Victorian Psycho Quotes

I fail to understand why men think violence will intimidate women. Women, who bleed all over themselves every month, who rub blood clots between their fingers and burst them like insects, and sometimes can't because they're not blood clots, they're tongue-coloured strings of meat from the womb. Women who burst open in childbirth, vagina splitting and anus sagging, tiny, hardening fingernails clawing inside of them, placentas like thick filet mignon.

The shade is "Mummy Brown." If mummified Egyptians had known they were fated to be pulverized to produce an umber for such a mediocre painter, they surely would have chosen other burial options.

Inside me, my Darkness rests within my rib-cage, a jailed animal grown lazy from lack of exercise. I have not felt my soul for a very long time. It may have slipped out, unbeknownst to me. I've seen other lose their shame of dignity in this way.

Her left eye wanders, and I wish I were possessed of a compass to determine to which cardinal direction the eye points most often.

Leaves are strewn across the grounds in hues of bile and blood.

It is necessary to realize that the most sacrosanct article of sexual politics in the period, the Victorian doctrine of chivalrous protection and its familiar protestations of respect, rests upon the tacit assumption, a cleverly expeditious bit of humbug, that all women were "ladies"—namely members of that fraction of the upper classes and bourgeoisie which treated women to expressions of elaborate concern, while permitting them no legal or personal freedom. The psycho-political tacit here is a pretense that the indolence and luxury of the upper-class woman’s role in what Veblen called “vicarious consumption” was the happy lot of all women. The efficacy of this maneuver depends on dividing women by class and persuading the privileged that they live in an indulgence they scarcely deserve... To succeed, both the sexual revolution and the Woman's Movement which led it would have to unmask chivalry and expose its courtesies as subtle manipulation.

Women! Theatrical bitches.

back in the middle ages they burned unruly women at the stake and out of the ashes of their bones and flesh rose the Enlightenment and Reason fresh and the white men declared there's no such thing as witches they're just crazy psycho-bitches but we certainly can't let them run free lock 'em up and throw away the key yeah they said: lock 'em up and throw away the key cause there's nothing scarier than a woman mad and/or aware of her own magic tragic how much violence is done in the name of science to ensure our silence in Victorian times they located suffering in our uterus in the blood in the soft internal organs took our pain our righteous rage they called it 'hysteria' and then Dr. Freud ignored women's horror stories herstories of abuse and rape and took a justified hatred of the penis and called it envy (he sold more books that way)

(Home) ‘This land is beautiful, but the people are horrible.’ The people took this beautiful land and raped it, and put up a bunch of ugly boxes, however, my home is in the Victorian-style and it is old and has a handcrafted personality. There is an ancient oak tree outside my window, sometimes I step out my window then onto the roof of the porch, and sit in the tree branch that hangs over, and watches all the stars as they appear to turn on and off. Yes, I have wished upon a shooting star, that things will change, and that the towers will be no more. Looking straight ahead, I can see all the lights that go on the horizon, some days the sunsets are blazing before the lights turn on. Then there are some days that the window is shut because it is cold windy while everything is chilled with the color of blue. (Frame of mind) My mood can change just like this and that it seems. Yes, just like all the summer turns into winter, and the winters turn into spring, and all of these thoughts running in my mind fall like the leaves through my brain, and they most likely do not mean a thing. I guess you could blame it on my ADD, ADHD, dyslexia, bipolar disorder, or OCD. I do not have any of these… I do not have anything wrong with me. But, if you are like one of the sisters or someone from my school, you would say my mood changes are because of my- STD’s, HIV, or being as they say GAY or BI, and LEZ-BO. They have also said, I am a pedophile and a child stocker, and I get moody if I do not get some from them. That is why I am so sober at times, or so they say. Whatever…! They also have said that I am a schizophrenic- psycho and that I could not even buy love. I would not try that anyways. I think that having money does not give you happiness; I am okay being a humble farm- girl, the guy that finds me… needs to be happy with that also. I am sure there are more things they say. However, those are just some of them that I can dredge up as of now, off the top of my head. They have murdered me and my life, in so many ways. So now, do you wonder as to why I am afraid of talking to people or even looking at them? You know you and they can try to destroy me, and my life. However, I do not have any of those listed either; none of these random arrangements of letters defines me as the person I truly am. (Sight) Looking out the windows, I can see the golden hayfields of ecstasy, I see the windmills that twist and tumble. I can see the abandoned railroad track that lies not far from my home. I can hear the cries of the swing as the wind gusts in spurts. But yet I am still in my room, but that is just okay with me. Because I know that there will someday soon be someone there for me. (Household) My room is a land of peace and tranquility without all the gloom, with a bed and a canopy overhead but still, I am not truly happy? There is nothing- like the sounds of the crickets speaking up often in the cool August night breeze. It is relaxing to me, however; it is a reminder to me of how the last glimmers of summer are ending. Besides the sounds slowly fade away, yes- I can hear this music from my bedroom window. It is just like in the spring the birds sing in the morning and leave in the cool gusts to come. It is just like the hummingbirds that flutter by, and then before I know it, all has changed; so, it seems by the time I walk out my bedroom door, to start my day. ‘Life goes in cycles of tunes it seems, and nature is its synchronization in its symphony you just have to listen.

