In this society, if your self-esteem comes from yourself

you will be labeled a deviant, certain sure—a psychopath. I walked my dog through the woods.

I remembered what it was like, to feel that I belonged to the trees. There is a coolness and a warmness and a breeze.

My dog couldn’t see it happening, but I was getting better. A black lady with big bosoms walked out of the brush

near the river, and my dog growled at her.

“Come on Belle—get movin.” And she obeyed. I was her master. I felt badder than ever. And the black lady had a look of terror on her face.

I’m a nice guy, and I generally dislike everybody.

When you are good too long, it feels good to be bad.

We got to the river, and I took-off my shirt, exposing my white skin to the sun.

I only had a few minutes before the burn.

My dog looked nervous on the shore.

“Come on Belle.” She took-off because she was scared, and I had to walk down the path to find her. She was barking at some black people.

I was the only white guy on the river. It felt good to be a minority—the way it must feel to go into Harlem as a white guy, and come out alive—like I had accomplished something.

“That Devil Dog! Get that Devil Dog away from me!” The black lady screamed.

If what she said was true, I was the devil—a white devil.

The power.

The culture, I had at my fingertips.

I can play Mozart on the piano.

I’m getting into painting.

I go through obsessions, like some men go through women.

When my dog saw me, she smiled. She’s a good dog, without any hate inside her mouth. She just gets bored, like me—and I’m glad for the stereotypes in society, about single white males who like to go for walks in the woods.

I might be a serial killer or a pervert or a supremacist, but what I really am—is me.

It’s exciting, to be dangerous, to be profiled, to be hated.

A black man walked out of the woods, and when he saw me, his eyes turned into saucers.

If people are terrified of you, it can be, a good feeling, but nobody talks about that. It’s deviant, to think such things, but those sorts of thoughts cross my mind, all the time. I have a deviant mind.

Ordinarily, people want to be liked, but I find this tedious.

I put my leash on my dog, and brought her into the river.

She is fine, when she is with me. That makes me feel good. A dog’s love is genuine—her trust is real. People pretend, for any number of reasons.

I took her off-leash, and she swam around in circles, biting at the waves. There was the Y-shaped tree, I used to read in. It’s growing at a 45-degree angle, so I can walk into it, like walking up a hill. The big oak is covered in moss, with exposed roots, where I buried my treasures in 2010.

I clipped the leash on my dog, feeling like a master. I walked through the forest to my parents’ house. I cut through the swamp. I know that place like the back of my hand. That patch of land belongs to me.

I told my parents about scaring black people, and their jaws dropped. I stole a bag from Safeway, the other day, without meaning to. It feels good to be on the outside of society.

My friends keep wanting to hang-out.

I just want to spend time with my dog.

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