Chương 901: Day Eight Hundred And Ninety-Nine

Dear Diary, Goddammit. I know, I know, I'm not supposed to damn things unless I want them damned. I almost pointed that particular one at me, except despite my failed attempt at self-erasure immediately after realizing that all of the awful, exploitative, abusive bullshit I've done, I'm not sure I'm suicidal at this point. Okay, that's a lie. I think if I had a switch I could throw to join the rest of me in that persistent vegetative state, I'd throw that bitch. I'd throw it hard. I think.

Because I'm not sure if me being me is still empowering my ladies to make the world a better place, despite all of my obvious attempts to keep them wasting their time fellating the ego of their abuser. If all I'm good for is suffering at the bottom of the metaphoric ocean and providing a power source for actual good people to do actual good things for others, then that's what I'll do.

I just worry that somehow even lying here at the bottom of the Atlantic in M-Space, I'm still somehow Changing them, twisting them to suit my needs, my wants, my fucked up fetishes. Seriously, I don't know how I ever expected to be anything other than the fucked up unwanted kid who fucked up every good thing she touched.

I made my mom work herself to death, I got my favorite teacher suspended for not reporting all my inappropriate bullshit, and I probably wound up helping those fuckin' shooters get into the park, what with security looking for me instead of stopping them at the gate.

But I'm still not gonna damn myself, just on the off chance that somehow that shit splatters through my connections to my ladies, because it would really suck if somehow I managed to bring more pain and suffering to the ladies I love while I'm sitting down in this hole I've dug and exiled myself to. Yeah, I dug myself a hole when they kept calling for me and I couldn't keep concentrating to keep my Blend high enough to not hear them.

Didn't do a damn bit of fucking good regarding that, but I think it kept Sister from finding me when she came looking. I think she might have hurt herself, either by coming to M-Space or diving this deep. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Just another thing I've fucked up. But no, I'm damning the fucking Story I've finally remembered. Maybe its author as well, I dunno.

He was kind of a dick, and being stuck as a self-aware appendage of an incarnate version of one of his Gods is the kind of shitty damnation I'm sure I deserve. Mimic, the Mor Primordial of Change, before which there was only Darkness. Everything started the moment anything Changed. So yay, Mimic is, from that angle, the Creator of All Things. She's destined to consume the entire universe, to be the only thing left at the end of all things. Most of the art I saw was just a big fuckin' mouth and a mass of tentacles.

I mean, yeah, sure, I've got a Title that's obviously ripping off Shub-Niggurath, and she looks a lot like that too, but that's not saying much.

'Tentacles and mouth' is pretty much the entire fuckin' Lovecraftian Mythos. Y'know, along with 'massive', 'unholy', and 'into fucked up shit'. But yeah, along with the whole 'alpha and omega', 'mass of tentacles and mouth', I've also got my own fuckin' batch of Deities who exist to keep my fucked up mindless ADHD ass amused. Shit, I even made eight of those beautiful little Goddesses.

Well, shit, no, I convinced one of the bevy of Deities who keep me from destroying everything when I roll over in my sleep to make them for me, but that's worse. Even I can see how that's worse. But yeah, the Pantheons of Greece, of the Celts, of the Northlands, and of the Slavs, they've all got more or less normal humaniform Deities. Shit, even Baba Yaga, who is one of the creepier ones, is just Oops All Old Ladies, not some kind of pastiche of orapod.

Because you can't call it a cephalopod if it doesn't have a cephalo with its ever growing number of pods. I guess maybe I shouldn't damn that story, though. Definitely shouldn't damn it's poor fucked up creator, even if I read he was a racist and a sexist and shit. Because at least I got a few sobbing chuckles out of my realization as I hid there in the pit I'd dug myself at the bottom of the M-Space Atlantic.

Of course, even though I tried, I tried so hard to hide, to keep my Blend up, to keep myself from giving in to the endless temptation of my ladies and all the undeserved comfort I could get from them, eventually I started to fade. I'm not even sure why; I should be able to hide at the bottom of the metaphoric ocean holding my breath and keeping myself undetectable for way longer than three straight days. But as the sun dipped toward the western horizon, my sobs quieted, and my Blend slipped down. TABITHA!

Siobhan's scream into my head wasn't the commanding, beseeching, painfully lonely cries I'd kept myself from hearing over the past three days. TABITHA! HELP! PLEASE! That scream was the desperate call of a woman in danger. No, a woman whose child was in danger. Goddammit.