I think, They won't like me. I think, They must like me. I think, They will remember me.

Satisfied that there are no monsters but the ones I carry inside me.

Drusilla’s education shall be less rigorous, of course,’ says Mr Pounds. ‘She is now of an age when she risks her fertility from the ravages of overeducation. Says so in the Times.’ I interpret this to mean Drusilla will be doing much ornamental needlework.

I wonder if this blackness isn't in fact the real world, and the true blindfold is that other world of color we are accustomed to.

Todos os seres bebem alegria nos seios da natureza. Todo o Bem, todo o Mal, segue o seu rasto de rosas.

of

Not one of them tries to stop us. If three or four of them had the sense to join up, they could easily overpower us both. If most of them hadn't been bred in captivity, force-fed a lifetime of politeness, kneading their spirits into compliance as callused fingers shape clay, they might have realized that.

When I crept outside, the damp evening air soaked my flimsy nightdress, dragging me down with the strength of five pulling hands as I waded my way to the spot where I had seen the bird fall. I kneeled and groped in the darkness until my fingers were met with the brush of feathers. The crow had fallen from that tree on purpose, I thought. For me. I cuddled the bird at night, combing its glossy black feathers, like a mane of human hair, with my fingers –­ something the girls wouldn’t allow me to do to them –­ and secured it under a loose floorboard beneath my bed by day. The crow was still rotting under the bed by Easter Sunday –­ the stench it exuded not offensive enough, in the airy room, to be attributed to anything more sinister than a group of growing girls who lacked water to dab at their underarms. I had wilfully blotted a writing exercise to merit a flogging. Miss Petty was lazy and her legs heavy with gout, which meant I was to fetch my own instrument of torture. This allowed me to steal away to our bed-­room to retrieve the crow and slip into the empty refectory unnoticed. I lay out the bird, wings spread, on one of the platters, and arranged food on top of it to disguise the writhing maggots, digging my fingernails into the putrid flesh and flicking bits into the pudding. I collected the bundle of tied twigs from the supply room and returned to the school-­room, where Miss Petty birched my neck a dozen times for the blotting, and another dozen for my delay in retrieving the instrument. A girl sitting to my left sketched the pink, rose-­shaped bruises that bloomed on my neck until the bell for lunch was rung, and she and the others streamed into the hallway with expectant stomachs. After saying grace and singing a hymn, we dug in. The girls were so hungry they barely paid heed to what they were spooning into themselves. They pawed at the bread, shovelled potatoes onto their plates, and tore into greyish meats. Plaits were flung over shoulders or tucked into collars to avoid soiling. A spoon clanged to the floor, a wooden bench creaking as one girl leaned over to retrieve it. One of the older girls cleared her throat while drinking, spurting sipped water back into her glass. Sauces dribbled from the corners of mouths, stained white pinafores, browned noses, slid under fingernails. My eyes hovered over all, waiting for the crow to strike. My crow. My friend.

She is now of an age when she risks her fertility from the ravages of overeducation. Says so in the Times.

It is early fall, the cold is beginning to descend, and in three months everyone in this house will be dead.

Within the locker is a chalk-and-crayon likeness of the lecherous painter, most likely of his own creation, for it is substandard.

When faced with the inexplicable, humans will find ways of explaining most horrors away.

It fascinates me, the fact that human have the capacity to mortally wound one another at will, but for the most part, choose not to.