The Marquis de Marciel

I have a streak of cruelty inside of me that runs very deep.
I have no explanation for this. I have learned over the years that I can not control these waves of hot anger. I am not proud of them, but they make for good stories.
If I have been done wrong or even think that I am about to be done wrong, my mouth will open and say the most profane offensive things that one has ever heard. I have said these things about people I don't know and people that I love dearly. I have honed my anger ball and crafted it so that I not only can rattle off "FuckcuntmutherfuckniginbredfuckingassholegapingobesemoronfuckfuckfuckFUCK" at a moments notice but I can also cut deeper by using peoples flaws and truths against them.

I am pretty good at reading and getting to know people. Most especially finding their weaknesses and storing them in the "In case they decide to fuck me over or piss me off" file in my brain.
What can I say, people? When I love, I am a loooover. I will love your ass to death. But when angered, I could probably make you cry or at least make your lower lip tremble.
The ones I have hurt the most are the ones I love like family members and most especially boyfriends/husbands (and they have to put up with it cuz I is where they gets the sex from).
I understand that my cruelty is a form of self-preservation and protection. And a way to make me look like as cold and detached as possible from emotional situations. When in actuality I am one of the most sensitive little bitches you will ever meet.
Go, self-awareness and the inability to grow and change!
I also believe my cruelty to be part of my charm and entertainment value. And without that, where would I be?
I have written letters and made phone calls that I regret to this day.

When I was 6 or 7 years old I used to look up to my cousin, "Tina", who is 5 years older than me. Tina was the coolest. She was stylish and rebellious, she wore makeup and had boys call the house for her. And she was so popular, unlike myself. Every once and while she would let me hang out with her at her friends house up the street. They would smoke cigarettes and make prank phone calls and I would stare at them in awe. I believe I was trying to soak up all their bad ass behavior so I would have something to refer to once puberty struck. Most of their prank phone calls were about as scandalous as "Is your refrigerator running?" snicker snicker "We'll you better go catch it! BAAAAAHHHH!" click.
One day it was my turn to make a call. I still recall the persons' voice that answered the phone. It was the frail, tiny whisper of an old woman. It was the kind of voice that prayed for her long lost son to be calling "Johnny is that you?? After all these years?". It was the kind of voice that telemarketers and scam artists heard and thought "Jackpot!" and followed that thought with "Ma'am, now all I need is your social security number to help aid your contribution to the United Bulimic Orphans Fund." It was the kind of voice that fed all the neighborhood cats and smelled of mothballs. It was the kind of voice that contributed 10% of their income to their church parish, even on the lousy $400 social security check they received each month.
What kind of innocent prank could I pull over on this one? Hmmmmm... Well the refrigerator prank was waaaaaay played out. I needed something original, something that would make me stand out.
Gulp.
"Fuck you, you ugly bitch!"
I slammed the phone onto it's rotary cradle. My cousin and her friends just stared at me, jaws dropped.
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I once watched a documentary about the end of Warren Zevon's life on VH-1. It touched me so much I felt inspired to write my dad a 10 page letter telling him every reason he had failed me as father.
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Once I said to an annoying, attractive boy at party: "Did you use your physical appearance as an excuse not to develop your personality?"
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You see, there is no rhyme or reason for my cruelty and it can strike at anytime, for any reason.
Most recently I wrote a letter to my former manager at the coffee shop I recently quit. I felt it was my duty to tell her she was a complete and utter asshole and that no one liked her because she is lazy and mean, also a coward and a hypocrite (all true). I also pointed out how superior I was because everyone loved to work with me (true) and that in the big picture of things I would basically die knowing I was loved (maybe) and she would die having a clean coffee shop and no friends (most likely). I took the time to rip her a psychological new one based on my petty judgements and inflated ego. Because it was detrimental that she knew how I felt.
Oh and I closed the letter with "I hold no hard feelings against you or the coffee shop, it was about time I quit. 2 1/2 years is way too long for anyone to ever work at a coffee shop anyways", knowing full well that she will probably retire from the coffee shop industry.
I dropped the letter off at the coffee shop, along with my key to the store. I let my former coworkers read it and laugh and high five me (which they really did). I purposefully didn't put it in an envelope, just so she could experience the maximum embarrassment of knowing that every nosey employee had already read it before her.
But that night I felt the pangs of guilt I always feel after I complete one of my cruel assignments from the devil. The next day I called one of my friends from the coffee shop and had them destroy the letter before she had a chance to read it.
I am turning into such a pussy.
Which leads me to believe that there is hope. Even for me.