, and disgusted by the simulation of these morally reprehensible activities. There was a good period during our first "session" where I thought, dear lord, I'm raping a child. As she cried "Daddy!" protesting all the whole, I felt almost sick to my stomach. I was unable to finish for a good 15-20 minutes or so, finally arriving at a weak orgasm, her happily squealing at how incredible I was at maintaining the illusion.

As I wash my cock off in the bathroom sink I examine myself in the mirror. I break into a awkward smile, shaking my head sadly.

I should stop meeting up with girls on the internet, especially the ones with these fetishes. She's possibly worse than I am, which is a feat. Her favorite thing to do now is to pleasure herself on the webcam while I watch and type encouragement. She's asked me to get a webcam, but I don't, knowing she'll likely be turned off to see me browsing comic book websites while I falsely type out how hard my dick is. What makes it even worse is she's told me about how her real father is estranged from the family, how she and her brother dropped his name, and how he's a scumsucking shitbag of a man. I could make some guesses at incidents from her childhood, though the situation is already awkward enough.

That's my problem I guess. Always trying to please others. Whether it's smiling my way through a thanksgiving dinner, or raping my slut of a daughter as she begs to be punished. Both are situations that though alluring, fill me with that same sense of social anxiety, forced to my limits as I try to portray the role that's expected of me. When all I really want to do is sleep for awhile.