Diary of Oxygen Thief by anonymous PDF Download

Diary of Oxygen Thief by anonymous PDF Download

Diary of Oxygen Thief by anonymous PDF Download

Diary of an Oxygen Thief is a 2006 Dutch novel, written anonymously and published in Amsterdam by NLVI. Say there was a novel in which Holden Caulfield was an alcoholic and Lolita was a photographer’s assistant and, somehow, they met in Bright Lights, Big City. He’s blinded by love. She by ambition. Diary of an Oxygen Thief is an honest, hilarious, and heartrending novel, but above all, a very realistic account of what we do to each other and what we allow to have done to us.

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Here are first few pages of Diary of Oxygen Thief by anonymous :

1
I liked hurting girls.
Mentally not physically, I never hit a girl in my life. Well once. But that was a mistake. I'll
tell you about it later. The thing is, I got off on it. I really enjoyed it.
It's like when you hear serial killers say they feel no regret, no remorse for all the people
they killed. I was like that. Loved it. I didn't care how long it took either because I was in no hurry. I'd
wait until they were totally in love with me. Till the big saucer eyes were looking at me. I loved the
shock on their faces. Then the glaze as they tried to hide how much I was hurting them. And it was
legal. I think I killed a few of them. Their souls I mean. It was their souls I was after. I know I came
close a couple of times. But don't worry, I got my comeuppance. That's why I'm telling you this.
Justice was done. Balance has been restored The same thing happened to me, only worse. Worse
because it happened to me. I feel purged now, you see. Cleansed. I've been punished, so it's okay to
talk about it all. At least, that's how it seems to me.
I carried the guilt of my crimes around with me for years after I stopped drinking. I couldn't
even look at a girl, much less believe I deserved to converse with one. Or maybe I was just afraid
that they'd see through me. Either way, after getting into Alcoholics Anonymous I didn't even kiss a
girl for five years. Seriously. Not so much as holding hands.
I meant business.
I think I always knew deep down I had a drinking problem. I just never got around to
admitting it. I drank purely for effect. But then, as far as I was concerned, wasn’t everyone doing the
same thing? I started to realize something was wrong when I began to get beaten up. My mouth always
got me into trouble, of course. I'd go up to the biggest guy in the place and look up his nostrils and call him a faggot. And then when he'd head-butt me, I'd say, “Call that a head-butt?’ So the guy would do it
again harder. The second time I'd have less to say. One of my ‘victims’ stuck my head on an electric
cooker-ring. In Limerick. Stab City. I was lucky to get out of that house alive. He'd done it, though,
because I'd been taking the pith out of hiths listhp. Maybe that's why I moved on to girls. More
sophisticated, doncha know. And girls wouldn't beat me up. They'd just stare at me in disbelief and
shock.
Their eyes, you see.
All the pretense and rules dissolved away. There was just the two of us and the pain. All
those intimate moments, every little sigh, those gentle touches, the lovemaking, the confidences, the
orgasms, the attempted orgasms, all mere fuel. The deeper in they were, the more beautiful they
looked when the moment came.
And I lived for the moment.
I was working freelance in advertising all through this period in London. As an art director.
A contradiction in terms if ever there was one. It’s what I still do today. Strangely, I was always able
to get money. Even in art school, I got a grant because my dad had just retired and I suddenly became
eligible. And after that I got job after job without too much trouble.
I never looked like a drunk, I just was one, and anyway in those days advertising was a far
more boozy affair than it is today. Because I was freelance I could be my own man, so to speak, and I
would keep myself busy by ensuring I had dates lined up. None of the girls were supposed to know
this. The idea was to have an impressive queue so that when one girl neared maturity, usually after
about three or four dates with some phone calls in between, another would be introduced. Then as
one went onto the scrap heap, a new one would take her place. Nothing unusual about my method,
everyone did it. But I enjoyed it so much. Not the sex or even the conquest, but the causing of pain.
It was after my crazy night with Pen (more on that in a minute) that I realized I had found my
