My mother was one lazy bitch.

She’s never worked a day in her life.

‘But she’s a homemaker!’ Do you know how easy that shit is? Why do you think gold diggers want to be a trophy wife? Cause they know stay-at-home moms got it good.

‘But they have to cook and clean!’ Bitch, I can do both of those in less than thirty minutes. What do you do for the rest of the 15 hours and 30 minutes? Drink wine and watch daytime soaps.

Don’t act like it’s a hard job. Cause it’s not. There’s really nothing easier. Other than sitting on your ass with your hands down your pants. Oh wait, that is what you do.

In some ways, it’s all my dad’s fault. In most ways.

Swaying her with sweet words of some fantasy he had in his head of a perfect life. Seducing her away against the will of her family and their swollen estate.

Then running away with the slip of a noose. She didn’t have any other choice but to buckle down, work three jobs all the while making sure her kids were safe, right? Not.

What did my mother do to take care of the family she was left with? She got married. To her brother-in-law. Surprised? You really shouldn’t be after all this. You probably should’ve expected it.

How else was she supposed to pay the bills and feed her kids? She doesn’t know any other way. Work hard and suffer for the sake of your children? Psshh. Fuck that shit. It’s much easier to use your pussy. Or in her case, mine.

Oh, Bill. Our glorious savior and my tender lover. He knew he wanted me since I was born. Well, that’s what I like to think.

He would bounce me around on his lap, with what I now know was his boner prodding my nubile ass. Always tickling, always wrestling, always groping. My parents didn’t even suspect. Yet another case of ignorance of the supposed impossible.

But my mother found out real fast how big of a pedophile my uncle was. First it was baths together, then nap times, which finally led to blatant sexual contact. At the dinner table, in front of the TV, he was always touching, probing.

I’m not sure why he didn’t rape me immediately. Maybe he was building himself up for the final moment, teasing himself towards the climax. Or maybe he was resisting his urges, trying to hold back from crossing the line. I had to give him credit though cause he waited a full year and a half before he crossed it.

I have a theory that most pedophiles have small dicks. I’ve only met a few but they all had mini sized, micropenises.

It make sense. When you can’t satisfy normal sized women what else can you do but go younger.

Maybe it’s a slow descent trying to find the right fit, from high schoolers to middle schoolers to elementary schoolers until you find your perfect match. Because there’s always an age and corresponding pussy size that’s just right for you and your dick.

Look, if you have a huge dick, you can’t physically fuck an 8 year old. It won’t fit. No matter how hard you push. I promise. And yes, I’ve tried it.

So if you can’t fuck ‘em what else would you do with them? It’s kind of counterintuitive to be a pedophile at that point. The poor pedophile too hung for his own pleasures, yet another unfortunate paradox played by God.

The first time he did it, he cried. Yup, not me, him.

It was a humid summer evening, the windows were open and I could hear the older kids laughing outside, still riding their bikes around the block in slow lazy circles. My mother was sleeping off her afternoon drinking session in prepraration for the night phase of the daily cycle. My younger sister, Kay, was watching the nightly news. She loved hearing about the next big scare or the latest health obsession, even the wacky murders and missing children. My older brother, Gene, was out in some abandoned house, an empty park, or his dealer’s place shooting up. His dealer was real nice in letting him chill on the couch. As long as he had the money.

When Bill locked the door, I knew today was the day. I was extremely hypersexual as a kid. Maybe I was coping with my father’s death but I ran around trying to kiss everyone in the first grade. In second grade, I started humping Ollie, an oversized stuffed otter we got at Seaworld years back. I had already done the doctor routine with the neighborhood boys and found my brother’s porn stash on his computer at the tender age of eight. I knew everything about sex by the third grade.

When you get raped, you don’t have any control over your body. You still get wet, you still pop a boner. It doesn’t mean you want it.

But I wanted it.

Look. I’m not trying to justify his actions. To be honest, I would kill every motherfucking pedophile with a click of the button if given the chance. But that night, I wanted it. I was curious, I was turned on and I loved him. He was nice to me, nice to my family. Everything about it was a normal cherry popping except the fact that I was eight and he was forty.

It didn’t hurt at all. He made sure that it didn’t hurt. He got me ready for an hour. Well, he got me ready for a year and a half. And it felt great. By the end, I loved him even more.

But he hated me. At first, he wouldn’t even look at me. He just kind of curled up into a ball and cried. I didn’t know what to do so I just held his head and stroked his hair. He had these soft brown curls that I loved to run my fingers through. My dad had the same exact hair and when he held me high up on his shoulders, I would grab hold of them like the reigns of a horse.

