Just recently several people, complete strangers until now, have restored my faith in humanity in a quite dramatic way. I’m reticent to name names because I don’t want to cause any blushes.
Why is this a dilemma? Well, I plough an awful lot of energy into killing people in often quite horrible circumstances. That is of course on paper (I couldn’t deal with the mess, never mind physically dispose of the bodies if I did it for real). Then going back, editing and making it even more traumatic for them than it was to begin with. I tried writing a happy ending to one of my short stories but simply could not rest, so I went back and killed someone then felt instantly better about the whole piece. I see dead people. I made them that way.
What is a girl to do when people turn out to be actually really jolly nice and she has still to maintain an unholy bloodlust? Should she develop yet more of a split personality? I can see myself ending up somewhere like Arkham Assylum if that’s the case!
Joking aside, I feel all the more able to do what I do because there are people out there that make it worth writing or taking pictures to entertain and working to help. If things I say and do have value to just one person, then my objective is fulfilled. Whether I made someone laugh, gave someone a bit of courage to be their true self, inspired someone to go and write about killing me next, confirmed that indeed someone is completely mad but so am I and it’s not that bad, or was just there at the right time for them; if just that one person gets something out of the things I say and do, I’m happy.
I’d not hurt a fly, say boo to a goose (unless it hissed at me in that very disconcerting way geese do), or so much as pinch a toffee off pick-and-mix. I’m quite a nice girl really but don’t tell anyone. It’s a closely guarded secret and would ruin my bloodthirsty, reclusive image.
Strangers are just friends we haven’t met yet and they don’t get much stranger than me 😉