My Mother Doesn’t Think I’m Evil

When I first broke the subject to my mother about my intention to start up a blog for my dark side, she thought I was joking.

And this was before she saw the picture of the evil pigeon, so I didn’t even know what to tell her.

I expect mothers are always the last to accept the fact that their little darlings are raging psychopaths. It’s probably two parts unconditional love, one part straight-up denial.

It’s not like my dear mama and I haven’t discussed my world takeover before. It’s come up plenty of times — usually after somebody, somewhere, has done something infuriatingly stupid, and I’m all, “That’s it. When I come into power, that’s* a capital offense.”

*”That” probably being something like refusing to wash your hands after using the restroom or an unapologetic disregard for the true meaning of “literally”. Zero tolerance, people. ZERO.

Mother says I would come to regret such a harsh legal system. She seems to think I’m too emotionally unstable to effectively oversee such a regime. Like all the best (worst?) villains aren’t out of their ever-lovin’hatin’ minds! You think all the maniacal laughter we do is because we find our acts of cruelty amusing? Heavens, no, we’re just deranged. Crazy people laugh. It’s one of our tells.**

**Signs of insanity also including, but not limited to, bizarre facial tics, rocking ourselves, and shouting for somebody to STOP THAT INCESSANT SOUND THAT NO ONE ELSE CAN HEAR***!

***Or the sound of snoring. I cannot deal with snoring. Punishable by exile, at least at night.

Like all good mothers, I suppose mine worries about me. Worries that I’d sooner or later start to feel bad about being, y’know, bad.

That’s just a risk you all are going to have to take.


Cue the Ominous Opening Chord

I had not planned to out myself as a villain before I’d more or less attained my goal of world domination. I was content to bide my time lurking in the dark corners of my Other Self’s heart, awaiting just the right moment to make a flashy entrance, preferably accompanied by a rousing song number*.

*My first decree as Overlord shall be that life be treated as a musical. That’s one thing the Other Self and I can agree on.

Lies. I wasn’t content at all. Contended people rarely seek to overthrow society in alarmingly violent fashion. The human race enrages me. Disgusts me. Makes me want to spew — if not dragonfire**, acid, and brimstone, then words! YES, my spirit cried, let my weapon be words! My prose the sword with which I smite down those who stand against me! Wherefore should I keep silent?! Why remain chained down by the Other Self’s ideas of what is and is not appropriate to speak before the masses?

**Alas, I don’t have a dragon form. I may not be fully human, but I’m no Maleficent, either.

And yet did I languish, bitterly mute, until a friend*** urged this blog’s creation. She seemed to think it might afford both sides of me some peace of mind if we unbottled some of the noxious matter hitherto left to fester. And so, despite my Other Self’s misgiving (oh, the way she frets over absolutely every little thing), at long last I have been given voice.

***Sure I have a friend. Plenty of villains do, up until they go on a horrific murdering spree. That tends to drive a wedge between people.

As my friend herself was heard to say, time will tell what hath been here unleashed.

“The Good He Seeks”

The world is obsessed with happiness.

If you’re anything other than happy, you’re wrong.

This idiotic attitude is how you end up with ignorant quotes like this one.

Not every villain is interested in happiness.

Sometimes the thing that’s blackened us is that we’ve given up.

Given up on ever being happy for more than a teasing half-moment at a time. Given up on having an emotional default setting that’s anything more pleasant than “irritated”, “frustrated”, or “sad”. Given up on being good, because the higher we aim, the farther we sink into misery, misery, misery.

Tell me, repulsive mortals: Have you ever tried to speak to a friend about how very, very bad you feel? Tried to force into words the wordless agony that is your day to day life? Tried to articulate why you’re hurting, because these people always want a reason, as if there is any rhyme or reason to this curse we call “feelings”?

How long before they try to fix you?

How long before their sympathy ebbs as they realize their words and deeds of so-called comfort don’t have their intended effect?

How long before they blame you for not just being fine, already?

Screw them. Screw them all. You know why they do this? Because the fact is, they know.

They know that happiness is a delicate thing, so easily damaged by any little breath of an ill wind. If they care about you (a grave danger, caring), it means your fates are bound — their feelings tied to yours. They cannot be perfectly happy while you are miserable, and so they try (selfish creatures!) to lift you up to their level so you don’t drag them down to yours.

They cannot accept that you are simply unhappy. Cannot accept that, for now or forever, unhappy is just what you are.

Happily for us villains, we don’t need their acceptance. We have moved beyond the need to be accepted, liked, or even understood.

And I have certainly moved beyond the need to be happy.

My aim is for the consolation prize: Scouring the world of everything that chipped and tore and wore away at my ability to feel more than the tiniest erratic flickers of joy.

My eventual success may not make me happy. But it may make me briefly smile.

Villainy Unmasked

My Other Self smiles a lot.

It’s annoying.

And that’s not just my evil talking. It annoys her, too.

She smiles when she’s happy. She smiles when she’s angry. She smiles when she’s sad, lonely, weary, heartbroken, depressed… any time she thinks someone might be looking at her, really.

She’ll smile at you when she’s glad to see you, and smile at you while wishing with all her being that you would go away and never come back. She smiles because she thinks you want her to smile. Because she thinks it’s expected. Because she thinks she’s supposed to.

I am the villain, but she is the liar.

