List of Short Stories |
A beautiful woman is standing outside my office door, apparently paralyzed by her feelings. How efficient is that? My door is open.
Finally some lucky emotion wins this epic battle and she knocks politely on my open door, then hesitantly edges in without waiting for an answer.
"Hi," she offers tentatively. "I'm Wendy. I'm a new law intern here! Your name is Randall?"
Good guess, my name is on the door, the girl is a genius. And she's a genuine looker. Perfect golden blond hair falls around a symmetrical face and erupts into curls as it flows down past the shoulders. Nice body supporting tits that make you want to stare and imagine twisting the nipples.
She's being polite to me? She wants something. And she's carrying a computer in her arms, so I don't need a crystal ball to see what's coming. "Yep. 'Randall' it is." I imagine I should say Can I help you. That's what she expects, but I want to make this hard on her.
She holds up her computer with the mouse. "I, uh, the mouse thingy isn't working on my computer."
No wedding ring, and she just moved into town for this job, so she doesn't have a boyfriend yet, so she has to come to me. I get it. "Is that your own personal computer?" It's obviously her personal computer.
She starts to say yes, then realizes I'm probably not supposed to be fixing personal computers. Then she thinks of what to say. It's painful to watch girls try to think when all they can really do is struggle with their emotions. Finally she mumbles something I can't quite hear.
She expects me to fix it because she's attractive and assumes she can get whatever she wants. I usually help the lawyers here with their computers, so this is not a big deal. "Leave it on the table." I point to the table by door. "I'll fix the problem."
"Just, uh, just leave it here?" She's about 5 foot 6, so only an inch taller than me.
"Yes," I say condescendingly. "Put it there so I can work on it when I'm finished with this project."
"Uh, okay." She sets her computer down carefully on the table, then puts her mouse carefully on her computer, like it matters what happens to a nonfunctioning mouse. Then she turns around to look me in the eye, making sure I see she put her computer there. I just stare at her breasts.
That makes her even more uncomfortable. But she's not in any position to complain, so I can be as rude as I want.
She says, "So, thanks." She waits for me to say something. I can imagine pinching her nipple hard through her bra and giving it a hard twist. No, I want to reach under her bra and pinch her nipple so hard she whimpers. Finally she realizes that I'm just going to stare; she slowly turns around and walks out while I watched her ass rock up and down.
I HATE beautiful women. They think they own the world. And men let them.
I give her a new mouse -- I'm not bothering with diagnostics on a $30 mouse, and I have a boxful. Takes me 30 seconds.
And another 5 minutes to insert my new enhanced Zibar worm into her root drive.
Finally some lucky emotion wins this epic battle and she knocks politely on my open door, then hesitantly edges in without waiting for an answer.
"Hi," she offers tentatively. "I'm Wendy. I'm a new law intern here! Your name is Randall?"
Good guess, my name is on the door, the girl is a genius. And she's a genuine looker. Perfect golden blond hair falls around a symmetrical face and erupts into curls as it flows down past the shoulders. Nice body supporting tits that make you want to stare and imagine twisting the nipples.
She's being polite to me? She wants something. And she's carrying a computer in her arms, so I don't need a crystal ball to see what's coming. "Yep. 'Randall' it is." I imagine I should say Can I help you. That's what she expects, but I want to make this hard on her.
She holds up her computer with the mouse. "I, uh, the mouse thingy isn't working on my computer."
No wedding ring, and she just moved into town for this job, so she doesn't have a boyfriend yet, so she has to come to me. I get it. "Is that your own personal computer?" It's obviously her personal computer.
She starts to say yes, then realizes I'm probably not supposed to be fixing personal computers. Then she thinks of what to say. It's painful to watch girls try to think when all they can really do is struggle with their emotions. Finally she mumbles something I can't quite hear.
She expects me to fix it because she's attractive and assumes she can get whatever she wants. I usually help the lawyers here with their computers, so this is not a big deal. "Leave it on the table." I point to the table by door. "I'll fix the problem."
"Just, uh, just leave it here?" She's about 5 foot 6, so only an inch taller than me.
"Yes," I say condescendingly. "Put it there so I can work on it when I'm finished with this project."
"Uh, okay." She sets her computer down carefully on the table, then puts her mouse carefully on her computer, like it matters what happens to a nonfunctioning mouse. Then she turns around to look me in the eye, making sure I see she put her computer there. I just stare at her breasts.
That makes her even more uncomfortable. But she's not in any position to complain, so I can be as rude as I want.
She says, "So, thanks." She waits for me to say something. I can imagine pinching her nipple hard through her bra and giving it a hard twist. No, I want to reach under her bra and pinch her nipple so hard she whimpers. Finally she realizes that I'm just going to stare; she slowly turns around and walks out while I watched her ass rock up and down.
I HATE beautiful women. They think they own the world. And men let them.
I give her a new mouse -- I'm not bothering with diagnostics on a $30 mouse, and I have a boxful. Takes me 30 seconds.
And another 5 minutes to insert my new enhanced Zibar worm into her root drive.
