I hate paper. Those thin sheets of dead trees make me sick.
The blue lines drawn all over them make me feel like I'm all
crooked. I'm not straight, why are they?  For a long time I
studied paper. The thin side of the paper, its third
dimention, looked at its angles and learned to love it. Only
this side of the paper. Until one day, it cut me. The thin
side of the paper cut me. I screamed at it for days. Just
stood there and yelled at the thin side of the paper. I
loved you. I studied you for days. I thought I knew you. How
dare you? I-THOUGHT-I-KNEW-YOU. I looked at the dark pearl
of blood hanging from my finger, looked at the thin cut,
almost invisible. For a week I studied the angles and
speeds, and by the end of the month I was ready. I went out
to the street, my pocket full of small red notes.
Perfection. The perfect blank square was inspiring. I met a
young blonde woman at the bar. She was quite drunk. I
pretended to drink a glass of martini with her and later
spat it into the toilet. She took me home. We had sex and I
gently pooled the note from my pocket, looked at her neck,
and in a trained movement cut her main artery. Twice. Three
times. After thirty-three cuts, I tore the note to four even
squares, sat on the bed and watched her bleed. Then I got
up, got dressed, and went home. This went well. I'll do it
again next week.