I'm Slightly Worried I May Become A Serial Killer

This evening I have been reading Wikipedia’s entries for Serial Killers, in order to while away the hours before bed.
I have always had this grotesque fascination with serial killers. I think it’s because ANYONE could be one. Your annoyingly loud next door neighbours? Serial Killers. The little old lady over the road? Serial Killer. That screaming kid on the bus? Serial Killer. The woman glaring at you in the post office? Serial Killer. Your other half? DEFINITELY a Serial Killer.
What is it that causes people to do these horrible things? You always hear in the stories that they were treated badly by their parents, or orphaned at a young age, or bullied at school. But in reality that’s just an excuse. Other people have gone through the same, sometimes worse, and don’t become serial killers. That we know about anyway.
What’s worse is that these people get married, go to work and have kids. I want to do all these things too. And I got bullied at school. Maybe I am on the brink of becoming a serial killer.
Apparently one guy became a serial killer when his Girlfriend dumped him after he was imprisoned for theft. He started killing to get revenge. Maybe all it’s going to take for me to become a serial killer is a nasty but not-too-awful shock. Maybe I’ll become one if next door’s cat gets run over, or the Co-op raise their prices any further.
The strange thing is, I can kind of understand killing someone. You know, someone really awful, like Saddam Hussein (I know he’s already dead, but let’s pretend for a second that he isn’t) or Tony Blair. I can even understand killing several people, like Saddam Hussein AND Tony Blair (two birds one stone!). What I really don’t get (and therefore am fascinated by) is cannibalism. HOW. DISGUSTING. And yet I love to read those “true stories” about it. They make me feel truly terrified, and I remember the guy I told you about that lives under my bed with a machete. (see “If I Bumped Into Derren Brown…”).
I am beginning to wonder if my strange fascination with the gory is a sign of my underlying serial-killerness, and whether I should warn my housemates/family before it is too late and I’ve had to store them in the loft. For one thing, I’m not so sure I can be bothered with all that lugging bodies around I’d have to do if I don’t warn them.

Another thing that I may have a problem with is my very oversensitive nose and gag-reflex. So I’ll have to think of a way to prevent the smell very early on in my serial killer career, I really don’t see how those guys who bury the bodies in their houses do it.

I’m also very squeamish. I can’t even watch Saw. I once watched “Creep” and had nightmares for weeks. So I’d have to find a nice way to kill people. Like, with a bunch of flowers and a poem. Or a romantic dinner for two.

I’d also feel a bit guilty about the amount of work I’m causing for the police, and the upset of their family members. There are two ways I could get around this. 1) I could kill their entire families and all the police or 2) I could leave a “sorry” card. I think I’m going to go with a sorry card as it seems like less effort. And everyone likes a card.

Another issue is that serial killers all have a type. And to be honest, I can’t think of a type. I couldn’t kill all the homosexuals because I’m not homophobic and my brother is gay, I have several friends who are either gay or lesbian, and I’d miss them. I couldn’t kill all the blacks because I’m not racist and again, I have several friends that I’d miss. I couldn’t kill all the Jews because I’m not anti-Semitic. Couldn’t kill all the people having sex out of wedlock because I’d be first on my list (I have definite proof I’m guilty of that).

You know, after all of that I think that Serial Killers make their lives too hard. Maybe I’m not going to be a serial killer after all.

Old People Aren't Nice

When I woke up I had a bit of a nervous breakdown.

