An Open Letter to the People I Make Cry Every Day
We both know you love pain
My dear masochist,
I wish I could apologize to you for all your suffering and mean it, but I can’t.
Truth is, I am a sadist.
I probably shouldn’t be proud of it, but I can’t help it. Pain feeds me.
The vision of half-naked women and men looking at me, grunting, obeying me, begging me to stop, while I force them to continue. The sweat, the pain. The thought alone accelerates my adrenaline.
We, sadists, have an undeserving bad reputation. We had to go into hiding because we would never win a popularity contest.
But we are necessary.
There’s no better therapy for frustration.
My masochists are an extension of me. My therapy. My punching bag.
Just as darkness and light are the two sides of the same coin, I wouldn’t exist without them.
You have to be one of us to understand the inevitable truth: we need each other to survive. Without a sadist in their lives, they’d be nothing. It’s the reason we always combine terms: sadomasochism.
That’s why they keep coming back to me.
