We're all a little fucked up, y'know? And if you say or think or assert you're not, you're either a liar or your life is boring--and in the case of the latter, my friend, I can assure you it's only a matter of time until you realize just how lifeless an existence you lead, and the people who take the longest to seek some excitement take it the farthest, I find. I'm no exception to that rule but I'll admit I took some time to come around, and when I let loose, I really let loose.

    Throughout my childhood, I had quite the fascination with death, and no, I was not your typical cookie-cutter skinning-cats-in-the-backyard to-be psychopath. I don't come from a history of abuse, either--physical, sexual, verbal; you name it, it didn't happen to me. Maybe I'm fucked up--more so than others, even--but like I said, I was a late bloomer.

    My mortality mania, in my earlier days, was for the most part sated with books and that wonderful invention they call the internet. Reading about it was enough for me, believe it or not. Fiction or not, I suppose I came to live vicariously through the written illustrations of ruthless killers and sociopaths, violent crime scenes and gruesome deaths. I can only imagine the writers of such fiction, in much the same way as I, experienced through their own pen the rush of murder and violence, even if purely fictitious.

    But I've always been someone who takes things a little too far. Like I said, we're all a little fucked up.