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13. There's No Place Like Home

Part Two:

I so wish that I could hate her. Every time I looks at her face, I feel something.

Yeah bitches, you heard me right. I fucking feel something.

I want to hate her. I want to hate her. I want to hate her.

But how can I when she's the only person who can make me feel?

That's like a mother wanting to pull a Casey Anthony and kill her own daughter.

Ever since a young age, I got away with faking emotions. It's not rocket science.

Smile=Happy

Frown=Disappointment

Tears=Sad

Red cheeks=Embarrassment

Red face=Anger

Laughing=Humor

It was easy to read these emotions and reciprocate them like a robot, and I have been doing that ever since.

Ha! I'm the world's best actors... and murderer–well, soon to be best serial killer. Hell, my crimes and anonymity will knock the Zodiac off his high horse of murdering superiority. All I have to do is send a cipher to the media and give myself my own name.

You see, I've got the whole 'feeling' idea down like the back of my hand. The only curveball I was thrown was probably sarcasm. Naturally, I rejected it but then accepted it with open arms when I figured out how awesome it was because it was the perfect excuse in being rude.

Cause you all know that I fucking hate sarcasm and I would never, ever use it in conversation or stream of consciousness.

Like ever.

You see I'm just a body with no real human stuff underneath. Well, I though I was part-robot until I met Lola.

Okay let me rephrase that, I thought I was part-robot until Lola stabbed me in the back with a pitchfork Satan let her borrow.

I've decided that betrayal is the strongest human emotion because it was the first real emotion I felt.

For most of my upbringing, I though I was some defective boy from Brooklyn who was a real-life Tin Man waiting for oil and a heart like some Wizard of Oz fairytale bullshit.

You see, if I was an animate Tin Man, Lola would be Dorothy who oiled me up and got me a heart.

Side note: I seriously want to know what the author of that book was smoking because I want to get high enough to start ranting stories about talking lions and scarecrows and flying fucking monkeys.

Don't get the wrong picture though. We are quite a ways from Kansas, and Lola is not some innocent farm girl with two french braids, a basket, red slippers, a blue plaid dress, and a little dog named Toto.

This wasn't some dream either.

And I'm pretty sure I'll carve 'LE' into Lola's neck if she ever starts singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'.

Though... it would be pretty hot in future foreplay.

So, could I ever hate someone who made me feel things?

I definitely would've sliced and diced if she had opened up the floodgates of all emotion, but I only feel if it concerns her. She is the one person who makes me tick like a time bomb.

When she betrayed me, I went berserk because I was so confused. And in the process... I might've killed my roommate.

Whoops.