Well, well. Call me an addict. I mean.... here I am, tapping keys instead of.... well, not much I can do in the daylight. Need a way to pass the time. But with the advent of technology.... in the old days I used to be so concerned about leaving a mark. You know? About.... well. Living up to my name. And whatd'ya know, all I have to do is sit here and punch keys and.... ten million people can look me up. Beats the old writing-in-blood-on-the-walls approach.... although I still do prefer the wetwork, myself.
I'm still not sure what exactly I'm going to do with this newfound techno-savvy. I mean, it's not like I have some grand Apocalyptic manifesto or anything.... not yet, anyway. Actually, I'm itching for a kill so badly I can taste it.... or that might be the stale cigarette I smoked five minutes ago. ~shrugs~ Sex and pain distract me; sure. But as long as I'm stuck in this loathsome shoebox for another.... nine hours or so, I might as well play.
Maybe the Church of Angelus? I've heard that brainwashing is my thing. Or charisma, not sure which. Anybody want to offer any suggestions? Smells like power to me. And I know everything he knows, even if it doesn't work the other way around, and the poor sap's been spending way too much time sitting in front of this piece of shit over the last year. So.... let's see what I can do.
Speaking of him, let's talk about him, shall we? Makes me sick. I mean, just look at him:
Can we say pathetic? You can see it in his eyes. Carrying around this weight all the time, trying so hard to be such a good boy.... and he feels like a whore most of the time. Working his ass off "training", not letting himself sleep because of ~gasp~ ~sob~ the pain, and he's so much like a slavering puppy it makes you just want to shoot the bastard and get it over with. Putting everybody else first.
Stuck between me and the mask he makes himself wear.... and these last three months or so he's been mooning and making eyes because he's so desperately in love with that dark-haired Slayer that it makes you want to ram a stake down his throat. Even on that retarded show, they would make a good couple, though, eh? Cute.
To hear him talk about it. And talk. And talk some more. How she doesn't love him. How much he wants to prove he does. Give the man a flaming hoop and he'd stick his balls through it to prove it. Oh gosh, what a hero. Makes me feel all mushy inside.
And then Buffy. I've devoted an entire page to her, and the things I really do love about her. (The rest of you just wait, you'll get your turn.)He keeps me in mostly for her. Sure, yeah, moment of pure rage but there's a nifty little switch he doesn't tell you about - if he tries hard enough, he can activate that new spell on his own. Isn't that cool? Sure is.
Damn, damn, damn. Itching for a cigarette, must find one.
Okay, back to me. I must say, I'm fairly excited about this, the further along with it I go. But. First things first..... what the FUCK is up with that fucking television show? I mean don't get me wrong, it's great; the more people that think I'm some television construct dreamed up by some geek with too much time on his hands, the more open the buffet is to me. Poor, poor Angel. All that suffering, and people think he isn't even real. Bitch, ain't it? And I think it's even Wednesday today..... wonder if that spiky-haired actor ever actually killed anyone? Ever got hard from the sound of a severed spinal cord? Anybody have his address? Maybe I'll ask him.
No matter.... at the very least, here I sit. Not in front of a green screen, either. People.... they really make me laugh, sometimes. Here they are, flocking to church on Sundays and eating their little bread wafers so that they can make themselves believe that when they die it's more than just blackness..... and yet they can't accept the concept of...... oh I don't know. Trans-dimensionalism? To tell you the truth I don't even fully understand how it works, myself. Mr. Do Good thinks he does, some bullshit about quantum physics and other trendy pseudo-intellectual crap like that.... but all I know is that what's true is, well, true. Fuck. Maybe I'm just so famous they couldn't help but find out. Who am I to argue with that?
Word to the wise: I am, in truth, quite a bit more foul-mouthed that that. And descriptive. Want a sample? I have so many stories I could tell. Crucifying a woman in our basement once with strung-taut chains was classic - particularly when I had the lovely idea of using shards from a bottle of Merlot to imbed in the collar and chains to keep her in position. Hey..... recycle, right? It was truly beautiful. She was like our holiday centerpiece, for quite a while. Gorgeous to behold. Like a seventeenth-century painting of saints and martyrs. This was post-usage..... of course.
Maybe I'll write my memoirs. After all...... apocalypse coming, right? Up until now all that bullshit about a central role was just that.... vague bullshit. But since I seem to be sticking around to stay, this time.....
Well. Far be it for me to say I'm done, but I must toy with these features a bit, and see what I can do. I'm sure I'll come back and add all sorts of little goodies to this page later..... it's become a kind of nifty little hobby. I might even add a little guestbook in a few minutes so you can all say hello. Like..... all sorts of scenes at the touch of my fingertips. So adieu for now, and come back often. I do love the attention.
Cute. 
