My Sweet Sociopath
- 2 years ago
- 18
- 0
A Day In The Life Of A Sociopath free porn video
Lying in bed, feeling doggone tired after working an overnight shift as the only security guard for a grocery store, I feel dead. It’s eight thirty on a Monday morning and I just got off the number nine bus from Hurdman Station. It stops right across the street from my apartment in Vanier, Ontario. A ten minute bus ride which I endured, half-asleep, sitting among the throngs of government workers. Well-dressed, sipping coffee and reading the Ottawa Sun newspaper, that’s a Canadian Capital government worker for you. I walked the half a block distance from my bus to the red brick building where I live. I’ve been dodging the landlord, an old French dude named Kyle, lately. I owe him five hundred bucks. Which I can’t pay because I’ve been spending like crazy. My Royal Bank of Canada account has overdraft protection for up to five hundred dollars. That’s how I’m going to pay rent for June 2012, the fourteenth of the month instead of the first. Yeah, I’m that guy.
Working security for eleven dollars and seventy five cents per hour in Ottawa sucks ass, man. I can barely afford rent and tuition with it. I only take two courses per semester at Carleton University. When you’re an international student, they charge you an arm and a leg. I don’t know what possessed me to move from Brockton, Massachusetts, to Ottawa, Ontario. Things were tough in the States but I’m not exactly having a breeze in the Canadian capital. Never mind. I knew the answer to that question the moment I thought about it. Had I stayed in Brockton I might be a dead man because of all the people I royally pissed off. Some of them family members, others are strangers and former acquaintances who feel pissed about my double-crossing them. Hey, not my fault they were gullible.
So here I am. Lying in bed, trying to get some sleep. My shift at the big grocery store in Kanata Center starts at eleven o’clock at night and ends at seven in the morning, five days a week. I get weekends off. It’s not so bad, except for the fact that the store is in frigging Kanata and I live in Vanier. I wish those dumb asses at the security company would place me at a location closer to home. I mean, there’s a grocery store right next to my apartment. I could work security there overnight and I’d never be late. Sadly, the brain trust at the security company seldom considers logistics and they don’t give a shit whether they inconvenience a guard. We’re not people to them, we’re faceless goons in uniforms working minimum wage jobs. Fuck these bastards, man. Fuck them.
I can’t sleep and it’s got nothing to do with the traffic noise outside or the bright sunlight which filters through the drapes I pulled over my bedroom windows. No, the reason I can’t sleep is because of my asshole roommate Lenny. A stocky Black guy with an ugly mug. Like a lot of Haitian guys in Canada, Lenny has as a thing for fat white chicks. He’s dating one from eastern Europe. Bosnia or some shit. I don’t remember her name and honestly I don’t care. She comes over every weekend and they spend all their time in his bedroom, fucking or talking. Sometimes both. I don’t give a shit what they do together, except that they make a lot of noise and as a guy who spends five nights a week patrolling the aisles of a deserted grocery store, I need some fucking sleep. Lenny and I have had numerous arguments over the amount of noise he makes. I cannot stand that motherfucker. I really hope he moves out this coming August and I can find another roommate. Someone who’s cool, easygoing, cleans up after himself, won’t start stupid arguments and won’t bug me. Is that too much to ask?
Finally, around ten I get up, frustrated at the amount of noise that Lenny is making. It’s Monday so his favorite fat white slut isn’t at the apartment. She is wherever she goes during the work week. I don’t like arguments under my own roof but I’ve got to tell the dude to shut the fuck up. He won’t listen to reason. So far I’ve put stuff in his food to give him diarrhea, and I’ve dropped his mail in the trash can of the park across the street from our apartment building. The fool never suspects me because he’s seriously dumb. All muscles and all dick, and apparently no brains whatsoever. What a simpleton. Hey, if you’re shaking your head at this, please understand. The guy is rude and obnoxious. He’s dirty and doesn’t clean up after himself. We get into a lot of arguments because his dumb ass girlfriend flushes her tampons down the toilet and gets it clogged, and Lenny won’t pay for the repairs. I won’t pay either so I have no choice but to go to the superintendent. And since I’m often behind on my rent because of my spending habits, that complicates things. Finally, Lenny leaves for the day. I go back to bed at eleven o’clock that morning. Blissfully I fall asleep. I sleep like the dead, by the way. I don’t dream. I don’t know why. Hmmm. Whatever. Dreams are overrated any way.
