Oscar Wilde once said "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." In most cases, Oscar Wilde eloquently explained the nature of our species. I would have liked to meet him.

It has been months since I last visited this website. Posting here in the first place was a curious endeavor to say the least, but here I am once more. I feed the flames of my vanity and grandeur, ever the pawn of my own manipulations. To get you current, let me tell you the major events since last we spoke. That whom hunted me, abandoned me for easier game. I am still not entirely sure who did the hunting, but I do know that they were easily spooked.

My secret, my delicate, eloquent secret, turned out to be but another disappointment. A short lived comraderie that faded as quickly as it formed, as random as the genetic modification that creates my kind amongst yours. I had hoped, which was so out of character, that she would have been like me. The challenge, of taming as dangerous and as wild a beast as I, would have been glorious. The battles, raging on for days, weeks, months? Exquisite. However, she proved herself to be little more than a narcissistic parasite, (not unlike myself), with two major flaws. First, she was ruled by a lack of self control. Her various addictions should have been a warning, but I presumed they were but intentional character defects to her mask. The second flaw, perhaps but an extension of the first, was her need to fight authority. Her need to have no equal, to know no structure. To have everything handed to her, without any exertion.

She left. To greener pastures, with more narcotics, with less structure. Less discipline, less logic. Ruled by the unfortunate emotions of a young adult. Pity, really. I had such high hopes for finding a kindred spirit.

In regards to my blood, my sister, well, the devil did get his dues. She has been revealed as a liar, and she suffers the brand of my disdain and that of my family till the day she dies. A mother's love only covers so many mistakes, you see, and the lies she told, well, they took a lot of that love and suffocated it. And here I had thought vengeance would take years. Sometimes revenge is delicious even lukewarm.

So few know what I am. Nothing living knows who I am. This discomfort, this dissatisfaction, the void has grown. The bleakness threatens to consume me some days, with no provocation. There is a cure to this, but it is proving to be an elusive drug.

"The mask I polish in the evening, by the morning looks like shit."