I almost have this rebuttal finished. Good thing, I'm tired. But I so much need to do a good job -- Mr. Harrelson finally gave me something intelligent to do. Hmmm.
expenses are wildly exaggerated. A more realistic estimate of the damages would be a fraction of what is mentioned in the plaintiff's petition.
Finally, the plaintiff's petition is ambiguous in its description of venues for this action.
Finally, the plaintiff's petition is ambiguous in its description of venues for this action.
This is good. Really good. I can do this.
Do I have everything? I check my notes -- all there. I reread it one more time -- I don't see anything missing. I smile and prnnounce it "Good." A powerful summary paragraph and I'm done.
My. Screen. Flickers.
I panic. I never saved anything! I look. Everything looks good now. I quickly click on FILE, then SAVE.
My. Screen. Goes. Black.
I'm horrified.
Do I have everything? I check my notes -- all there. I reread it one more time -- I don't see anything missing. I smile and prnnounce it "Good." A powerful summary paragraph and I'm done.
My. Screen. Flickers.
I panic. I never saved anything! I look. Everything looks good now. I quickly click on FILE, then SAVE.
My. Screen. Goes. Black.
I'm horrified.
All I can do is stare at my blank screen, terrified. Did I save anything? I don't remember saving anything. Oh FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.
I'm working on my main computer and watching Miss Tits on my second computer. So far, so good. My program connected to me and is taking my orders. I have her computer's mic and camera turned on, so I can see and hear her, though there isn't much to hear.
It's like soft porn. I can find better looking cunts at a hundred different sites, and they'll all be naked. But the invastion-of-privacy dimension here is real.
And very erotic. I rub my crotch. She thinks she's alone. She thinks no one can see her. She thinks she has privacy. But she doesn't. She hasn't done anything embarrassing, but I love the way she squinches up her face when she's reading what she just wrote.
"Good," I hear her say. My attention immediately is on just her. She's smiling. It's late, and she might be finished. I type in a macro command on my second computer to make her screen flicker.
I take a quick screen shot for my wall pictures and start rubbing myself harder. The look on her face! It was pure terror. Of course the stupid bimbo never saved any of that work.
I'm not sure I was quick enough on the screen shot -- the worry started disappearing when she saw her screen come back to life. But I'm also getting a video, so I can pull a picture off of that. I do another macro, to make her screen turns black and start taking pictures as soon as I do.
Oh god, she looks horrified. I watch her face slowly melt into dispair. And the she cries out "Fuck fuck fuck fuck."
This is high quality porn. This gives meaning to my life.
And very erotic. I rub my crotch. She thinks she's alone. She thinks no one can see her. She thinks she has privacy. But she doesn't. She hasn't done anything embarrassing, but I love the way she squinches up her face when she's reading what she just wrote.
"Good," I hear her say. My attention immediately is on just her. She's smiling. It's late, and she might be finished. I type in a macro command on my second computer to make her screen flicker.
I take a quick screen shot for my wall pictures and start rubbing myself harder. The look on her face! It was pure terror. Of course the stupid bimbo never saved any of that work.
I'm not sure I was quick enough on the screen shot -- the worry started disappearing when she saw her screen come back to life. But I'm also getting a video, so I can pull a picture off of that. I do another macro, to make her screen turns black and start taking pictures as soon as I do.
Oh god, she looks horrified. I watch her face slowly melt into dispair. And the she cries out "Fuck fuck fuck fuck."
This is high quality porn. This gives meaning to my life.
Losing all of what I have written would be so dreadful. "I BEG you, computer, please do not crash." I can't afford to lose everything. I --
My screen goes back on. Whew! That was lucky, I click on FILE and then SAVE. I should have done that a long time ago. Name? Hargin Deposition. I click Save again.. I'm trying to calm down. That was such a close call.
Nothing happens? NOTHING HAPPENS! I panic. I click frantically on SAVE. Nothing happens, I press keys but my computer won't do anything! I pound on my table in frustration. The little cursor won't move! Oh baby, please move.
There must be something I can do. Please tell me there is. I press escape and all the keys at the top with pictures on them and alt and fn and the key with those four squares. Everything!
Nothing works. It's late, and I'm tired, and I have to do the whole thing over. I burst into tears.. Why do things like this happen to me? I need that for work tomorrow.
My screen goes back on. Whew! That was lucky, I click on FILE and then SAVE. I should have done that a long time ago. Name? Hargin Deposition. I click Save again.. I'm trying to calm down. That was such a close call.
Nothing happens? NOTHING HAPPENS! I panic. I click frantically on SAVE. Nothing happens, I press keys but my computer won't do anything! I pound on my table in frustration. The little cursor won't move! Oh baby, please move.
There must be something I can do. Please tell me there is. I press escape and all the keys at the top with pictures on them and alt and fn and the key with those four squares. Everything!
Nothing works. It's late, and I'm tired, and I have to do the whole thing over. I burst into tears.. Why do things like this happen to me? I need that for work tomorrow.
The cunt smiles when her computer screen goes back on. I never noticed how perfect her teeth are. I bet that cost her father a lot of money. But it helped get her a internship at a good law firm.
