Unworthy [AW #3]

I'm starting to get a little pissed off. Two steps forward, twenty back – that's how it feels.

They like to stack the odds high. They like to make me run the gauntlets over and over again. I'm staring down a dark hall towards this infinite doom, eyes burning after scrolling through all this self-serving dreck on Twitter. I don't give a shit about LiveJournal hits. I do these little missives because it's easier to keep my thoughts in straight lines like good little soldiers.

I'm paired up with a man who calls himself Psychopomp, as if he even understands what that means. There are no killers here in our midst. There are no lost souls in need of a guide to the hereafter. There's just an idiot with a LiveJournal who thinks he's capable of intelligent discourse. Definitely not. I'm supposed to believe he's intelligent enough to know the villainous Moriarty without a trip down the Google highway? Oh, please. If he's managed to lace his boots, I'll do a back-flip. I've been saddled with the short bus in a match against the pairing of THING 1 and THING 2. Nobody gives a shit. They're so generic. Those last names…

Oh wait. I can't do that, can I?

Not when I felt the need to strip Petrova from my ring name and in the interest of steering away from being cast as another failed stripper by simply calling myself "Kitty", I opted to add an homage to my late brother. He wrestled as Robby Darkko, once upon a time. I don't expect anyone to remember that. It isn't important to this narrative other than to explain that I don't know what the hell Dark has to do with Pokémon and I never well.

I'm too old for that shit.

I don't go around pretending I'm something I'm not and this is certainly no attempt to evolve and shuck off a loss. I'm aware of what happened – I wasn't the one who got pinned. End of story. But let's not dwell on semantics. It's unseemly. This isn't about the loss. It's about letting go of the past and embracing who I am. I am the fire. I am the product of madness. There's a void waiting to be filled.

DARK.

Christmas is looming, and it's been almost a year since everything changed. It's been almost a year since I came back to professional wrestling and what do I have to show for it? Right. That's what needs fixing so here's a promise: from now on all you get is the fist full of claws, a whole bale of razor-wire, the purest bile and all the wrath I can muster. It'll be heartfelt AND sincere. Don't think for a second that I've sailed my boat on the waters of misconceptions after QDT. I'm not about to be regulated to the bottom of the barrel matches like this, with trash whose names I'm not about to repeat again. I should be tagging with Carnivore – MadClan alliances, after all. So, I'll happily SCREAM my feelings from the rooftops: THIS IS BULLSHIT.

I will put myself in the way of their anger, soak up that contempt. I guess that's what I'm here for. My last showing was a goddamn joke, and I'm the first to admit it. Nothing to be gained in denial. It's obvious to me that I cannot entertain any delusions of supremacy without suffering for it. I'm going into this down one match. Undefeated streak over in one fell swoop and now this? 

You think I don't realize that? I KNOW I let HIM win. I've accepted it. I was envious, angry. No lie. I wanted to face Raging Dead. I won't piss and moan about it. What's the fucking point? Mistakes happen. They can be corrected and I need to remember that I'm the aggressor here. The future is unwritten and I can't stop smiling. I can see the joke for what it is – look in the mirror, boys. It's YOU. MadClan are the best in this division. In ANY division. You're trash. Unworthy.

Stay the hell out of my way.

--K