I might like to imagine myself, this week, as an Aleister Crowley for the 21st century. Today everyone thinks he was a Satanist, because at the time he rather playfully got a couple of tabloids to bill him as 'The Wickedest Man in the World' for his neo-Masonic beliefs, but he was really guilty of a far worse crime, that of being a populist. He loathed the upper classes and preferred the common man, the working man, whom he felt was far more noble than the nobility. Sometimes in my thoughts I take this further, wondering if the common man is perhaps the only real human being... the wealthy and powerful are cancerous mutations, and our stars are composites of dead cells. When I've charmed the world I hope I still have enough integrity to self-destruct should I become as worthless as those I despise.
We also share a penchant for absinthe, which I suspect is slowly gnawing at my deformed little heart. I have been told repeatedly by professionals that the irregularity in my heartbeat is nothing to worry about, so of course it concerns me. Sometimes it beats twice quickly, sometimes it pauses, deciding whether to continue, as it dawns on me that my blood has stopped flowing and I glance downward anxiously. I imagine one day it will simply stop, probably during a moment of duress, like when I'm masturbating... sometimes when I come I wish I would die right at that moment, my last thought the sickest, most repulsive fantasy imaginable. If there's a God I know he hates me, so I'd want to greet him with that kind of thought on my mind.