She clicks on FILE, then SAVE. My finger is poised on my macro key for freezing her computer. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . she's naming her file. I see the exact moment she presses SAVE, and then I press the key.
I watch her slowly realize that her save didn't work. I have to pull down my pants and start masturbating for serious. Yep, she now realizes it didn't work.
Look at her panicking! Look at those breasts bounce! She's frantic. But it's her own fault for not saving. What an airhead. And she has a law degree? Because she got special treatment in some school promoting gender diversity.
SHE STARTS CRYING! This is better than I ever imagined. Uh! uh! uh! I have a great orgasm. Uhhhhhh.
I clean up as I watch. Eventually she gives up and turns her computer off, then back on. So I see her starting over. She's still crying as she types. Two hours of work is now gone.
I would love to stay and watch, but it's late and i have work tomorrow. I leave my program videoing her and I go to bed. The Man's Code: Anhiliate an enemy instantly; break a woman slowly.
She clicks on FILE, then SAVE. My finger is poised on my macro key for freezing her computer. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . she's naming her file. I see the exact moment she presses SAVE, and then I press the key.
I watch her slowly realize that her save didn't work. I have to pull down my pants and start masturbating for serious. Yep, she now realizes it didn't work.
Look at her panicking! Look at those breasts bounce! She's frantic. But it's her own fault for not saving. What an airhead. And she has a law degree? Because she got special treatment in some school promoting gender diversity.
SHE STARTS CRYING! This is better than I ever imagined. Uh! uh! uh! I have a great orgasm. Uhhhhhh.
I clean up as I watch. Eventually she gives up and turns her computer off, then back on. So I see her starting over. She's still crying as she types. Two hours of work is now gone.
I would love to stay and watch, but it's late and i have work tomorrow. I leave my program videoing her and I go to bed. The Man's Code: Anhiliate an enemy instantly; break a woman slowly.
Sob. I have to do everything all over again. It's late, and I'm tired, and I'll be a cranky wreck tomorrow. Shit, shit, shit. I can't deal with this.
Computers. They are SO frustrating. I try to remember what I had already written, but I'm so discouraged. Pretty please, little computer, never do that again.
Computers. They are SO frustrating. I try to remember what I had already written, but I'm so discouraged. Pretty please, little computer, never do that again.
There's one email I have to write for work. Then I'm dropping into my lonely bed in this new city and falling so asleep.
I take another bite of ice cream, my go-to pleasure food, and start to write. This takes no brains to write. Why am I the one that has to put out the email reminding people of the meeting tomorrow? Why not Kurt or Raj? Because I'm a woman, I bet. But I'm not a secretary.
I reread for the third time what I've written. I think "going forward" should be "moving forward." Otherwise it looks good. I check for the third time that all of the necessary documents are attached. Should I reread it again? No, it's good. SEND.
Did I really eat that much ice cream? I had a bad day. It was really hard to be nice to people, and really hard to concentrate.
I take another bite of ice cream, my go-to pleasure food, and start to write. This takes no brains to write. Why am I the one that has to put out the email reminding people of the meeting tomorrow? Why not Kurt or Raj? Because I'm a woman, I bet. But I'm not a secretary.
I reread for the third time what I've written. I think "going forward" should be "moving forward." Otherwise it looks good. I check for the third time that all of the necessary documents are attached. Should I reread it again? No, it's good. SEND.
Did I really eat that much ice cream? I had a bad day. It was really hard to be nice to people, and really hard to concentrate.
I'm eating my dinner, and trying to do some coding, and I'm looking at Wendy. She's just doing some boring email. But it's for work, so it might be important.
She looks tired -- she's lost her glow and her cheery smile. I press a few keys and her screen goes black and then quickly goes back on. Nothing serious, but I see her panic when it happens.
I'm programming macros in C+ to control her computer better. The one I sent to her computer today is supposed to catch her emails, so I can decide whether to send them or not. Let's see if it works.
She's finishing her email . . . wait for it . . . she presses send . . .
I read the email. Boring. I block it from sending.
She looks tired -- she's lost her glow and her cheery smile. I press a few keys and her screen goes black and then quickly goes back on. Nothing serious, but I see her panic when it happens.
I'm programming macros in C+ to control her computer better. The one I sent to her computer today is supposed to catch her emails, so I can decide whether to send them or not. Let's see if it works.
She's finishing her email . . . wait for it . . . she presses send . . .
I read the email. Boring. I block it from sending.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Harrelson--"
"Warren."
"I'm sorry . . . Warren. I know I sent out that email." I'm standing in front of his desk. In his huge office.
"Even though no one received it."
I shrug my shoulders helplesslly and look away from his gaze. I remember writing it. I remember sending it. "I don't know what happened."
"Perhaps it was one of those 'mysterious' computer things." He put air quotes around "mysterious". He doesn't believe me.
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"I'm sure it won't." He looks at my breasts again. "Please be a little more careful in the future."
I was being careful. I'm always careful. I'm sure I sent it. "Yes, Mr. H -- Warren. "
He flicks his finger at his door, signaling that he's done talking to me.
