It’s been almost 10 years since I used to frequent this site constantly. I just wanted to pop in for a quick PSA. Although I know it’s not applicable for most users here, there are always some.

The reasons why I used to love guro are complicated to say the least. It fit very well with how I struggled to connect with people irl. It gave me an explanation as to why. And it helped me avoid thinking about suicide, which had previously been the fantasy captivating me.

Perhaps the biggest thing though, subconsciously, was the sense of community. That there were other people as strange as I was, that no matter how different I might be from others, I could come here and fit in with people.

This was of course, around my early teen years. And one of the weirdest things about that time, was the way women affected me. The ones that laughed the loudest and smiled the brightest. They made me so sad, or sometimes angry. Or just sometimes just made me feel like I’d been punched in the stomach. I thought for sure that if I just found the right one, the prettiest, or the smartest, that somehow she would want me. I was also beginning to realize however, that this was a bit unlikely. It was likely in movies, but not in practice. In lieu of being wanted, I thought at the very least, if I was patient, there would come a day when I would have a woman of my own, by stalking and killing her.

Which sounds bad, because it was bad. I was so sure that the fantasy was more than a fantasy. There were those of you here who felt the same. We talked about how easy it would be to do. About the places that women, or children for that matter, go alone. We didn’t talk about what would happen afterwards, but I certainly knew that afterwards I would have finally done what I couldn’t do any other way, which was to kill myself. Having ruined my life beyond repair, I knew I would have nothing left to be afraid of losing, and I would finally be able to kill myself without backing down.

What I instead decided to do was what I would later come to refer to as the 5 year plan. The 5 year plan consisted of waiting for five years before I would attempt to kill someone. Although later on I would come to realize that that someone had always just been myself.

In fact, all my guro fantasies had always required a woman to be the recipient of all that violence. Partly because I hated women, but more so because my own body was no good. It had none of the beauty required to be a valid guro victim.

In retrospect, I can’t believe I never realized that my fantasies could have been acted out most easily on myself. All of my dreams slicing and dicing and blood drinking and finger snapping, could have easily been fulfilled in the privacy of my own company. All the shame of having to hurt another person could have been so cleanly avoided. Weirdly enough, the few times that I did think of snapping off one of my own fingers, rather than someone else’s, I was stopped by the fear of having to live with that injury. But of course, I could have solved that the same way I would solve it for my imaginary victim, by putting them out of their misery. I thought sometimes that I would be doing them a favor, but I never thought to do myself the same one.

If I had only thought of it at the time, I could have gotten together everything I needed, found the perfect moment, and picked myself to pieces. Had my fill of lovely violence. And when I was spent, with nothing left to lose, and nothing left to fear, finally put myself to sleep.

Thankfully, this was one course of action I never stopped to consider.

In retrospect, there were a lot of things I didn’t notice at the time which were a lot more unusual than just a fetish. I was on gurochan around the same time that my voice changed, and rather than speak in my adult voice, I stopped speaking entirely. By the end of the year, my kid voice was completely gone and all I could do was whisper. And even that hurt my throat. I used to have the most horrible dandruff. I would wake up early every morning before school to wash my skin as best as I could, but by the end of the day it would be cracking and itching and bleeding under my hair, leaving tell-tale dust across my shoulders.

I also used to wear jeans all through the summer heat, because I had never got used to having my legs showing. Which sounds weird, and it is weird. I’ve met some other people like me who sleep in their shoes or do all sorts of other weird things to keep their bodies hidden at all times.

Imagine being 30, and going to sleep in your tennis shoes. It’s a behavior that seems like absolute nonsense. Like a completely random product of a completely damaged mind.

The best explanation is that it’s a bit like touching a hot stove. It’s something so wrong that your brain never gets a chance to fuck things up. Even your hand is smart enough to not stay on a hot stove.

For me it was my voice. I knew it was there, only in the way you know that under your scrambled eggs is a stove too hot to touch. And I suppose for that girl I met who still sleeps in her tennis shoes, her feet are just really problematic.

And yes, girl. Girl! You read that right.

Eventually I got used to things. I got used to wanting to die, knowing I never would. I got used to speaking in my grown up voice. I even started to get used to women. Being around them, knowing I would never have them. Not really. Not even the ones I eventually got to fuck, not even the one or two that fell in love with me. In the end I still just kind of hated them.

I hated it when they smiled and I couldn’t. I hated it when they cried and I couldn’t.

I thought maybe it would be best to avoid women, and eventually I tried sleeping with gay men. I didn’t really like them, but I liked being liked by them. And of course back then I would do anything to get off.

Eventually, the five year plan had expired. It had been a partial success in that I no longer had any desire to commit violent crimes. However I still did want to die. Not actively, because I’d long since given up on acting on it. I wanted to die in the same way I used to want to have sex with women as a little pre-teen; I wanted it while knowing I couldn’t get it.