Around two o’clock I wake up. I feel surprisingly refreshed. I hear a thump outside my door. It’s the superintendent. He left two things. My copy of the Ottawa Sun newspaper, which I’m subscribed to but forgot to pick at the entrance. Why? Um, I came in quickly this morning because I didn’t want the superintendent to see me. I’m a six-foot-one, 250-pound Black guy. I’m brown and chubby, and not exactly light-footed. Sneaking around doesn’t come easy to me. I pick up the paper, and tell myself I’ll leave the superintendent the check for this month’s rent. He’s a nice guy. The only asshole in this building is Lenny. Everyone else is nice, including me. I look at the plain brown box marked United States Postal Service. UPS. I smile and rip it open. I’ve finally received a copy of the book I’ve been writing. It’s about the life of a bisexual Black man from a conservative community living in North America. His family, his friends and his ups and downs. I’ve written the book a year ago and have sought a publisher for ages. I finally landed a deal with this print-on-demand publisher. It looks nice. Glossy cover. Cool. I smile, and read the note. It tells me that the book will be available for sale on Amazon.com in a few months. Nice!
Man, this just about makes my day. I go to the kitchen and prepare breakfast slash lunch. A box of ready-made rice with frozen meat from Lob Laws. I heat it up for six minutes in the microwave and then wash it down with two cups of orange juice. Since I still feel hungry, I heat up two hot dogs and chow down. Finally sated, I step into the washroom. I shit, shower, brush my teeth and exit. Before exiting, I take my security uniform and wash it in the tub with water and Irish Spring soap. I am not spending money in the laundry machine downstairs. I wash my clothes by hand, then put them on hangars before putting them on the clothesline outside. It connects my building to another one. I tape the two hangars together, so that my security uniform shirt and Black pants don’t fall down and get dirty. Someone has been messing with my stuff when I leave it hanging outside to dry lately. I suspect Lenny but it could also be this bozo named Stuart, the stocky and thick-eyebrow-wearing nephew of the superintendent Kyle. Stuart is not right in the head. I have seen him talking to himself many times. Not random words, mind you. We’re talking full conversations here. Dumb ass.
I go back to my bedroom and get dressed. I pick out a long-sleeved red T-shirt featuring Fat Albert, and dark blue dress pants. I always wear dark dress pants. I’ve only got two pairs of Black pants from the security company so I use my own stuff to supplement my uniform for my shifts. I take out the only other security uniform shirt I’ve got, put it in a plastic bag and put it inside my blue and white backpack. The backpack has the Carleton University logo on it, in bold letters. I bought it on campus. I’m really proud of it. Even though I slack off everywhere else, I’m always on point at school. This Black man is no slouch in the brains department. I had A’s for all of the classes I took during the 2011-2012 academic year. I
‘m a Criminology student. Deviant behavior fascinates me, starting with my own. Unlike the fools you read about in the papers I don’t do any crazy shit and I keep my ass out of the papers. I just like to prank fools sometimes, and then again only the ones who got it coming. Like Lenny.
I leave the check for this month’s rent in my mailbox. The mail dude already went by so I guess my superintendent will pick it up. I text him. I step out, and the warmth and brightness outside automatically puts a smile on my face. I’m walking to the bus stop. Lots of people walking around. I see this hijab-wearing Arab chick walking around with a Black dude wearing a funny hat. My section of Vanier is full of Somalis and Arabs, along with some Asians and white people. I recognize the Arab chick, she goes to Carleton University. I wave at her and she smiles and waves back. The Black Muslim dude with her stares at me. I sigh inwardly as I lock eyes with him. Dude, don’t even try me. I don’t suffer fools. You don’t want me to focus my attention on you. They walk away. I keep walking, and the sight of a big-booty blonde-haired White woman walking nearby makes me smile. Hot damn. White women in Canada got booty. They sure are different from the ones I knew in Massachusetts.