Damn. I see how they give Karl and Raj, the other interns, the harder cases, and they give me the easier. And they've been doing that since my first day here. Those two guys aren't better than me.
This email fiasco is NOT going to help. I feel a tear coming to my eye. Karl and Raj wouldn't cry.
When I interviewed here, everyone was so friendly and nice. I was excited to move here. I had no warning about any sexism.
I feel so naive.
"Warren."
"I'm sorry . . . Warren. I know I sent out that email." I'm standing in front of his desk. In his huge office.
"Even though no one received it."
I shrug my shoulders helplesslly and look away from his gaze. I remember writing it. I remember sending it. "I don't know what happened."
"Perhaps it was one of those 'mysterious' computer things." He put air quotes around "mysterious". He doesn't believe me.
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"I'm sure it won't." He looks at my breasts again. "Please be a little more careful in the future."
I was being careful. I'm always careful. I'm sure I sent it. "Yes, Mr. H -- Warren. "
He flicks his finger at his door, signaling that he's done talking to me.
Damn. I see how they give Karl and Raj, the other interns, the harder cases, and they give me the easier. And they've been doing that since my first day here. Those two guys aren't better than me.
This email fiasco is NOT going to help. I feel a tear coming to my eye. Karl and Raj wouldn't cry.
When I interviewed here, everyone was so friendly and nice. I was excited to move here. I had no warning about any sexism.
I feel so naive.
"Whoa, Sandy, funny running into you like this." I've been trying to accidentally run into her all week. A little overweight, but shorter than me and in my league. A secretary here.
"Hi Randall."
"Say, did you want to go out for a drink after work?"
"I'm busy. Sorry."
She didn't sound sorry. That fat ass isn't even pretty. She couldn't go out for just one drink and see what happens? She couldn't even bother to think of a better excuse?
Is it any wonder why I hate women?
"Hi Randall."
"Say, did you want to go out for a drink after work?"
"I'm busy. Sorry."
She didn't sound sorry. That fat ass isn't even pretty. She couldn't go out for just one drink and see what happens? She couldn't even bother to think of a better excuse?
Is it any wonder why I hate women?
So, I'm encouraging one of the losers at Incel to finally take some action to get revenge. Wendy's now a permanent resident on my other computer, and when I get bored, I imagine what this new webpage-substitution code is going to do to her.
I'm starting with a simple 404. She requests a page, I push ctr-shift-R . . . and nothing happens. I reread my code, looking for the problem.
I try again and . . . yes!
I go to the KillBitches.com forum. Some guy is having trouble with equal opportunity. I suggest he find the other guys in the office who are sympathetic to the cause, then organize.
And I can look at Wendy at her computer and know I can make her miserable.
drip, drip, drip.
Now, what would be a good page for her to see?
I found the perfect page. I click on a few keys . . .
I see her face scrunch; as she reads the screen her mouth falls open. Is she crying?
She is so overreacting. It's just a standard ransom note, telling her that her computer is infected with a virus and she shouldn't do anything, she has to call Microsoft at the number. It's really not a big deal.
Oh my God, she's pulling out her iPhone. Yes! She's calling the number. Stupid bitch. Yep, I see her looking angrily at her phone, that number has to be disconnected by now.
And now for the icing on the cake. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . a message saying it's too late.
She's reading the message and crying. I think she cries a lot easier than before.
I'm starting with a simple 404. She requests a page, I push ctr-shift-R . . . and nothing happens. I reread my code, looking for the problem.
I try again and . . . yes!
I go to the KillBitches.com forum. Some guy is having trouble with equal opportunity. I suggest he find the other guys in the office who are sympathetic to the cause, then organize.
And I can look at Wendy at her computer and know I can make her miserable.
drip, drip, drip.
Now, what would be a good page for her to see?
I found the perfect page. I click on a few keys . . .
I see her face scrunch; as she reads the screen her mouth falls open. Is she crying?
She is so overreacting. It's just a standard ransom note, telling her that her computer is infected with a virus and she shouldn't do anything, she has to call Microsoft at the number. It's really not a big deal.
Oh my God, she's pulling out her iPhone. Yes! She's calling the number. Stupid bitch. Yep, I see her looking angrily at her phone, that number has to be disconnected by now.
And now for the icing on the cake. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . a message saying it's too late.
She's reading the message and crying. I think she cries a lot easier than before.
I can't believe this is happening.
My precious computer is infected. I pay $30 a month for protection and I still get infected. I think they were just ripping me off.
TIME EXPIRED? What does that mean? Then the message is gone.
I'm supposed to edit one more report -- bullshit work. I'll wake up early and do it tomorrow morning at work. I take solace in another cookie, my comfort food tonight. Jackson is still too angry about me dumping him, so I can't call him. I'm too pissed at Randy to call him. It's been too long time since I contacted with David, I've just been too busy.
Maybe the creepy IT guy can fix it.
She knocks once and then opens my door. I'm not surprised. I'm dressed my best today. Polished shoes, hair washed just this morning. I even wore a tie.
