This story/narrative/thing is about this guy. Well, not about him, exactly, but he’s a character in it.

I’ve always been interested in psychology, and always found Freud a rather interesting character in the field. And, despite the story to follow, I do actually agree with some of his ideas.

The story was sort of prompted by reading about the Dora case study. It’s completely unrelated, naturally, but reading about Freud’s interpretation of certain things fueled what is to follow.

As you’ll see, it’s kind of a train wreck right now (however, the typos/grammatical errors/etc. towards the end actually are purposeful, as you will hopefully see). And, altogether, it isn’t that great. Whatever. It was a hell of a lot of fun to write, and that’s all I’m gonna say. So consider this not as much me writing something to be presented as much as just me writing for the hell of it.

Anyway, here you go.

(Oh, one last thing; I think initially, it was that the narrator was sort of popping into the past for a little bit to talk with Freud who is now, obviously, dead. That’s sort of why he says a few things about modern opinions of him and stuff. Oh, also, I should probably try to explain this word that I use later on (that is not a real word). “ecstacizacle”. It was me trying to make an -ic or -icly word out of ecstasy, which apparently is rather impossible.)


He’s really quite a silly man, but I like him. He’s entertaining.
I come to him, sometimes, to talk. Not about anything important, of course, but just to talk about small things. Small talk.
I can feel him looking at me as I talk, watching me, trying to analyze me.
I use that word deliberately, “trying”. He doesn’t do it inherently, it isn’t an automatic action. He forces it, though he wishes he doesn’t.

You don’t know what I’m talking about, okay?! You don’t know what I think! I scream at him.

He doesn’t see it. Or at least I don’t think he does. He doesn’t change his expression. I stare at him, probing with my eyes his unreadable expressions.

He thinks he’s so smart! Hah! I don’t think so! Or do it? I don’t know. He’s a paradox.

I can’t tell if he takes himself seriously or not. I peer at him, trying to figure him out. He takes a puff at his cigar -sometimes a cigar is only a cigar, after all-, and looks back at me oddly emotionlessly again. It isn’t truly emotionless. It is a mocking. He knows what I think.

But does he? I hate the man. He thinks, but only in a detached way. He’s like me, in a way, but I shudder to think so. The FOOL! I hate him, I hate him! He doesn’t know me. I’m uncountable. They can’t count me, the FOOLS!
But can they? I don’t know. Perhaps it is all a farce. He knows, he knows all. That is truly why I hate him. I hate him fully.

But I love him. In an undistinguishable way. He can’t analyze that “love”. It is merely an admiration, nothing more, and he knows it.

You BASTARD! You know I always fall here. You watch me do so, take a puff at your cigar, and calmly retort. I hate it! But I don’t need you, I never have, I never will.
They say you’re famous, and you will be evermore, even though you will become like Aristotle in ways, you every theorem and idea rebuked even though you are admired for being a groundbreaker in your field.
Oh, shut UP already! I hate you, as I say over and over. You can’t stop me.
They don’t listen. They don’t listen. They don’t listen, but I don’t want them to. I want to stay here. I want to stay here, you hear! This is how I am. This is how I always will be. You can’t change me, you idiot. Stop standing there, Stop looking at me.

He watches me, and knows my every move. What is he thinking, really? Who knows. Perhaps it is true thought, perhaps it is that falsified thought that we call true thought but it really just the opposite, a forced, faked, untrue, virtual thought, just like all of my others. But who am I, now? Am I the other, now? What side am I on, anymore?
Has he cracked me? Oh no. Oh no, no, no. God damn him. He still stands there, unchanging. That look on his face never changes.
Even though I know he knows exactly what I’m thinking, I think against him.

My death drive is strong. He knows it. I want it, but he secretly forbids me to do so. If only I could completely eradicate my gag reflex, enable myself to reach inside myself to rip out my core and fall asleep with my soul in my hand.
He read into that thought a lot. An absurd amount. I don’t like it, watching him do that think he does.
Stop listening! I cover my ears but know that does nothing, even more than nothing since he reads into it. Shut up, you idiot! You can’t work. You won’t work. You never will. It won’t work against me, you hear?!
I hate you. I hate you. I always have. I always will. And you know what? I know something, too. I know you hate me! That’s right! I read back into that mirror-mind you have, read right back into you, and know what you think. A true reversal, eh? True.
Shut up. There are no layers, no hidden realities. What is, is. I don’t like that turn of speech, and you know I don’t, but you let me use it.
I’m on your chain, and you smile as you jerk me around. When did “he” become “you”? When did the tenses change? They didn’t. They are the same. You are the one true narrator, watching over all and approving yet disapproving all.
I really do hate you.

It’s a bad idea, he says, and I repeat it to myself. I don’t listen, apparently. I keep moving towards that fallen bottle.I’ve changed so much. Too much. He really does know things. Things that could change me, fix me, change me.

I can’t be fixed! Can’t be changed! Shut up! Fuck off! Go away!

Did that word even exist then? I don’t know. He doesn’t know, either. He looks a little confused, an odd look on his usually emotionless and mockingly blank face.

He says it’s due to my rejection by others. I don’t think so. I think that “rejection from others” merely let me meditate on these preexisting thoughts.

Don’t do it! He says, he yells. He says and yells it with more force than usual. He knows something is up. But I don’t listen, I never do. I drink it in ecstacizacle rebellion from him. It furthers the feeling.
God, I’m so detached from myself, and even more from him. He’s merely a quiet voice inside me, whispering his suggestions.

I scream into myself. He’s god. He really is.

There’s a stark difference between lucidity and sobriety.

I’m going to do it, hear?! I’m going to rip the core out. Kill myself and not have to deal with you anymore. Okay?? Goodbye!!

He takes action against me. Why? What have I done? I don’t know. What even, anymore? Why?????????????


The cigar tumbles from his mouth onto the floor. He is in shock, amazingly.

whatre you doing here? i feel nothing for you, no hate, no love, no “like”. you are nothing to me, but not in a demeaning way. my dreams mean nothing toy you , you understand? okay? nothing. Why do you bosess over them so much.. Goddamn you Fuck off I hate you go away. go away. go away. i hate you.

fuck off. what even.. that took a while to do. apparently some part of me did that which you condemned me not to do .

I don’t even know what’s real anymore. Can he help me? I doubt it. I can’t even see him anymore. My world is constantly scrolling up up, up, up up, up. He is but a scrolling image in the scream of my s o


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