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As we earlier mentioned, some website has claimed to discover alleged rapist Peter Braunstein's blog — but at that time, we were unable to find the cached pages. Then we pulled our heads out of our asses, got our shit together, and found the strength to deliver. We are loyal, if nothing else, to our shared fascination with the macabre.

We're going to share some of the more chilling rants with you, but be warned: Reading Braunstein's psychotic insights on his ex-girlfriend, W editor Jane Larkworthy (with whom the victim once worked) will make you feel very, very dirty — and unable to look away.

• What you don't understand is that this was THE ABSOLUTE WORST RELATIONSHIP OF MY LIFE. If that doesn't snag it a perch in the dark pantheon of anti-glory, I don't know what does. The two years spent in [Jane] Larkworthy's clutches were so god-awful that if the powers that be were to allow me to live my entire life over again, I'd jump at the chance. With one caveat. I'd beg them: can I please fast-forward over the Larkworthy part? Please? Plus, I've taken great pains to present these horrendous relationship atrocities in the bow-laden package of humor, even though the gift bag surely reeks of the acrid smell of bitter remorse. But think of it this way: when I endured these calamities, there was a lot of anguish and very little humor involved. So really, you guys are making out like bandits.

Yeah, totally creeped-out bandits with locked doors. More choice blurbs after the jump.

• The first time I taught Larkworthy/BioHazard how to play backgammon, she - the consummate romantic - looked at the board and said absent-mindedly: "Good. This is the kind of game I can play alone." Play backgammon alone? Who does that? I must have taught a dozen girlfriends to play the game over the course of my life, and none of them went anywhere near there.

• When you're someone with as little self-esteem as BioHazard, you end up getting your satisfactions in the pettiest of places. This is, after all, a woman who subscribes to the New Yorker, the Observer, etc., because everyone in her building seemingly has to, but doesn't actually read anything except the Sunday Times Style Section, and she doesn't even read that. She snatches it up first hand, and God forbid her photo isn't on the Bill Cunningham page but Linda Wells or a co-worker are prominently featured. Then you'll be like, "Hey, where's the Style section?," and she'll respond with some psychopathic ice-princess look. It's gone. She's already burned it.

•Then all of a sudden, for a brief moment that final day, I glimpsed her core. I don't think I'm stepping on the suspense by describing it as a Silence of the Lambs moment. I saw an only partially-composed, child-sized being, nailed to a surgical table and comprised of three different parts: fear, rage, and fear at its own rage. It was hard to tell whether the three parts were taken from different children or just from BioHazard. On her chest was this tiny red blotch where the heart should have been - evidently, the Evil Doctor who experimented on her at a too-too-tender age made sure it was the first thing he removed.

(And a heads-up to socialite Elisabeth Kieselstein-Cord: Peter's got an eye on you.)

Braunstein's cached blog entries:
The Anti-Icon, Anti-Muse Page
Biohazard Diaries