She's holding her laptop to her chest like it's a baby. Then she holds it out and shows it up to me. "I think my computer might have a virus."
And she expects me to fix it. Why am I not surprised? "And?" I'll make this difficult for her, maybe that will improve her attitude.
"Oh. Well, I wondered if you could fix it. Or check it." Now she smiles at me, realizing that she's going to have to be a little nicer to get what she wants. I'm sure she's had a lot of practice at that.
She adds, "Or whatever you magicians do."
That is so condescending. I'm not a magician -- I don't just wave my hands and things are magically fixed. I have an IQ of 150, I can think logically, and I worked hard to know everything about what's inside that box she wouldn't even know how to open.
I do like her looking so uncomfortable. "Did you want to go out for a drink after work today?"
A look of horror swipes across her face -- a tiny security breach -- but it's instantly replaced by a polite smile. She studies me and winces. "I'd love to, but my girlfriend and I --"
"Leave it on the table," I say roughly. I don't want to hear the rest of this vagina's excuses.
"--we're going out," she finishes. I stare at her cunt. "Okay," she says and carefully sets down her computer on the table and flees.
I run a standard malware and virus checker on her computer. It finds 12 things, all harmless. They just try to scare potential customers. Such bullshit. And it didn't find my wormware. Women need strong men to protect them from other men, it's always been that way. I print out the list.
She's holding her laptop to her chest like it's a baby. Then she holds it out and shows it up to me. "I think my computer might have a virus."
And she expects me to fix it. Why am I not surprised? "And?" I'll make this difficult for her, maybe that will improve her attitude.
"Oh. Well, I wondered if you could fix it. Or check it." Now she smiles at me, realizing that she's going to have to be a little nicer to get what she wants. I'm sure she's had a lot of practice at that.
She adds, "Or whatever you magicians do."
That is so condescending. I'm not a magician -- I don't just wave my hands and things are magically fixed. I have an IQ of 150, I can think logically, and I worked hard to know everything about what's inside that box she wouldn't even know how to open.
I do like her looking so uncomfortable. "Did you want to go out for a drink after work today?"
A look of horror swipes across her face -- a tiny security breach -- but it's instantly replaced by a polite smile. She studies me and winces. "I'd love to, but my girlfriend and I --"
"Leave it on the table," I say roughly. I don't want to hear the rest of this vagina's excuses.
"--we're going out," she finishes. I stare at her cunt. "Okay," she says and carefully sets down her computer on the table and flees.
I run a standard malware and virus checker on her computer. It finds 12 things, all harmless. They just try to scare potential customers. Such bullshit. And it didn't find my wormware. Women need strong men to protect them from other men, it's always been that way. I print out the list.
She knocks, then enters. She looks a conflicted mess. She doesn't want to be here.
But she needs me. That computer rules her life. More than she realizes.
I see her fake smile. "So, I'm back." I can see. "Did you, um, make any progress?" She explains, just in case I couldn't understand that, "Could you fix my computer?"
"Yeah, it was infected. That's a list of the problems. I took them all off of your computer. It's good now." Except for the Zibar worm. I'm the person a boyfriend is supposed to be protecting her from.
I see her relief. "Oh thanks," she gushes, happily. Then she remembers it's me and says more business-like, "I appreciate this." She picks up the list and starts to read it. She doesn't understand any of it, of course -- it's all scary words and techno-babble. But I can feel her worry -- they did a good job making that report sound as frightening as possible.
She picks up the computer and clutches it to her chest. Still the baby thing.
And now I, nice guy, charitable, and helpful, give her one more chance. "Did you want to go out for a drink tomorrow after work?"
She can say yes, and I will leave her computer alone, and she can go live her happy life with thousands of guys fucking her and she gets to pick the best one to marry like she is some fucking queen and deserves everything even though it is just fucking DNA that gave her that gorgeous body.
Or she can say no. The Christians say that if a stranger comes to your door, you should treat him like he was Jesus. I say that if a man has had his hands on your root system, you should treat him like God.
"Oh, gosh, yes I'd like to, I like meeting everyone who works here, but my Mom is ill and I have to get home every day to cook her dinner."
Wrong choice, sweetie. I wait a beat, staring in her eye, waiting for her to remember she already told me she was going out with her friend tonight.
She doesn't get it. Of course. All that estrogen makes big tits so they can raise babies. But it slows down their brains and definitely interferes with error checking. She gives me a dazzling smile that she thinks is going to transform me into another fawning male. "Thanks again. Well, I have to go."
And she walks out, her hips rocking. Using me, and not even noticing that she did. All she cared about was what she was going to do tonight. All she cared about was getting her computer fixed and her being happy. Well, bad choice, cunt.
But she needs me. That computer rules her life. More than she realizes.
I see her fake smile. "So, I'm back." I can see. "Did you, um, make any progress?" She explains, just in case I couldn't understand that, "Could you fix my computer?"
"Yeah, it was infected. That's a list of the problems. I took them all off of your computer. It's good now." Except for the Zibar worm. I'm the person a boyfriend is supposed to be protecting her from.
