The Parasite

I was born a parasite. Concieved, then gestating in my mothers womb, thriving on stolen blood, energy, concentration and love. Born to feed from her body, suck at her breast. A hungry mosquito, yet unswattable.

I have lived as a parasite right up to this point where my head has become so swolen, so distended that it flows over my shoulders, down my back into the arms of the two bearers who follow me everywhere. No one has ever had any choice in the fact of their exploitation by me. They have never given themselves any choice, and I have never needed to give any justification for what I do.

I have taken from the world and only given back the shit I drop, which was never something that wholy originated from me anyway. Maybe it will go back in the end, when my fat head rots in the earth, or smoke rises up amongst fetid pigeons. But there will never be anything more than I took. If I can help it there will be a whole lot less. No bullshit.

I am a parasite. If I pass on a disease, so much the better. I might even take posthumously.

No one ever, I mean ever at any point in my existence, questioned me or what I was doing. And it starts with guilt. Your guilt. Your guilt gives me almost total freedom. If I could make God feel guilty I could even escape the destiny and responsibilities enscribed upon me by the physical universe. But I don’t care. If I ever had to strive for things, it is forgotten now. I have been doing my own thing despite everyone no matter what.

My time is nearly up, and I will take it with grace. Had circumstances not freely whored themselves to me I am sure I would have been called “good”. Not that anyone views me as “bad”. They just take me for granted, even if I make their lives pure living hell.


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