I Love Waging War.

I love war. I don’t want to be content. I am addicted to waging war against myself. There must be some sort of conflict I have to overcome. The saying is true, “we make up most of our problems”. I do this on purpose. Sure, it makes me look like a crazy person, bipolar with multiple personalities. My personality is constantly morphing. It does so because I have to be adaptive in order to conquer my adversaries, and as we are a predator species, that’s exhilarating to me.

I have just discovered a huge part of what makes me, me. I thrive while in the midst of facing my demons. When my life is going well, I’m confident, and I’m stepping on necks, it’s cool for a while, but the curve of my smile gradually begins to flatten parallel with my shoulders and my eyebrows don’t raise with excitement as much anymore. I begin to slow down because I know there is a foe just around the corner, an enemy that I am establishing in my mind.

“Oh, you wanna square up, life? H’ookay! I’m gonna rip your shit, bitch!”

I love winning! I have no interest in entering something I don’t believe I can win. I’m not trying to compete, I’m trying to carpet bomb your entire existence. I want not a shred of evidence you ever walked the Earth. If I enter into an arena, in any facet of life, you better believe I came to bring it. I will use every tool at my disposal. I will transform my behavior to equal the highest standards a human being can exhibit. I am absolutely the most impatient person on the planet but if patience is what I need to come out on top, I will lie in the bushes for 3 weeks straight with an adult diaper on and not move an inch, like a fucking sniper behind enemy lines.

I believe I exude this behavior because conflict is the only thing that makes me feel alive. I’m positive it’s the reason why I’m only interested in women that I have to fight for. Anything freely given to me, I don’t appreciate it, I don’t want it. I want to show you that I can move a mountain. When there are no odds stacked against me, I begin to wilt.

My hands are so callused from clawing my way out of every single deep, dark pit of despair I’ve ever been involved in.

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