Poor but defiant

 These are girls that must regularly feed a beast that regular people don't know exist. A foul monster unlike Bigfoot or Dracula, this is not an incarnation of fiction. This figment of the mind is not born of imagination, but does reside in the mind of the user, having burrowed, distorted, and rewired the host victim to deliver to this monster all it desires, as servile as a pack animal forced to trudge up the side of Everest. 

These women call me, visit me, and text daily, not for any companionship or to check on my welfare. The beast forces them to seek out the path of least resistance, as raging river with the singular goal of reaching the sea, and never stopping or slowing for any reason. 

I rejected four women's advances last night. This is pure economics. Had I the good fortune of being a millionaire, this would all be a moot point not worthy of a perfunctory letter to read, much less this loquacious journal entry. 

I adhere to a modest budget that allows a comfortable life alone, with the bills paid, and emergency funds safely in the bank. I come from a family that was middle class, until my mother married rich. She is the widow of a millionaire, having spoiled my brothers, the younger doted upon with considerable quantities of funds. To this day I cannot answer the burning question of why I am cast aside as the black sheep, never to see the same financial successes as bestowed upon the others. Maybe perhaps because they bore fruit in the form of several spoiled and repulsive neices and nephews, while I pursued women of which she disapproved. 

To my knowledge, I never had a child, though by now I should have produced an army. As to why, I have no answer, especially for the mother who continually asks, and attempts in vain to pair me with single acquaintances of hers that you the reader may already surmise as women whom I have no doubt will remain old maids until their unfortunate and inevitable deaths as hideous, engorged monstrosities. 

Had I the means, I would lavish these women with the necessities of life, home, and security they so modestly desire. I reject the idea of a house of concubines, as I don't want to be the owner of a bordello. I would simply remove the fear of each morning forcing these women to debauch themselves to fulfill the desires of their monster in cranial residence. As it is, their tortured lives are not my responsibility. Yet I cannot shed this guilt of knowing that by saying no to these women, they must now find a less desirable alternative to my gropes, kisses, fondling, and fornication.