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I am still alive!

Sorry! I've been distracted by Tumblr and my original stories. So, in the timespan since I disappeared, I graduated high school and will be attending college in the fall. :)

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The Alaric Project

"The South Side Succubus is a deviant figure. She is not a mastermind; she is not a "feminazi" activist; she is not a victim; she is not a liberator; she is not a martyr; she is not a hero." (Yi, 7, The Gender Excuse: Loopholes and Modern Perspectives of Female Villains)

 

Magazine articles. A crown of thorns wrapping around my head and less dignified areas. A message: Ensnared by society?

 

Twenty points to Team Notoriety.

 

Psychological evaluations.

 

Websites.

 

Internet articles.

 

Fans. Did Ted Bundy have admirers?

 

"The South Side Succubus, born Erica Joanne Benitez-Jones (May 21, 1983) is an American serial rapist. Active between February 2002 and August 2011, Benitez-Jones tranquilized registered and alleged sex offenders with pethidine before sodomizing the victims with household utensils (primarily a scewdriver)." (excerpt from Wikipedia.org, listed on a Facebook.com fanpage, last updated 6/23/12)

 

(What is it with all these serial rapists born in May?)

 

"Do we NEED to elaborate on the "offenses" of her victims? The perp is still a fuckin' RAPIST."

 

"Well, it was part of her M.O."

 

"hurrhurr tools"

 

"Look, this is still one evil bitch."

 

(Some random internet transaction)

 

This one evil bitch started as a mere bed pan cleaner at St. Matteau's Hospital.

 

Hi. Nice to meet you, though you may wish you can say the same. Or not.

 

Succubus is an erroneous moniker. The South Side part is okay, but a succubus seduces men and kills them.

 

I don't do either.

 

Not all my, er, "rapees" were men, and I never engaged in carnal frolicking in the bedsheets with them; furthermore, they didn't die. After all, I'm a serial rapist, not a serial killer. Either way, you still can't go around at the bar parading about that new promotion.

 

(Standards, y'see.)

 

Ah, well. That's publicity for ya. The ol' royal stink-eye treatment in li'l excerpts, little diamonds masked in black and white, glimpses into how society tries to perfectly dovetail into a convenient, comfortable afghan. But some of the seams come undone.

 

Now, here's a headline for ya: The Alaric Project—Failure or Moderate Success? No, scratch the moderate. It only worked or it didn't.


Writer's Block: On repeat

Which song gives you goosebumps? Good or bad-- tell us why.

"The Death of Love" by Cradle of Filth. Both. On one hand, it has an endearing, honest romance, but it ends with the woman being burned at the stake because she's Joan of Arc and the man is Gilles de Rais, her captain who went on to be executed for the cannabalizing, raping, and murdering children; the song describes Joan as she's burned alive as "a valkyrie," and it's truly heartwrenching because it's the turning point where Gilles thinks that God ordained for "the death of love" to happen and therefore he gives up his pious thoughts. In his mind, he doesn't seek to worship a deity who wants his love to be a martyr murdered in a tragic and painful way after only living nineteen years. However, this love is what is able to make him redeem himself before he dies.

YES. WIN. SO MUCH LOVE.

This is an article about gay subtext in the media, and how we need to stop teasing audiences and seeming open and start letting gay characters make out and have depth on-camera instead of all of this infuriating innuendo. And less goddamn quirky sidekicks. We need main characters. Same thing with female and minority protagonists--instead of this rape culture and token funny black guys while calling ourselves diverse.

The win.

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Something Happy