Luckily, my very good friend Kirsty was on hand to help and escort me out of the building before I started flailing my arms around like I was attempting flight and ended up accidentally giving someone a broken nose or a black eye. I managed to cry all the way to her house, egged on by people walking past and staring at me. Kirsty got me sat down with a drink of squash at hers and made me feel much better, although slightly like a five year old after a temper tantrum. This wasn’t her fault mind you, this is because I felt a bit like I was throwing all of my toys out of the pram in a fit of rage. Having really bad hair due to a party last night where I dressed as a lion didn’t help much.
After calming down for a few hours she received a text about some pizza at my house and so I decided that when it comes to food, perhaps mine is the best place to be after all.
On my long and dangerous journey home (it’s a whole TEN MINUTES walk away. It was like an expedition to the north pole.) I came across an old and wise looking Asian lady, wearing a beautiful sari (I think that’s how it is spelt) and going for a little walk at a slow pace down the road. I’m sure you know the type. She looked regal in both her manner and her dress, strolling like she had all the time in the world. I walked behind her for a while, wishing I’d look that good in a sari, especially at that age (she must have been late 80s, early 90s, at a bad guess. I’m not good with ages). I would look a bit like a blimp in a condom though. And it’s not even like they’re tight fitting.

Anyway, about 100 meters down the road a young cat steps out from behind a wall and approaches the beautiful old lady, obviously wanting attention, and I thought, “How sweet, I wish I had a camera to capture this moment.”

The old lady looks down, spots the friendly feline and immediately starts stamping her feet, scaring the cat away. Fair enough, you think, a bit harsh but maybe she is allergic or doesn’t like cats. So did I. But then she starts to follow the poor feline to where it’s run to. Stamping and clapping her hands while it cowers cornered behind a bin. She even started hitting the bin and the wall around it.

This is when she looks around and spots me, staring gormlessly at the sight of a woman as well turned out and kind looking as she is showing no mercy to an innocent animal who simply went to greet her and be friendly. I knelt down and called the cat, which came running to me; realising that I was its best chance of safety; and started winding its way around my legs purring and meowing while I talked softly and calmly to it. The evil old lady stares at me in horror, having not realised she was being watched during her prior moments of cruelty. The cat then takes off for a location further away from Mrs Crazy-But-Well-Dressed, while I, Miss Bad-Party-Hair; with my head held high and my back straight; walk past her, glaring.

This whole incident has shattered all my illusions and childish ideals. Old people are supposed to be nice. End of. Young people on the other hand “don’t know they’re born”, are intolerant, cruel and litter. Only the worst type of people litter.
I KNOW this is a giant stereotyping of age and I KNOW it doesn’t apply to every person on the planet. Gaddaffi, for example, is probably not a very nice person. Hitler, although not VERY old, was still nearing the age where we are all suddenly transmuted into nice people. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think there were any signs of this sudden change occurring.

On top of this evidence that my old/young theory doesn’t work is the fact that I am young. I don’t think that I’m a horrible person. Having said that, I don’t think Hitler thought he was a horrible person, so maybe I am horrible and just don’t know it. I prefer things this way so if I am horrible please don’t be honest. Thanks.
In addition to this I don’t think my friends are horrible. And I certainly hope they don’t litter. Only scum litters. I don’t hang out with scum. Littering is worse than murder. Or espionage. Ok, I just wanted to get the word “espionage” in here somewhere. As Allie Brosh would say, “I Win!”
I honestly understand that some people don’t like cats. I don’t like dogs. I still took in that lost dog that turned up on our doorstep that time. I didn’t chase it away, clapping my hands and stamping my feet to scare it. I even let it in the bathroom with me when it kept whining outside the door although it’s kind of unnerving trying to pee whilst being stared at by a canine like you’re some kind of god. AND I gave it a name (it was named Dog. Original, dontchathink?).
I was even quite sad when the RSPCA turned up to take it away. Poor thing. He didn’t like that much. Especially when I explained to him that he had to leave because I didn’t like him much.

In reality, it doesn’t matter whether or not you like a certain animal. A decent person would have walked on and let it be. That applies to people too. If you see someone you don’t like in the street, that’s ok, just keep walking. And it was due to this very reasoning that there were no little old ladies injured on Beaconsfield Road today. Also, if she had been injured everyone would have looked from me to her and thought, “Young people today! What a poor, defenceless old lady, bless her heart!” Maybe that’s why she did it. She wanted to defame me and have me known as an old lady beater by all. She’s so evil that she’d planned it all in advance.
So can anyone guess what today’s lesson is? Wrong, it’s not “you can’t judge a book by its cover” it’s “never trust old people”.