As I walk to cross the street and reach the bus stop, I see the number nine bus from downtown to Hurdman Station coming. It’s three in the afternoon. If I catch this one, I’ll catch the three thirty bus number four to Carleton University at Hurdman. If I don’t, I’ll arrive late on campus. There’s a lot of cars on the road. Heavy traffic around this time. I push the button on the metallic pole. Come on, light. Change for a brother. Nope. Cars keep rolling, and the bus is coming. I frigging hate it when it leaves when I’m a heartbeat away. I sigh. Shall I take a chance? Hmm. If I’m too slow, I could get hit by a car and end up street pizza. Dead. I bet that would just about thrill my uncle, aunt and cousins in Orleans. They all hate my guts. They live in the south end of Ottawa. They hate me because I’m fairly open about being bisexual, which is taboo in Haitian society. I have only been with three girls and zero guys in my life but I know what I feel and I accept myself the way I am. I won’t follow the politics of self-denial of a conservative community. That makes me persona non grata, my stance on human sexuality. Whatever. Nobody lives forever. I step off the curb, and race in front of oncoming traffic.
As I race in front of SUVs, trucks and whatever else goes on four wheels, I hear screeching tires. I make a mad dash for the sidewalk and vault just as a minivan almost slams into me. I land safely on the sidewalk. Behind me, drivers are honking their horns. People are swearing in French, English and a few languages I don’t know. One angry-looking middle-aged white woman shouts something. I cheerfully show her my middle finger. I spot three people at the bus stop. A tall Arab guy, a Chinese woman and a white guy. They stare at me like I’ve got two heads. I smile and tell them that no one lives forever. They don’t say nada and keep staring. I scoff, and smile as the number nine bus pulls up. The white guy and the Arab man step toward the bus but I block them. Hey, I’m bigger than both of them and this is Vanier, land of roughnecks. Don’t fuck me with the big hairy Black man if you know what’s good for you. I let the Chinese woman step in front of me. She is surprised, but smiles. I nod and smile, then go to the middle of the bus. I hold onto a metallic pole thingy and enjoy the ride. No, not like that. The bus is packed. Soccer moms. White guys with Black women. Asian guys with Hindu chicks. Fat white women with skinny Black guys. Hijab-wearing Arab women in loose shirts and tight pants talking on their cell phones. Middle-aged white people dressed in business attire, your prototypical Ottawa government workers. All the flavors of my new city.
As I stand there and wait for the bus to get to Hurdman, my phone starts to vibrate. It’s an imitation Blackberry, a piece of crap from Telus. I pick it up, and instantly smile. Guess who’s calling? It’s Andrea. Who is Andrea? This tall, cute and curvy Black chick I met at the movie theater almost a month ago. I went to the theater by myself to see The Dictator, and there I met this fine Black chick. I wondered what she was doing there by herself. Anyhow, we ended up talking and when I asked her for her number, she took mine. I thought that was the end of it, that she wouldn’t call but she did. We’ve become pretty cool friends since then, and we regularly go to the movies together. Andrea is smart, funny and wickedly cool. The ladies in Ottawa haven’t exactly showed me love in the past. Maybe because I’m different and my honest ways turns them off. Whatever. Andrea is different and I think she’s awesome. I smile and ask her how she’s doing. Her throaty voice answers, and we start chatting away.