I see her relief. "Oh thanks," she gushes, happily. Then she remembers it's me and says more business-like, "I appreciate this." She picks up the list and starts to read it. She doesn't understand any of it, of course -- it's all scary words and techno-babble. But I can feel her worry -- they did a good job making that report sound as frightening as possible.
She picks up the computer and clutches it to her chest. Still the baby thing.
And now I, nice guy, charitable, and helpful, give her one more chance. "Did you want to go out for a drink tomorrow after work?"
She can say yes, and I will leave her computer alone, and she can go live her happy life with thousands of guys fucking her and she gets to pick the best one to marry like she is some fucking queen and deserves everything even though it is just fucking DNA that gave her that gorgeous body.
Or she can say no. The Christians say that if a stranger comes to your door, you should treat him like he was Jesus. I say that if a man has had his hands on your root system, you should treat him like God.
"Oh, gosh, yes I'd like to, I like meeting everyone who works here, but my Mom is ill and I have to get home every day to cook her dinner."
Wrong choice, sweetie. I wait a beat, staring in her eye, waiting for her to remember she already told me she was going out with her friend tonight.
She doesn't get it. Of course. All that estrogen makes big tits so they can raise babies. But it slows down their brains and definitely interferes with error checking. She gives me a dazzling smile that she thinks is going to transform me into another fawning male. "Thanks again. Well, I have to go."
And she walks out, her hips rocking. Using me, and not even noticing that she did. All she cared about was what she was going to do tonight. All she cared about was getting her computer fixed and her being happy. Well, bad choice, cunt.
My sugar-choice for tonight is donuts. I know I shouldn't -- I've already gained five pounds according to my scale -- but I don't deal well with stress.
Tonight I'm Facebook-networking with my friends. In addition to to trying not to eat too many donuts. I start, as always, with Leslie.
ERROR: USER CANNOT BE FOUND
What user? I can't find the user? Who can't find the user?
I give up. I watch TV and go to bed. i feel so lonely. It really would have been nice to chat with Leslie. I should have tried harder instead of just giving up. But I was just out of energy.
We further petition the court for a more complete report on the defendant's financial records. The court has granted us full access.
I save.
But there is no mention of any retirement accounts for the plaintiff. Surely in his work over 30 years at his company, he has amassed a significantly large retirement fund.
I save.
The defendant's house is listed, but no other assets. As these may include valuable commodities, such as expensive cars, gold, coins, etc., we feel a complete
I stop typing as my computer flickers. I wait for it to stop. It usually does. I take another bite of ice cream.
When my screen returns to staying on, I test it by clicking on a few keys. Usually there's no problem, but this time my computer froze. I try to move my mouse, double-checking, but my cursor is frozen. I hate computers.
I turn off my computer, take another bite of ice cream, and turn it back on. I really should fix myself a good dinner. But I have to get this written, and I'm not hungry. I find the file, and I load it in. I hate having to use the law firm's system.
When my screen returns to staying on, I test it by clicking on a few keys. Usually there's no problem, but this time my computer froze. I try to move my mouse, double-checking, but my cursor is frozen. I hate computers.
I turn off my computer, take another bite of ice cream, and turn it back on. I really should fix myself a good dinner. But I have to get this written, and I'm not hungry. I find the file, and I load it in. I hate having to use the law firm's system.
We were sent no mention of any assets of the defendant other than his house. These other assets could include such things as expensive cars, gold, coins, or other such valuables. We feel a complete . . .
I love having Wendy in my life. I still spend my time at my guy-sites. I encourage the guys who need a little pushing before they'll take any revenge on the bitches of this world; I offer suggestions to the guys who are already taking action. This world seriously needs fixing.
And when she's on her computer, which is most nights, I have a picture of her on my second computer. We're getting to be best buds. I know who her friends are and what she complains about. She's constantly showing emotions on her face.
I torture her almost every night, unless I'm not in the mood. I have to keep it under the radar, but that's half the fun. Tonight I'm working on a program to change her ads, so the ads that get dumped on her computer are always depressing. Instead of beautiful clothes, she'll be reading about diseases or donations to sad causes, like homeless vets.
She really doesn't have the logic to just ignore those ads. I hadn't thought about how much her computer controls her emotions. .
And when she's on her computer, which is most nights, I have a picture of her on my second computer. We're getting to be best buds. I know who her friends are and what she complains about. She's constantly showing emotions on her face.
I torture her almost every night, unless I'm not in the mood. I have to keep it under the radar, but that's half the fun. Tonight I'm working on a program to change her ads, so the ads that get dumped on her computer are always depressing. Instead of beautiful clothes, she'll be reading about diseases or donations to sad causes, like homeless vets.
She really doesn't have the logic to just ignore those ads. I hadn't thought about how much her computer controls her emotions. .
This is so frustrating. Why is the sound always out of synch with the picture on Zoom? It used to be off only some of the time.
I try to pay attention to Mr. Harrelson. He likes to use Zoom when he needs to talk to me. But it's so hard with the lag. I close my eyes and just listen to his voice. That's better.
"Are you falling asleep, Wendy?" He's angry.
