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

by Anonymous

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

Half the time I was trying to push them away, but it had just the opposite effect.

And the fact that they were attracted to a piece of shit like me made me hate them even more than if they’d laughed in my face and walked away.

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

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

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

I just can’t believe that my emotional state could be explained by such an adolescent term as “broken heart.” I’m willing to be wrong, but I don’t know how anyone will ever be able to prove it, so I’m safe enough.

My favorite masturbation technique was to take a nice hot bath, soap up my baldy lad well and truly, and then give him a good old beating. At one stage I was going to write a screenplay all about my right hand, a love story. There would have been scenes where I let my hand brush against my thigh as a precursor to hitting on mysef. I’d blush. In another, my right hand would get jealous of my left.

I couldn’t hold out. I called her and left a message, saying something about having thought about what she’d said and that I wanted to meet her for lunch. In my mind, lunch was less of a commitment than dinner. She left a message back, saying we could meet for dinner that night, Sunday, “if you’re feeling up to it.” That fucking killed me. It implied that she knew her effect on me. Exactly the effect. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to get my fix.