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.


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.

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.