"No, I was just --"
"I need you to pay attention."
"Yes, sir."
So I keep my eyes wide open and try to focus on what I'm hearing, but I can see his lips moving about a second ahead of the sound. It's like two people talking at once.
"So I'll need the first draft with appendices by then."
Uh, oh-oh, "When do you need the report?" I didn't hear that part.
"Tomorrow." He's irritated again.
I look at the cookie in my hand. I didn't even realize I took it. I look at my now-empty Oreo package. I ate the whole thing? I shouldn't eat this cookie, but . . . I don't have the energy to resist.
Then I remember I don't want him to see me eating. Too late. I focus intensely on his words, but I still don't catch all of them. My hand reaches for another cookie but there aren't any more.
I try to pay attention to Mr. Harrelson. He likes to use Zoom when he needs to talk to me. But it's so hard with the lag. I close my eyes and just listen to his voice. That's better.
"Are you falling asleep, Wendy?" He's angry.
"No, I was just --"
"I need you to pay attention."
"Yes, sir."
So I keep my eyes wide open and try to focus on what I'm hearing, but I can see his lips moving about a second ahead of the sound. It's like two people talking at once.
"So I'll need the first draft with appendices by then."
Uh, oh-oh, "When do you need the report?" I didn't hear that part.
"Tomorrow." He's irritated again.
I look at the cookie in my hand. I didn't even realize I took it. I look at my now-empty Oreo package. I ate the whole thing? I shouldn't eat this cookie, but . . . I don't have the energy to resist.
Then I remember I don't want him to see me eating. Too late. I focus intensely on his words, but I still don't catch all of them. My hand reaches for another cookie but there aren't any more.
CANNOT SAVE TO DISK
I start crying and I can't stop.
I start crying and I can't stop.
I should be working, but I'm afraid to. So I'm updating myself on what my friends have been doing, and leaving them comments.
I love that dress, Jen. And you two look so cute together!
They seem to be having fun lives. I would be embarrassed to tell them about mine. I can't seem to get any traction at work.
Hey Mark! Sounds like you're doing great. I knew you would go far.
College was such fun. Hard work, but good times too. How did we get so separated?
ERROR: USER BLOCKED/DELETED
What? Me? Am I the user? Someone blocked me? Or deleted me? Was that Mark?
I give up. I'm going to bed and trying to sleep.
I give up. I'm going to bed and trying to sleep.
Gaslighting? That sounds interesting. This psychology-of-abuse stuff is really interesting.
Mr. Thompson, one of the managing partners, says, "The clients will be delayed for another ten minutes."
So, we just sit here? Karl takes out work. Mr. Thompson is looking at his phone but he looks bored. I offer, "So, are you guys preparing for the hurricane?" I've never been in a hurricane.
Karl lifts his head. "What hurricane?"
"Um, the hurricane working its way up the coast that's going to be here tonight."
"No such thing." Karl's head goes back down to his work.
I look at Mr. Thompson. He says, "There's no hurricane, Wendy. It'll be on the news when a hurricane is coming. Then you can worry about it."
"But I've been reading about it for the last two days." I'm whining.
Karl snorts without looking up for his work. Mr. Thompson shakes his head no and goes back to his phone.
I check my own phone. The news about the hurricane is gone. I think I'm going crazy; they must think I'm crazy. But I know I've been reading it. God, the last thing I need is my boss thinking I'm crazy and unreliable.
So, we just sit here? Karl takes out work. Mr. Thompson is looking at his phone but he looks bored. I offer, "So, are you guys preparing for the hurricane?" I've never been in a hurricane.
Karl lifts his head. "What hurricane?"
"Um, the hurricane working its way up the coast that's going to be here tonight."
"No such thing." Karl's head goes back down to his work.
I look at Mr. Thompson. He says, "There's no hurricane, Wendy. It'll be on the news when a hurricane is coming. Then you can worry about it."
"But I've been reading about it for the last two days." I'm whining.
Karl snorts without looking up for his work. Mr. Thompson shakes his head no and goes back to his phone.
I check my own phone. The news about the hurricane is gone. I think I'm going crazy; they must think I'm crazy. But I know I've been reading it. God, the last thing I need is my boss thinking I'm crazy and unreliable.
"I'm sorry Warren, but -- "
"Mr. Harrelson," he corrects.
"I'm sorry Mr. Harrelson, but I couldn't send that email last night. I wrote it, but the internet was down nationwide." He has to understand that.
He looks at me with disgust. "I don't think so, Wendy."
"It was in the news! Don't you read the news?"
"I read the news, and I don't appreciate you making up crazy excuses for your sloppiness. Next time do you think you will be able to write and send and email when I ask you?"
"Yes, sir."
"If I cannot trust you to do a simple task for me, your employment here will be terminated." He flicks his finger at the door. I'm dismissed.
"Mr. Harrelson," he corrects.
"I'm sorry Mr. Harrelson, but I couldn't send that email last night. I wrote it, but the internet was down nationwide." He has to understand that.
He looks at me with disgust. "I don't think so, Wendy."
