Finally realized why my fingers are now stubs--

Finally realized why my fingers are now stubs--the motherfucking asshole aliens chopped off my shoulders. Waking up full of rage, feeling the pain and dead zone between my legs instead of the normal, responsive and receptive tenderness and erotic energy. I have long held a theory that the dysfunctional psychological rage found in so much of the population of the Middle East and Africa was the hidden, repressed rage of women and mothers denied their full erotic self-awareness and expression, caused by cliterodectemies (the young men carry their mothers' repressed rage). Now, experiencing what a cliterodectemy does to one's body and soul, I am certain of it. I have lost, not only all erotic sensation (even of my own self--I no longer feel my own boobs--but more than anything I want the goddamned things cut off), I have lost the depth of compassion and joy in relating to others, especially men. Eroticism is the source of all feeling and love in the adult. Unlike most clitorectomized women, I am not a psychological child, who loves from an unwholesome, incomplete, perpetually unfulfilled, and immature neediness that is rooted in the mutilated erotic body. Instead, the source and spring of my love has always been my own eros--eros rooted in relationship, relationship to my own once beautiful and whole body, to others (even men--while I had no real sexual interest in men, I used to delight in their beings--I don't delight in anything anymore), and, of course, when I was actively engaged in the spiritual life, to God. Little by little, all that has been taken away from me, by erotically (and thus spiritually) dead, luciferian religionists, and nothing but a dead zone is left in me--a dead zone that gets more and more chopped every day. It took me a while to realize exactly why my fingers, especially my ring fingers are now stubbier. The goddamned pigs cut off my shoulders. It took me a while to realize it, because for years now, I have been unable to bear looking at my tortured body and eyes in the mirror, except to factually note the latest flagrant outrage of abuse. Even now, my mirror is obscured by piled clothes, waiting for me to get the health and strength to take them into the basement. I don't care, because I don't care what I look like anymore, and my self-hatred grows larger with each passing day and mutilating a bduction.

I know that I am on some kind of drug--I can see it in my eyes, and maybe that contributes to my intense rage and hatred that I feel right now, but I know that I have lost practically all feeling function, with my dead eros and mutilated body. I don't act from the basis of feeling, but conviction. A human being is a human being, no matter what I feel about them. As for me, I have to try to continue to function, despite my own self-hatred and longing for death.