niche in life. Somehow I was able to lure these creatures into my lair. Half the time I was trying to
push them away, but it only had the opposite effect. And the fact that they were attracted to a piece of shit like me made me hate them even more than if they’d laughed in my face and walked away. As for
looks? I’m nothing special but I’m told I have beautiful eyes. Eyes from which nothing but truth could
possibly seep.
They say the sea is actually black and that it merely reflects the blue sky above. So it was
with me. I allowed you to admire yourself in my eyes. I provided a service. I listened and listened
and listened. You stored yourself in me.
Nothing had ever felt so right to me. If I'm honest, even today I miss hurting. I’m not cured of
it but I don’t set out to systematically dismantle like I used to. I don't miss the booze half as much. Oh
to hurt again. Since those heady days I heard an adage, which seems to apply here, "Hurt people hurt
people."
I see now that I was in pain and wanted others to feel it, too. This was my way of
communicating. I'd meet the women the first night and get the obligatory phone number and then after
another couple of days, making them sweat a little, I’d call and be all nervous. They loved that. I'd
ask them out and pretend I hardly ever did "this kind of thing" and say that I hadn't been out a lot in
London because I didn't really know the scene. This was true though, because all I used to do was get
out of my head in local bars around Camberwell.
We'd agree to meet somewhere. I liked Greenwich, with the river and the boats and, of
course the pubs. And it had a great boyfriend-girlfriend feel. Nice and respectable. I'd be half out of it
before we even met but I'd be witty and charming and boyish and shaking. Trying to put me at ease,
they'd smile and comment on my trembling, thinking I was nervous to create a good impression.
Because I wasn't getting in enough booze my very being would shudder. I'd have to order two large
Jamesons at the counter for her every half-lager. I'd down the Jimmys without her seeing and then on
with the show.
Lovely.
I didn't really care if I got them into bed or not. I just wanted some company while I got
pissed, while I waited for the courage to hurt to well up in me. And they seemed pleased because I wasn't trying to grope them. Sometimes I would. But mostly I'd be fairly well behaved. This would go
on for a few dates. In the meantime I would encourage them to tell me about themselves.
This is very important for the successful moment later. The more they confided and invested
in you, the deeper the shock and the more satisfying the moment at the end. So, I'd be told of their
dog's habits, their teddy bear’s names, their father's moods, their mother's fears. Did I like kids? How
many brothers and sisters did I have? A sit-com I had to sit through. But it was okay, because I knew
I’d be writing her out of the series.
She’d talk, and talk, and talk and I'd nod. Raise a strategic eyebrow. Grimace when
necessary. Guffaw or feign shock, whatever was required. I’d watch people in conversation and
record their facial expressions. Interest: Raise one eyebrow and raise or lower the other depending
on the conversation.
Attraction: Try to blush. Not easy this (thoughts of what I was going to do to her later
helped). And a blush usually begot a blush. That is if I could muster a blush, she was more than likely
to blush back. Sympathy: Crinkle the forehead and nod gently. Charmed: Cock your head to one side
and smile apologetically. I'd supply these pre-fab masks on cue. It was easy. It was enjoyable. Guys
did it all the time to get laid. I did it to get even. Unkind to Womankind. That was my mission. Around
this time I discovered the meaning of the word “misogynist.” I remember thinking it hilarious that it
had “Miss” as a prefix.
All I know is, I felt better when I saw someone else in pain. But of course, they would often
hide how much I had hurt them. Yes, it was a challenge in itself to help her externalize her feelings,
but also bloody frustrating to have gone to all that trouble and then not be able to enjoy a dramatic
playback. That's why it became necessary to condense everything into the one demonstrative moment.
Sophie was from South London. She used to do the make-up for Angus Brady on the comedy
show, Aren’t You Glad To See Me? I met her at a Camberwell Art School party that I had crashed.

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References: Wikipedia, GoodReads.

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