That's when I found out Bill was a moral man. He never looked at me the same after that. It was my second heartbreak. He was ashamed. Every time he saw me, his face would fill with disgust. It didn’t stop him from fucking me every night. It just turned a bit rough.

Being moral doesn’t mean you follow your beliefs rigidly with no exceptions. No one does that. No one can do that. We always end up straying.

It simply means when you do stray, you feel guilty. Bill had evil tastes but he knew them to be evil and so after he acted upon them, he felt remorse. Which translated to drinking, joining my mother in her alcoholism. When that didn’t help, he turned his self-reproach on to me. As soon as he was done with me, he would beat my ass. As if I was at fault for tempting him.

Instant post-coital regret.

But when Bill beat me, it was from a good place, born from his guilt and love for me. He didn't want to hurt me so he hurt me. Ironic, huh? In the end, I learned to love the pain as much as the rape.

And I loved Bill. And no, not in some stockholm syndrome, victim subjugation, helpless imprinting, manipulating immature emotional development sort of way. During those peaceful three years, I loved him or as close to whatever the fuck love is and whatever the fuck love I was capable of. I know what he did was despicable and unforgivable. Yes, he wasn't perfect. But he also did good by us. He treated my family well. We weren’t even his children but he kept us fed, clothed, and housed. He cared.

You know who’s truly despicable and unforgivable? My fucking parents.

The only people in the world whose duty was to protect me and provide for me. One offed himself and the other turned a blind eye to her children’s abuse. I don’t know which is worse but I know both are shittier than my uncle. It wasn’t his responsibility to take care of us, but he did. Granted most of it was to rape me.

But that’s how the world works. You give and you take.

No one’s gonna do shit for you. No one’s gonna give a shit about you. Unless you have something to give in return, no one’s gonna watch out for you. Maybe that’s why the idea of God is so comforting.

‘But what about my wife, my husband, my best friend, my mom, my dad, my son, my daughter, my brother, my sister, my gran-mammy and grandpappy.'

Perhaps, for a time and up to a point. There’s always a limit. I’ve seen it before.

You end up paralyzed or disabled. Five, ten, twenty years later, who the fuck is going to be by your side? It’s unreasonable to expect them to.

They’ll throw you in a shitty long term care facility where you sit in your shit for an hour or two before someone even checks on you. You’re supposed loved ones will visit you maybe once a week at first but pretty soon it’ll only be once a month, then just holidays and not even on the day of, usually the day after or the day before, cause the day of is reserved for real family.

No matter what, you always end up a burden, just another obligation to fulfill, forgotten for all intents and purposes.

Unemployed? Psychiatric issues? In the long term, no one will be there for you. No one will care.

When you grow up, at one point, you realize you're the only one you can rely on. Everyone will fake niceties, plaster smiles and spout sympathetic words. But who will really help you? Who will spend money on you? Who will risk their livelihood to save you?

You like to say that you care, but do you actually?

The human capability for apathy is extraordinary. You’re all a little bit psychopathic.

You say you should visit your grandparents more, you should call your parents, but do you?

You don’t want to lead this boy on or use this girl for sex, you know staying any longer with them will cause them pain, but you still drag it on as long as you can.

You say you love pets, you would never want harm to come to them, but 2.7 million cats and dogs are euthanized every year in shelters. What do you actually do to help them? Nothing. What's the difference between slicing up a cat and letting them loose on the streets to be run over by a car or giving them to a shelter to have them euthanized? Dead is dead. Just cause you shy away from the cruelty you are inflicting doesn't make you anymore human. It just makes you a pussy.

You don’t want to sacrifice yourself, your hard earned time or money, for someone else, for someone who is suffering. Of course, you’ll take a symbolic action, the token effort, donate to a charity, volunteer a bit. I mean how many of you really do that?

And don't fool yourself, most of it is to make you feel better when you ask yourself late at night: am i truly a good person. That's when you can say, 'but I bought (RED) Beats headphones and I marched on world feminism day!'.

To live in this world full of pain and misery, you need to be a little bit of a psychopath. To buy your next car, you need to ignore the 3.1 million children dying from starvation each year. Every time you buy a case of water, there’s 663 million people without your perfectly good faucet that runs clean water. More people have a mobile phone than access to a toilet. Absurd? Yes. But true.

You like to say we’re better than animals but we’re not. Your instinct tells you only to care about those near us, who’s friendly with you, who's related to you, who can give you as much as you give them. You ignore the rest. Which is to your benefit. You’d go insane if you were truly sympathetic about everything.

You can’t care about the entire world’s torment. And so you don’t.

You aren’t so high up the food chain that you’ve detached yourself from your genetic ancestors. You like to think you’ve ascended to an entirely different plane of existence, separate from the primal world. Or that you’re descended from God, made in his image, while all else was made from the earth.

