I can barely put into words the disdain I feel towards other people.


Almost without exception, every person upon this rotting planet sickens me. They are so stupid, so illogical, so delusional. They live in fantasy, and superstition. At the best of times, they can delude themselves into thinking they are good people, and what they are doing is meaningful, and that their lives have purpose. When everything in their lives is going well enough according to plan, they can get away with lying to themselves like that. 


They don’t see things the way I do. 


They are nothing but skin-sacks of meat and fat and fur, wrapped around bones which are puppeted by muscles that plod along to the beat of the electrical impulses in their gooey brains. They see reason and karma and logic in an existence that I know to be nothing but chaos and coldness and death. 


That's why I like to kill them. 


The only way I can soothe my disgust is by basking in the horror they feel when I expose them to the cold and cruel harshness of reality. Right before I end their lives, I can see them struggling to reconcile the meaning and reason and worth they thought their lives held with the truth -- in the end, there is nothing. There's no point to anything. People exist to fuck and die. When I have my way, they die for me. I achieve pleasure, and they cease to continue their miserable existence. I release death upon them, and bring peace to us both.


There are some who recognise my magnificence, and worship me as I deserve to be worshipped. When sluts do that for me, they earn my favour, at least temporarily. They might not know it, but anyone who associates with me is on a timer. It is just a matter of whether they are more use to me alive or dead. Cheating on their boyfriends and sucking my cock and licking my asshole, or bleeding and choking and dying on my dick while it spurts with cum. 


Though, even the best little whores don’t know the true me. I pretend to care about them. It is easy, natural, for me to paint over the endless emptiness of my soul with layers of warmth and emotion. Pretty, comforting colours over my stark and harsh white canvas. It just makes my sexual and mutually beneficial relationships easier. They think I’m a bad boy because I smack them around, and draw blood from them with my teeth while I fuck them, and because I like screwing them while telling them how I want to beat the shit out of their partners. They have no idea that’s me exerting restraint, and that I’m only holding back because the scales are ever so slightly tipped in favour of me getting more pleasure out of them alive than dead at that moment.


But even the sexual relationships I have maintained for years generate no emotion from me when they end. When I end them. Many people have adored me because I have lied to them. Many people have been telling themselves they are willing to give up everything for the privilege of worshipping me. None of them deserve it. Because when they see even a glimpse of the true me, their brains start to glitch. They cannot comprehend the horrifying truth -- that inside of me, there is nothing. 


Nothing. 


I am a reflection of the fucking universe itself, and that terrifies people.


I’ve experimented with them, but they have all disappointed me and they have all died. Many have said the right things -- that they know how pitiful and pathetic and worthless they are compared to a god like me, that they would give up their jobs and futures and loved ones to be with me, that they would do anything to make me happy. I’m sure some of them thought they were being truthful, but so often they were lying to themselves. That’s because their brains struggle to comprehend what it actually means to commit to me. They don’t know the actual weight of the words they say when they’re just trying to make my dick hard. 


Some, when confronted with the actual truth, and a choice, try to weasel out of it. They don’t want me to actually annihilate their entire family in a bloody and orgasmic fury, one by one, in front of them. Many don’t think I’m actually even a murderer. They think I’m joking. Role-playing. Heh. I like proving how serious I am. 


Others disassociate. They find a way to keep saying the right things to me, and endure the things that I do to them, but it only lasts for a while. When the magnificence of my presence and the pleasure I gift them wanes, and their brain starts to put itself back together, they cry with regret and shrink away or cut themselves or look for pills to swallow because they can’t live with what they’ve done with me. I don’t even get much pleasure out of killing them. I prefer leaving them to suffer, claiming a form of compensation for the annoyance they caused me by subconsciously stringing me along. 


Like I said, many of them loved me. Many of them were sure they wanted to be with me. But none of them actually knew me. None of them could ever accept that I would never actually feel anything for them in return. 


I think that is what creates the biggest chasm between me and neurotypicals. Even the most twisted, fucked up sluts -- those who actually entertain the idea of giving themselves entirely to me -- expect something in return from me. That is how things are meant to work, after all, in their minds. Some of them can at least make sense of the idea of making terrible sacrifices to me, as long as it earnt them something from me, emotionally. Even if they won’t admit it, I know they expect gratitude, or loyalty. Even love, I think. They don’t understand that I cannot, do not, and have no desire to feel those things. 


They cannot comprehend that, no matter what they do, they will never mean anything to me. 


When they die, I will forget about them. I won’t miss them. Even if I have known them for years, I will hardly even think about them. I won’t feel that anything is missing, because I am already entirely empty.