Diary of an Oxygen Thief (The Oxygen Thief Diaries, #1)

by Anonymous

They say the sea is actually black and that it merely reflects the blue sky above. So it was with me. I allowed you to admire yourself in my eyes. I provided a service. I listened and listened and listened. You stored yourself in me.

The more they confided and invested in you, the deeper the shock and the more satisfying the moment at the end.

A sitcom I had to sit through. But it was okay, because I knew I’d be writing her out of the series.

Around this time I discovered the meaning of the word “misogynist.” I remember thinking it hilarious that it had “Miss” as a prefix.

Hurt people hurt people more skillfully. An expert heartbreaker knows the effect of each incision. The blade slips in barely noticed, the pain and the apology delivered at the same time.

I began to hate you for not having the courage to tell me what you really thought of me.

I had delivered this monologue with as much sincerity as possible. I was in earnest. I wanted her to want to hurt me back. This would be the new us:

Those beautiful eyes glazed over all shiny like little blue bruises.

Romance has killed more people than cancer. Okay, maybe not killed, but dulled more lives. Removed more hope, sold more medication, caused more tears.

What you do comes back to you with twice the force—fuck it, three times the force. We are not punished for our sins, we are punished by them.

I hated these people most of all. The ones who had their lives given to them, who in my mind never had to work, who didn’t appreciate what they had.

Then the fridge. Oh, happy white oblong. A miniature hospital in a bruised world.

Catherine had just broken up with her live-in boyfriend and had a young daughter. I hoped to excel myself here. She’d had some problems. Emotional problems. Attempted suicide was touched upon. My ears perked up. I heard “Kill me.” If I hurt this woman enough, I could nudge her over the edge into suicide. I’d be helping her do what she really wanted, and it’d be a good test of my powers.

The pain involved in a premeditated broken heart would easily compare with a case of assault, and yet no court of law would recognize it as a crime. A broken arm heals.

I waited to hear that she had done away with herself, how handsome I imagined myself at her funeral. Or even better to be burying my dick in someone else as she was being buried in the ground.

In my defense, I could talk about how I was abused by a De La Salle Brother when I was nine. How I’d felt the whole row of desks shaking as he played with his star pupil in the back. How I had to put a safety pin through the fly of my short pants to prevent this young Brother’s religious fervor. He’d go up the leg instead, and so I begged my mother to let me wear long trousers. I wasn’t old enough, she said, and anyway it was summer and Brother Ollie was only being friendly. It wasn’t serious abuse.

Maybe this stuff has links to other stuff that happened later. Maybe not. Maybe I was emulating the only relationship I’d ever had by gaining trust and then breaking it abruptly. Do with it what you will.

This was a big thing at Killallon Fitzpatrick. The ability to smile while under duress. They loved that. They liked you to suffer quietly.

My ego had been fluffed to the point of ejaculation,

They say you’re not punished for your sins, you’re punished by them.

Not “her”

I heard someone say somewhere that it’s possible to write the sickness out of yourself.

That’s another thing you’ll learn about me as we go on. I don’t like to take risks. I’ll offer you the possibility that I’m wrong only if I’m fairly sure I’m right. Makes me appear more humble.

I could talk to her day or night. She was very happy to be my friend. The ultimate demotion. The word “friend” registered as eunuch in my fevered mind. I could see her, but only as a non-man. Exquisite torture. And it was so hot.

If it had been happening to someone else, I would have approved and even wished him well, but because it was happening to me I couldn’t bear it, it was as if I had been miscast in my own life.

But fuck it, the big toothy smiles, the thick needy niceness. That crazy wide-eyed stare. I still don’t know what that was. Zoloft? Stupidity? In New York, everyone just looked hurt. It seemed more honest. Maybe I just identified with them.

There is nothing more frightening to me than the image of my own image from two or three different angles. So I stared at the floor.

I was careful not to smile at myself. I want never to be caught smiling at myself in a mirror. It’s okay in private.

The ads for the camp turned out pretty good, and one even went on to win an award. All the kids featured in them have since died. Don’t quite know what to do with that.

forgot, of course, that I was making serious bucks by then. I’ve never felt rich. Just silly.

I can remember her on top of me at one point. Her long rich brown hair falling forward as she pumped me. The hair formed a darkness that looked like the interior of the hood of the Grim Reaper. Like something out of one of those horror movies where from the darkness you see the faint glint of two little red beads.

Women love money so much only because we men make it hard for them to get at it. They have to massage us and our egos to get it. Otherwise they wouldn’t even bother with us. Except maybe for the occasional fuck. Not unlike how we treat them.

was shocked that I liked it so much and pissed off. It meant she was more talented than I’d feared. Not only had she stolen my heart, but now she’d stolen the life I would have loved to live had I had the courage not to go into advertising.

To be honest, I had an idea I was being taken in, but I wanted to be taken somewhere . . . anywhere.

I tipped over my king in the second game. She looked up all hurt and cheated. Hurt because I was cutting short her enjoyment. Cheated because she was probably planning a long-drawn-out death for me and now I had killed myself and denied her the pleasure. Also, it must have shown her how I played the life game: I’d self destruct rather than prolong pain.

On the other hand, if you are reading this, then not only did it get published but I’m now working on either my next book or the screenplay for this one. Congratulate me.