But you’re not.

You’re made from the same earth as animals, you steal, kill, and rape, you ostracize, you fuck, you betray, you hurt and cause pain, you take advantage of those weaker than you while you grovel and worship those better than you. You’re just another animal on a long list of other species.

And so I didn’t mind when Bill started to pimp me out about a year later. Someone in my family had to work and his friends were gentle. They liked kids and they liked treating kids like kids.

There was Smelly Pete who had his own orchard, always reeked of manure and loved to lick my asshole, the dirty little shit. Greasy Mick helped fix my brother’s rackety old Grand Am, wiping his hands by running it through his hair before jerking off to me masturbating. And last was Retard Reuben, the handyman at our local church complete. Yea, we still went to church pretending like we were a real family. Rube had a stutter and loved to play Halo on my brother’s Xbox with me, well until his wee-wee started to feel weird and I had to make it better. His words, not mine.

This continued on for two years. I’m not really embarrassed about this part of my life and it wasn’t that dark. It was actually quite bright and full of laughter. We were like a makeshift family. Greasy Mick would be out in the driveway tinkering with my brother, who started doping up less. Smelly Pete brought over some tomato plants and dug up a garden for my mother, who even started to drink less when working in the dirt. Me and Rube taught Bill and Kay how to play Halo and we had epic four player battles, which led to Bill kicking my ass with a controller instead of a boot.

I was finally happy. But happiness is a limited commodity in this world. If someone has it, someone doesn’t. It dissipates, drying up, dissappearing into the thin air. So ephemeral in nature, it may as well be illusory. As soon as you grab ahold of it, it will slip away just as fast.

I hit puberty when I was ten.

My flat chest quickly started to protrude, my cute child’s tucked vulva started darkening and opening like the proverbial flower. Little by little, my reverse harem started to gravitate away from me. To them, I was growing uglier by the day cause who wants to fuck a real woman much less a pubescent one. Prepubescent is where it’s at, the sweet spot.

When I entered middle school, the guys stopped fucking me and Bill stopped beating me.

After you give so much attention to a young kid like that and pull it all away with a sweep under the rug, I was garbage left by the curbside, unwanted. I felt so lost, without the sex, without the pain, without his sign of love. I was empty.

That’s when I began to cut myself. Aka self-mutilation. First, I burned myself with cigarettes, putting them out on my thighs, breathing in the smell of burnt flesh. For the first time since I had been tossed away, I was alive.

And immediately addicted.

The cutting was the best. Not the pussy way with a razor. Like a paper cut, that shit didn't hurt at all. The best way to do it is you take the tip of a knife and scrape away, peeling the skin back, layer by layer. At first, it's just a white line, but you dig and you dig till you reach the pink, wiping away the beads of red. This way you feel the electricity run through your body with every stroke. There’s just something about seeing the blood spill out that makes it so...romantic. The visual aid adds to the rush, the high.

Of course after I had my fill of pain, I had to fill my other hole. I went on a frenzy, tempting, trapping and fucking virgins. That feeling of power I held over those horny boys, their faces filled with pure pleasure when they had that over the top first orgasm. I made sure I built it up, just like Bill did. He taught me well, never letting them prematurely ejaculate and ruin the moment. Thinking back on it, it was really nice of me to give them all such a mind blowing experience.

I became obsessed with the control I had over them, what guys would give up for that little taste. I fucked anyone who was willing, so much so that Bill told me that I was bringing home too many guys. He had the fucking nerve to say that. He must’ve still felt like he was my dad and that I still loved him.

But I knew better now.

I knew he was just a weak little fucker who couldn’t control himself, who was held prisoner by a fucking orgasm just like these middle school virgins. Our first night when he cried, I thought it was sweet. But now I knew he was just a bitch.

You're not a real man when you couldn’t even stick to your own beliefs.

As much as I liked to play with the boys, I grew tired of the regular old sex real quick. I liked it better when they dominated me. I stopped fucking the pushovers and only kept those who would do anything to fuck me. Including rape.

I had this bit where I would tease them to the point of no return and they would be unable to stop themselves. Then, I would refuse sex until they took it from me, held me down and forced themselves inside me.

The number of partners continued to dwindle as I wanted it rougher and rougher. The pain and the pleasure, it’s like chocolate and strawberries or like a vibrator and an asshole. They were just perfect for each other.

But as I was experiencing this newfound pleasure, there was pain hidden in my house.

I only noticed after who knows how long, but the guys had started hanging around our house again, Greasy Mick, Smelly Pete, even Retard Reuben. I didn't understand. They weren't here to fuck me. What were they here for?

My sister.