I smile as Andrea tells me about her day. I like so many things about this young woman. She’s twenty two. I’m twenty seven. I feel like I’ve only been alive since I moved to Ontario three years ago. My days in Massachusetts were, um, less than productive. My parents still live in the island of Haiti and they left me in the care of my sociopathic aunt in Massachusetts for ten years. Suffering all kinds of torment at the hands of a woman truly without conscience did nothing to turn me into an upstanding citizen. I moved to Canada for school and work, and also to live. Since moving to Canada, I’ve gotten a job, I have enrolled in university and also dated certain young ladies. I wasn’t allowed to do any of the above while living in Massachusetts under the thumb of a truly wicked person who took advantage of the fact that as an undocumented immigrant, I had no options and no choices. Canada gave me options and choices. I feel alive now that I’m here. I have a job. I’m a university student. I have my own apartment. I pay taxes. I go to church twice a week, because I never stopped believing in God even though I hate humanity. Yes, I have a life at last.
As much as I like my life in Ontario, it was sorely lacking until Andrea came along. This beautiful young Haitian woman is hot, sassy and funny. She is turning me from a recluse into an extrovert. I met more people through her in a month than I would have in a year by myself. Sometimes, I honestly think I’m falling for Andrea. Given what she’s told me of her past romantic fiascos, I don’t think she’s looking for a boyfriend at the moment. Well, I’ll keep her in my life as my amazing new friend and keep my fingers crossed, eh? Andrea is going on and on about her day, and asks me about mine. I tell her about Lenny and how I pranked him by putting eye drops in his food and drink. Dude spent hours on the can over the weekend. He blames it on the food he bought at a nearby Haitian restaurant, the fool. Nope, idiot. It was me. All me.
Andrea laughs. I love her laugh. I like her smile, and the fact that she likes to go Dutch when we’re hanging out. She’s friendly, sexy, a wonderful friend and she’s good to me. That’s the kind of woman I want in my life. If I ever have a successful romantic relationship. For years I feared that exposure to my aunt’s sociopathic qualities at a young age irreversibly damaged me. I don’t think like other people. I’m impulsive. Sometimes, I lack remorse. And that bothers me most of all because I hate sociopaths. I’ve seen firsthand what they can do to the innocent when there’s nobody around to stop them. If I could get rid of all the sociopaths on the planet with a virus or something, I would do it in a heartbeat. Whoa, sorry for droning on and on like that. Back to Andrea. She asks me what I’m doing this Thursday. Nada, that’s my answer. Laughing, she tells me she wants to treat me to a movie. We’re going to see Prometheus together. Damn, that’s hot. I am so happy I could jump. Last week, Andrea and I went to the movies to see the third installment of Men In Black. I treated her to a good time because I had the cash. Now I’m alm
ost broke. And she’s coming to my rescue. What a woman!
Andrea and I make our plans and I grin as I step off the bus. We’ve arrived at Hurdman. I catch the number four bus to Carleton University and it’s packed with students. Summer school at Carleton. Fun. The bus is loaded with hot girls. All kinds of hot girls. Tall, slender white chicks with blonde hair and blue eyes wearing Daisy Dukes. Fine, curvy Black women with tight shorts and loose shirts. Hijab-wearing Somali women and Arab women with what appears to be nice, big butts under their long flowing skirts. Can’t hide what you got, ladies. You either have it or you don’t.
Hot damn. The City of Ottawa is full of hot women. No matter your race, nationality, religion or whatever, odds are they’ve got what you want around here. I notice all the pretty ladies and I don’t feel nada for them. My heart has been claimed by a certain Haitian tomboy who loves science fiction movies and celebrity trivia. Andrea. My Andrea. The bus arrives at Carleton University. I’ve got a class at five. It’s from five to seven. A forensics class. After class, I usually chill in the school library’s second floor, browsing Facebook while watching Smallville and Supernatural music video tributes on YouTube. Around nine thirty, I usually leave campus to catch the bus to Rideau Center. From there I’ll catch the bus to Kanata and hopefully arrive at work on time for my overnight. It’s my life. As I make my way to class, I am still smiling. Andrea and I have been talking for a good forty five minutes. I wish her goodbye just as I sit down in class, in the southernmost building not far from the school library. I’m lucky she’s in my life.
Haven
- 15.05.2021
- 17
- 0
Interview with a Sociopath
- 4 years ago
- 26
- 0
My Daughter the Sociopath
- 4 years ago
- 43
- 0