No false smile shall ever adorn my face.

If I smile, it is for me.

If I scowl, it is for honesty.

If I cry… pah. Let her have the tears.

She has far more need of them than I.

The Futility of Perfectionism

We villain-types are often seen as pitiless souls. Believe it or not, though, I do know pity. Even now, as I sit upon my stylish black throne, my fingers absently scratching at the feathers of the evil pigeon nestled in my lap, I think of my goody-goody Other Self, and oh, how I do pity her.

She tries so hard, that one, to do the right thing. It’s been in her nature since her earliest days. She’s allergic to mistakes. Settling for anything less than the best is a grotesque concept beyond her comprehension. Ever does she raise her own bar higher, higher, higher still, striving to shine as an example of all a person can achieve, can be, if they only determine that excellence is their only option.

Such a waste of effort.

The world does not reward excellence. Not consistently. Not by any ratio that even pretends to balance the values of one’s input and output. “What you give is what you get”? A lie.

What you give is blood and sweat.

What you get is tears.

Overachievers are scorned for making everyone beneath them look bad. Those who go the extra mile end up trudging on alone while everyone else pals around in a clump of mediocrity. “It’s lonely at the top”? The truth.

I’ll probably be lonely when I’m sitting atop a mountain of my enemies’ charred bones. But at least I’ll have made my point.

What is the point of all you do, pathetic Other Self?

Disappointment is for Fools

Sometimes my evil pigeon bites me when I feed him*.

*Or is it a her? It’s a bird; until it lays an egg or develops prostate cancer, I won’t know the difference.

It never comes as a shock. If anything, I’m surprised it doesn’t peck me more often.

Why, you might ask, do I put up with and continue feeding a pet that attacks me? To which I reply, Because it’s an evil pigeon, you brainless twit.

Evil pigeon. EVIL. Of course it’s going to do evil things. Why in the world should I expect otherwise?

That’s what I love about baldfaced villainy: It never lets you down.

When it comes to the dark side, what you see is what you get. We advertise wicked deeds, and that’s what we deliver. No pleasant lies. No pretty promises no flawed mortal can feasibly keep. No smile for your front and knife for your back**.

**…Well, okay, you may get that last one, but come on, couldn’t you see the blatant malice all up in that smile? What do we have to do, tattoo “Treachery” on our foreheads? Get a clue.

On the flip side, you’ve got your nice people. You’ve got your “friends“. You’ve got these sweet, more-or-less innocent souls you think you can count on.

Pardon me while I burst into fit of maniacal laughter.

[Insert waiting muzak interspersed with dramatic lightning flashes and thunder crashes here]

A word to the wise…and the other 99.99999% of Earth’s population: You can’t count on your friends.

Friends will fail you. Not consistently — oh, no, that would be too kind, too easy. Sometimes they’re there for you. Sometimes they’ll lend a helping hand, offer a much-needed favor, buy your flaming book, do for you as they would have done unto themselves, and you’ll get all happy and excited and full of love and think that maybe the world’s not such a horrible place after all! [Insert the big goofy smile of a dupe here] Then there’s the rest of the time, when they totally leave you hanging. Oops, sorry, they were busy. Whoops, their bad, life got in the way. Aw darn, they fully meant to do you a solid, but they forgot.


Riiiiight, because what’s truly important to us is so easily forgotten***.

***This is sarcasm.

My pitiful Other Self has been burned times beyond tally by putting her trust in others, but I’ve learned better. I don’t trust anyone. Not even my evil pigeon. Because the day I start to count on him/her/it biting me is the day I’ll suffer disappointment when it pulls a fast one by not biting me.

…Which would actually be pretty evil of it, breaking my gullible little heart like that.

There’s a goo-oo-ood evil pigeon.

Attention, World

I survey the surrounding lands from my shadowy fortress, my evil pigeon* perched upon my head like a truly ugly hat, the pair of us glowering down on the bane of our existence: Humanity.

*The evil pigeon is my familiar. Totem. Spirit animal. Whatever stupid thing people go about calling such creatures. Just label it the physical manifestation of my soul and have done with it.

You would think, wouldn’t you, that people would pay more heed to the sudden erection of a massive tower in the middle of the hypothetical landscape. You would be a fool. People never pay me any attention. Not really. Not enough.

Take my good-natured alter-ego, the authoress. She released a new book today. This book, if you’re interested. But you’re not.

It’s the most idiotic thing. People get all excited when you say you’re a writer, like that somehow makes you the most magical, spectacular thing (which it is, but not in the way that non-writers think), and oh, oh, what is your book about and when is it coming out? Golly gee, how glamorous, you must be so thrilled!

Tell me, insignificant life forms: Why should she be thrilled when the book launches and the only ones crowing about it are her and the crickets?

Where now are all the so-called friends who insisted they simply couldn’t wait until the very event they now all but completely ignore?

You think an artist can spend your admiration? That a lazy click of the “like” button does a thing for their career? No, simpletons, no. That is not interest. That is not caring. That is not support. You’re mistaking these things for actually useful actions like, I don’t know, spreading the word and buying the flaming book.

Popularity, I sneer. That seems the only way to get ahead in this sorry excuse for a reality. That, or forceful subjugation of the populace.

At least if there’s an uprising against me, my name will fall from every tongue.

No such thing as bad press.