Be Still, My Villainous Heart

After several months of frantic anticipation, my other self* finally saw the latest Marvel blockbuster, “Avengers [2]: Age of Ultron”.

*…Whose brain is twitching because she can’t remember whether I prefer to call her “Other Self” capitalized or “other self” sans capitalization, and I’m refusing to let her check through my meager backlog of posts and satisfy her obsessive-compulsive desire to exact some consistency around here, because I’m evil.

She went out decked in red, white, and blue, paying casual homage to the first / her favorite Avenger. Big surprise. Lover of truth, justice, Mom, and apple pie* that she is, of course she gives her superhero top spot to Captain America.

*She could actually take or leave the pie.

I, meanwhile, came away from the film with a favorite of my own. The eponymous Ultron.


Hot yum.

Don’t think* he gets a free pass with me just because he’s the movie’s villain.

*Of course I get to tell you what to think. [Up-and-coming] evil overlord, remember? It’s a perk.

Were he weak sauce, I’d sneer at him and let my evil pigeon heed nature’s call on his face. Let that teach him to fall short of my perfectly reasonable standards.

But happily for all (the possible exception being my evil pigeon), Ultron rocked fabulously.

It’s not only that he’s ruthless. I mean, if you’re going to be a villain worth anything, that’s just basic. Mercy is for fools.

No, though — above and beyond the ruthlessness was the passion. This man– er, robot… entire army of robots sharing a single consciousness… The point is, Ultron gave a hoot. He believed in something. He had a dream. A dream, as it happens, that I wholeheartedly share. A dream of taking this miserable planet full of wretched, self-destructive morons and elevating it to a world to be proud of. And if a few [billion] people need to be shown the door to make that happen… well, we do what we must for the greater good/evil/necessary reforms, never mind the morality.

He also had a sexy voice.

And sang Disney.

I may be in love.


Interesting fact about my evil pigeon: No matter how badly the world treats me, he/she/your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine never lifts a feather to try to make it up to me.

In stark contrast, there is my Other Self.

She seems to think it is somehow her responsibility to balance everything wrong with the world. Since everyone else is so often late, she must always be early. No one else brought their copy of the handout? That’s okay, she’s got three extra, plus pens for all. And if, hypothetically, she fears her sibling(s) is/are being an unnecessary trial to her poor parents, well then, she’ll just have to be the perfect child — be no bother, cost no time or money, be a source of smiles, laughter, and parental pride in a dreary, head-and-heartachey disappointment of a life.

Except she can’t consistently do that.

Cue the feelings of guilt and inadequacy and that she’s too much greater a burden than she, in light of the burden of others, has any right to be.

I sigh for you, ridiculous Other Self. I sigh for you loud and long. For one with passable intelligence, you are the greatest of fools.

It does not fall to you to compensate for all of humanity’s failings. It falls to them, and as they fail, so shall they someday fall to me.

The answer is not to provide a balance. It is to topple the broken scales.

Selflessness is for Fools

Sometimes I contemplate whether I’d do best to wring my evil pigeon’s neck.

As a villainess, lives are cheap. Caring about other’s lives… that’s where you run up expenses.

My Other Self is currently angsting over somebody else’s concerns. While that somebody (from what I gather) is off having a tea party with friends, my other self suffers stress and agitation, her precious time slipping by with little but ineffectual hand-wringing to show for it. Never mind that she’s got her own business to tend to, her own back to watch. Forget about simply forgetting about it and looking to her own gain or pleasure. Nope. There goes the morning, and who knows how much of the afternoon, on top of the hours prior to falling into a sleep filled with anxiety-ridden dreams last night. All for someone to whom she owes nothing.

Other Self, you are an idiot. If other people can’t be bothered to take care of themselves, what’s it to you? If they fall, there’s that many fewer people I’ll have to exterminate or exile during my evil reign. For the hate of all, it’s not like this person is your conjoined twin, or even one of the precious characters you carry in your head and heart. Their pain should not touch you — and that goes double for pain they don’t even have the sense to feel!

Do yourself a favor. Look out for number one alone. That will give you more than enough to fret about.

As for my evil pigeon… I’ll let it live, for the time being. It’s not a friend who might someday become my weakness; it’s a possession. And if there’s one thing that puts me in a foul temper, it’s anyone (even me) messing up my stuff.

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.

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.