It was at this point that I decided to move to the city. Thankfully I had enough money to get me started on a lease while I found work. Of course, I couldn’t actually afford an apartment of my own. Even to this day I still can’t. My academic studies, which seemed to have gone so well, did not translate into any employable skills.

I didn’t have any friends to live with, and so I found roommates. And I found a job. This was perhaps the best decision I had ever made.

Not because I liked my customers, or my cash register, or cleaning up after my slob roommates. They were all miserable, and so was I. But at least I was miserable on my own two feet, and with every day that went by, I slowly started to notice things that made my life a bit easier. And when I left work, there was no one to tell me what to do. And as the months went by, I did what I wanted to, and things got a little easier each time.

That year was one of the longest of my life. All the teen depression I had started to forget about was seeping back in. My life had sucked before, and now it sucked even worse.

At the end of that year, in spring, I met the girl who would change everything.

She didn’t look like her pictures. She was taller, and bigger, and when she walked into the coffee shop, I knew right away that she might be trans. Her voice was a woman’s and her body was a woman’s, even her face was a woman’s, but she was not quite like any woman I’d ever met before. She was a nerd and I liked talking to her.

On the other hand, I didn’t really like the idea of fucking her. She was pretty, but not in a way that turned me on. I called her up after our date with the hopes of explaining how we would be best as friends.

“Sure,” she said, “Friends is fine. I don’t want a boyfriend, just a friend with benefits.”

Of course, I could’ve said no. But as previously noted, I used to do whatever I possibly could to get off. And as previously noted, she was really not so bad looking.

“I met this chronically online girl!” I told my slob housemates.

There followed a second and still longer year of cash registering and depression. All to spend a handful of days with her.

The longer that went by, the more I realized how much I liked her. I liked her hobbies and she liked mine. Not just liked them! She understood my hobbies. No one understood my hobbies, even if they were patient enough to try. But she did understand everything, so easily.

And it was so easy for us to love each other. There was no uphill battle of ignoring the parts that didn’t match. It was as though we were the same species.

And eventually, after we broke up, after she broke my heart, to be specific, and after the mornings when I would wake up crying, well. I would cry until I had to leave for work, and throw some clothes on, and run run run down to the train station. And go the employee restroom and cry some more.

And then after that I tried blaming her. I told myself that she was broken, and that I’d never love another girl like her. I told myself that other trans girls were just as sick as her.

I told myself that moving to the city was a mistake. That working away at the register was a mistake. That my life was a mistake. That I should go back to my precious academic studies, which I hated, and my precious cis girlfriends, which I hated even more, and forget everything.

This lasted about a month or two.

And by this point I’m sure you can guess what happened next.

The first date I went on after that break up, kind of just went on and on. It was a three day sleepover date. We went and walked in the woods, and talked and talked and talked about everything. Little did I know that this time I would be the one to break her heart.

Since then a lot of things have changed. My name, which I used to hate. My body’s changed too, in that I don’t get horny all the time. Which I never expected to like so much, but it’s fantastic. I get to decide nowadays, to he horny when I feel like it and not when I don’t. And now when I do decide to get horny, I can use a vibrator and cum until I see spots and colors. Which is new.

And I barely have to shave anymore! All I have to do is spend 50 bucks at a laser salon each month, and let them rub aloe on me afterwards.

More importantly though, I can also decide when to smile. And when to cry. And I can dance, without feeling weird. And there are lots and lots of other girls to meet. I do my best not to hook up too much these days, because I’ve found out how lovely it is to have beautiful platonic friends. Friends don’t disappear on you the way lovers do.

And when I’m around women, I don’t have anything left to be hate. Because I can do all the things they do.

It turns out the five year plan failed, but with ten years gone by, I don’t want to die anymore. Why would I? I still wake up scared in the morning, but it only lasts a minute, until I remember that there’s nothing to be scared of. Because my day isn’t going to hurt, and it might even be a lot of fun.

Some of my friends still do want to die, and I don’t really blame them. It’s hard being trans. It’s hard knowing most of your life went down the drain for no reason. But I’m still pretty young. Younger than most of the girls I’ve met. A lot older than some. And so long as I keep taking my medicine, and going to the doctor, I’m only going to get girlier. I’d like to be around for that.

Thanks for your attention today, gurochaners. I know my post is off topic. But I want to make sure it reaches the right people.

And maybe when you’re checking out how nice that gore looks on anime babes, please stop to consider that it might look nice on you too. Yes you!! Really you. You’re a hotty waiting to happen, and you may not believe it now, but you’ve got all the time in the world.

Keep it creepy!
-Ach