Crazy On You [Trinity 2.0 #5]

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

They say you need to learn from your mistakes, to retrace your steps back to the moment it made sense and try to take a different path.

I started with my social media. Made sure to post things that had no relevance whatsoever to my career, so that the casual observer would have no idea that I'm actually a professional wrestler – a purveyor of barbarism, as Tapp Addams would say. I do deathmatches. It goes over as well as Robin Williams' character saying "I do voices," in Mrs. Doubtfire. That gets a lot of traction on Tik Tok. 

My statement, not so much. People give me that look. That head shake. Write me off as a nutcase with a death wish after they tell me that I'm too pretty to be doing something so dangerous.

Too pretty. Too thin. Too short. Too female. 

No. They're right. I'm crazy. The box fits so I sits because I just spent the better part of two days picking broken glass from my skin. Or rather, I should say that my husband did. Painstakingly. Lovingly and patiently and he never once complained.

I've spent the last week doing little things. I very loudly quit The Wrestling Commission, not because they wanted me to face Madwoman. No. It was because the owner is a jack-off idiot who can't tell some random morons in masks from The MadClan. And that got me thinking in the wrong way. Are we that generic that someone could make that mistake? Have we sunk to the depths of actually being jokes like the esteemed champion Sarah Lacklustre thinks we are?

Yeah. We have. That's 100% accurate. 

As an extension, that means my instincts were true. Also means the critics were right.

What did I do, you might ask, to correct this grand miscalculation?


I poured another thirty hours into my simulated family. In that reality, I'm a PROPER CELEBRITY with a seven-year-old son and a two-year-old daughter. I'm a spell-caster (Adept only because grinding that XP takes time). My husband is a master vampyre and a secret agent – he's got a heart of gold and he cannot stand the thought of drinking plasma from a fellow human without asking permission. I can have children there. I have dozens of friends and the fun never ends... oh wait. Sorry. That's a song, isn't it? 

Too much time on my hands. 

I'm sure you want to know what this has to do with my wrestling career or my upcoming match at the newly re-branded Revolution1 against Danny Boy (Carnivore or Daniel Dream or whoever you want to actually call him). It's a dice roll, really, to see who I get. The alters seem to have their own random schedule and it's exhausting trying to tell by nuance and inflection who I'm even talking to on a given day.

(It would be so much easier if we had someone to write out these little moments, colour-code them with different fonts. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Of course, then you'd have to find someone who'd want to do that and figure out a pay structure that made it worth their while because I don't think anyone is doing THAT for free.)

I'm doing what any addict does when they've realized it's time for a change – trying to distract myself in the effort to go cold-turkey. I need to stop salivating over violence, reveling in the thought of the damage done to others because I'm only doing it to myself these days. I'm like a bird, smashing over and over into that beautiful picture window because I can only see the reflection of the trees and grass behind me and not what lies beyond. It's a trick – it's not greener on the other side and the only thing I'm accomplishing here is knocking myself out. Shave a few brain cells with each impact, too. I'm growing dumber with each match and I could lay the blame on the landscape and that illusion but it's my own malfunction. I've grown myopic. I've got tunnel vision and I thought I was going to sweep right through to the finals. Hindsight tells me that wouldn't have been a good idea.

Thomas Snow deserved to face Sarah Lacklustre, even though he claims to be a Super Villain In Training and she thinks she's a GOOD person. It's opposites day for the rest of eternity. Oh goody. Either way, halo or horns, he was the right man for the job, even if he failed spectacularly in getting the job done just like ELC did. That pisses me off. She deserved better. So did Snow. And the fact that I called this outcome the moment I saw the brackets doesn't make it any easier to swallow. I didn't want to be right. I didn't want to have to swallow that bitter pill and the thought of losing a match in the past had never quite fucked me up as much as this whole thing has. I'm not sure what that says about me, about the dearth of competition here and my inability to find a way to play well with others. I hate them. All of them. Yes. ALL. 

Every single one of you are annoying and I want to light a match and watch this whole place burn to the ground. 

Yes. Everyone can fuck off and burn. 

Even Christina. Even Danny Boy.

Especially the champion.

I've become codependent on this shit. Like I need that pain, I need someone to rip me apart verbally and then try to smash my body to bits a few days later. This is madness – who willingly does that? Even without the weapons and glass and barbaric garbage, we're still doing something absurd. We're fighting over leather straps, breaking and bleeding for mass entertainment and a pay cheque that doesn't come close to really compensating us for that damage.

I could cut myself in a dark room and feel the same. The guilt and the satisfaction that's almost orgasmic as the blood flows. We're suicide machines and this isn't a countdown to another gladiatorial competition. This is a suicide watch, watching the clock tick down to zero. What happens when that ends? Do we finally level up to the final form? Or do we go up in a puff of smoke – the last laugh from the universe?

Who's going to remember Trinity Revolution1 in two years? In five years? In fifteen?

I don't know. I'm not sure I have it in me to find out because while I'm starving and itching and crawling out of my skin for that next fix, the void inside me is nothing but a hollow ache. It's not sentient. It can't be reasoned with. There's no level to it, no degrees of separation. There's empty and full and nothing in between. How does all of this end for someone like me? Not in a good way, I can assure you. I don't want to go out like my brother did. I don't want to be another suicide story, another cautionary tale about flying too close to the sun on wax wings. I've had my fair share of glory. I can leave any time I want. So why do I keep coming back for more? 

The answer for me is usually subjective. Sometimes it's just a validation of existence that I crave. Prick me so I bleed, so I know I'm not dreaming. It feels like that sometimes and I feel like some college student with a head full of weed, sitting in some dorm room talking about existentialism at three in the morning. What IS reality? What IS life?

Is it the beating of a heart, the inhale and exhale that fills lungs? Is it making ripples out there, splashing and flailing and having fun in the world? Or is it silently gliding through under the water like a predator? Both get you from point A to B and one seems to require more energy. Most days, I love my horses and my silence on the ranch; these gorgeous moments uninterrupted by the rest of the world. And other days? I want the noise of New York City at rush hour. I want that soul-crushing headache and to vanish in a sea of faces. I want to throw elbows as I slip through like it's a mosh pit and leave people turning and glaring to see who had the audacity. It's always been in my nature to rub people the wrong way. Perhaps that's why I found myself falling in with the MadClan so easily.

I want to hurt everyone around me.

I want to play more of the Sims.

Like a junkie I'm in withdrawal, twitchy and angry. It's going to be time soon. I'm going to feel that rush of total obliteration. Blackout. Blotto.

God, I can't wait.

Sobriety is for quitters. Do I look like a quitter to you?

Fuck off, Sarah. Don't answer that and stop subtweeting me like a cunt when I've had you muted for weeks. I'm sick of people showing me, trying to get me to react or be outraged. Say what you want. As of this moment, I'm cutting my ties. This isn't MadClan on MadClan violence. This is Kitty Dark versus Danny Boy. Two strangers on a speeding train. This isn't about a golden opportunity. It's about bloodletting. It's about finding that old medieval balance before the bitter bile chokes me to death. 

I truly don't give a shit what you think about me. I'm done investing any more of my time or sanity into things that don't matter outside of this tiny, toxic little circle.

Fuck off and die.

I'm done here. No, really. 

I'm fucking done.

--K