"It was in the news! Don't you read the news?"
"I read the news, and I don't appreciate you making up crazy excuses for your sloppiness. Next time do you think you will be able to write and send and email when I ask you?"
"Yes, sir."
"If I cannot trust you to do a simple task for me, your employment here will be terminated." He flicks his finger at the door. I'm dismissed.
I make her computer screen black, then turn it back on.
No reaction. She just waited to see if it would come back. She's learned to tolerate that abuse. That's good progress, but no fun for me.
I make her computer look frozen.
No emotion. Or she just has that depressed look -- she's used to this too. She half-heartedly tries a few more key strokes, not expecting anything. She's going to reach for the donuts . . . yes, she does. Then she shuts down her computer, starts it back up, and I can see her again. This is her new normal.
She's gained weight. Her face is a puffier and not as pretty. I can see little roles of fat on her side above her belt -- she needs looser clothes. But at work she still looks at me like I'm a booger someone flicked off of their nose.
But I bet she doesn't have as many choices on guys now. Twenty more pounds and she'll be fat and learn what my life is like. I don't enjoy looking at her any more, on my computer screen or at work. Except when she's crying.
She's looking for a new job. She got her notice yesterday. Now she's filling out her bio for an online job search.
She's reading it over for the third time. She must be really compulsive. I saw how hard she worked for that firm. And now she hits on Send.
Or she thinks it's a send. I don't have a lot of time to look at it. I take out a "not" and add another "t" to but.
Then it's a send. God, that was so immature of me, I felt like I was back in elementary school. But it still feels just as good.
And if she doesn't reread it after posting? No, she's rereading it. She is a perfectionist. Or would be if her computer worked better. She'd be a great wife and mother.
I see her frown. She puts the "not" back in. More reading, then a bigger frown -- she's worried about how stupid she must be to spell but as butt and not notice. I don't know why she ever thought she was smart, so this ia a needed attitude correction.
Then she fixes that, and eventually she makes those changes permenent. I let her have it for now. I'll probably change it later, I have all of her passwords.
Her screen shows a brief news report about a case of Ebola being found in our city. There's a moment of concern on her face, then she shrugs and ignores it. That one was true.
Another news report talks about the tornado in Iowa and the mangled body of a four-year-old found in the wreckage. It's a really gruesome picture of the child, and the mother is wailing like her life ended. That one's not true.
The cunt reads that news, shrugs her shoulders, and starts quietly crying. There are four-year-olds dying all the time, and that's unfortunate, but one more or less doesn't really make a difference. Once again her feelings rule.
I think she stopped working on her applications. My work for tonight is done. Think globally but act locally -- I get a sense of satisfaction, then go back to explaining to one of my friends how to use the worm I loaded online to the Incel community.
No reaction. She just waited to see if it would come back. She's learned to tolerate that abuse. That's good progress, but no fun for me.
I make her computer look frozen.
No emotion. Or she just has that depressed look -- she's used to this too. She half-heartedly tries a few more key strokes, not expecting anything. She's going to reach for the donuts . . . yes, she does. Then she shuts down her computer, starts it back up, and I can see her again. This is her new normal.
She's gained weight. Her face is a puffier and not as pretty. I can see little roles of fat on her side above her belt -- she needs looser clothes. But at work she still looks at me like I'm a booger someone flicked off of their nose.
But I bet she doesn't have as many choices on guys now. Twenty more pounds and she'll be fat and learn what my life is like. I don't enjoy looking at her any more, on my computer screen or at work. Except when she's crying.
She's looking for a new job. She got her notice yesterday. Now she's filling out her bio for an online job search.
She's reading it over for the third time. She must be really compulsive. I saw how hard she worked for that firm. And now she hits on Send.
Or she thinks it's a send. I don't have a lot of time to look at it. I take out a "not" and add another "t" to but.
Then it's a send. God, that was so immature of me, I felt like I was back in elementary school. But it still feels just as good.
And if she doesn't reread it after posting? No, she's rereading it. She is a perfectionist. Or would be if her computer worked better. She'd be a great wife and mother.
I see her frown. She puts the "not" back in. More reading, then a bigger frown -- she's worried about how stupid she must be to spell but as butt and not notice. I don't know why she ever thought she was smart, so this ia a needed attitude correction.
Then she fixes that, and eventually she makes those changes permenent. I let her have it for now. I'll probably change it later, I have all of her passwords.
Her screen shows a brief news report about a case of Ebola being found in our city. There's a moment of concern on her face, then she shrugs and ignores it. That one was true.
Another news report talks about the tornado in Iowa and the mangled body of a four-year-old found in the wreckage. It's a really gruesome picture of the child, and the mother is wailing like her life ended. That one's not true.
The cunt reads that news, shrugs her shoulders, and starts quietly crying. There are four-year-olds dying all the time, and that's unfortunate, but one more or less doesn't really make a difference. Once again her feelings rule.
I think she stopped working on her applications. My work for tonight is done. Think globally but act locally -- I get a sense of satisfaction, then go back to explaining to one of my friends how to use the worm I loaded online to the Incel community.