If I bumped into Derren Brown...

If I were to bump into Derren Brown today and he said to me “I can teach you how to control one emotion, which will it be?” I’d choose fear. Not ALL fear, because it’s probably a good thing that I’m scared to go near the edges of cliffs and things, especially considering my amazing lack of coordination.

So, we’re talking about the fear of little things, like what people think of me, performing, having no friends and the man with a machete in my closet who preys on people who are pretending to be asleep.

If I wasn’t afraid of what people thought of me I could tell people what I really think. I could perform in front of others with a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye. I wouldn’t worry about not having friends, which would make me confident, which would make people want to be my friend… and the man in my closet with a machete would realize that I really am asleep.At the moment I pretend I am confident. I am a little more blunt than most people I know, but I don’t want to be blunt; I want to be assertive. The problem with being assertive is that I fall into the circle of fear.

For example: I want to tell someone that I think that what they did was unfair.

Fear A - What if I’m wrong and it was fair?
Fear B - What if I hurt that persons feelings?
Fear C - What will that person think of me if I am wrong?
Fear D - What will everyone else think of me?
Fear E - What if there’s a man with a carving knife outside my bedroom window?


And so, after thinking all these things through I never actually get to the stage where I am assertive. Several times I have managed to utter the words that have been forming, but after all the build up of fear I end up blurting them out with a red face of shame and guilt; get all my words backwards and then often burst into tears of frustration and anger. If I have managed to prevent the tears I end up looking like an aggressive grizzly bear. In terms of communication that is; I don’t suddenly sprout fur and massive teeth and develop a penchant for honey.This is then added on to the circle of fear:


Fear F - What if I get all my words backwards again?
Fear G - What if I end up crying again?
Fear H - What if I look all Grizzly Bear-ish again?


This reduces the chances of me being assertive even more. 

Thing is, not being assertive helps even less. My mother, for example, always expect more from me than I am actually physically capable of. My grades were never good enough at school, I was always told “you’re putting weight on” (even though I was a size 10!), arguements between my brother and I were always my fault because I was “old enough to know better”. These are just a few minor examples and I know that she is only like it becasue she thinks I am awesome and therefore capable of being superhuman (I live in fear of the day she realises she’s wrong!).

Unfortunately this is still continuing today. For my birthday she’s paid for driving lessons. I have had my first ten hours, and things are going quite well. I seem to be relatively good at this driving lark. The other day I got a phone call from the mothership saying that she expects me to pass my test after the next 10 hours. The average person passes after 40 hours of lessons, and on their third practical test. My mother expects me to do it after 20 hours and on my first test.

Upon hearing this I felt my “assertive” gland attempt to boot up. What I actually ended up doing was being rude - ”You DO know the average number of hours before a test is 40 don’t you? And you know that the average number of tests taken is 3 I’m sure. Don’t be surprised when I fail.” (see, aggressive grizzly bear). Naturally, all this caused was a rise of anger and defensiveness in the mothership. After all, she didn’t have to pay for any lessons in the first place.

I do appreciate the lessons, really I do. But I’m now at the stage where I wish I hadn’t accepted because I’m under so much pressure to pass I’m making stupid mistakes and I no longer want to get in the bloody car. There might be a man in the boot with a garrotte anyway.

If I were more assertive I could talk to her and tell her that she expects too much from me. I am TERRIFIED of doing this.

Chances are I’m going to become a shrew type person with no personality and a fear of bears.

So Derren Brown, if you’re reading this, take pity on a girl who DEFINITELY has a man under her bed with a gun and teach me how to stop being so afraid all the time please?