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

by Anonymous

I liked hurting girls. Mentally, not physically, I never hit a girl in my life. Well, once. But that was a mistake. I’ll tell you about it later. The thing is, I got off on it. I really enjoyed it.

The same thing happened to me, only worse. Worse because it happened to me. I feel purged now, you see. Cleansed. I’ve been punished, so it’s okay to talk about it all. At least that’s how it seems to me.

The deeper in they were, the more beautiful they looked when the moment came.

But I enjoyed it so much. Not the sex or even the conquest, but the causing of pain.

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.

“Hurt people hurt people.”

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

Unkind to Womankind. That was my mission. Around this time I discovered the meaning of the word “misogynist.”

Sophie was from South London.

After her, there was that designer girl—whose name I honestly can’t remember—who

There was Jenny.

Then came Emily.

Laura was somewhere in there.

And the one who started it all. Penelope Arlington.

When I spoke, she turned her head toward me and seemed to abandon herself to the meaning of my words.

Why would anyone set out to break the heart of someone he loved? Why would anyone intentionally cause that kind of pain?

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.

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

A teacher from Ireland. Twenty-five-ish. A virgin. No, really.

Next came Lizzie. She had her own flat.

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 never looked like a drunk, I just was a drunk.

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.

But it’s what I do. I suspect. It’s the other stuff I find hard. Like trusting people.

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

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.

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.

By the way, I am aware that up to this point I sound like a jilted boyfriend trying to disguise his attempt at revenge (i.e., this whole story) as a literary event that you (the reader) are supposed to be taken in by.

But I think you’ll agree that the antics of Aisling are worth recording under any pretense. Call it a warning to my brother romantics. Call it paranoid ravings. Call it what you like. Call it therapy for me (and you lot are eavesdropping).

Find out his hobbies before dumping him, He may be useful as a friend, or you may want to introduce him to one of your friends. Especially if he’s good in bed. What better gift for a close friend? Get good at chess; there is nothing more humiliating for a man than to be beaten intellectually by a beautiful woman. You’ll be able to cause him physical pain. If he doesn’t let you know how he’s feeling, call him late. Wake him up. It’s hard for him to hide his feelings when he’s in love with you and you’re speaking softly to him in bed, even if it is only on the phone.