Truth Is Stranger, Motherfuckers.

I may be in relative danger posting this, I don’t know. He still lives in town, as far as I know. And he knows where I live. So, I have been inspired, partly from my first muse’s request, that I write this story down; fictionalise it and make it into a novel. He swears it will be my 401K. Fine, I get why. It’s ghoulish, nightmarish and horrifying. That sells. But, it’s ghoulish, nightmarish and horrifying. And it’s my past. And I don’t know whether I want to go back there and invest SO MUCH ENERGY into thinking about it and writing a new story around the truth.

Oh yes. See, his suggestion started when he was bitching about his ex girlfriends. I’m like, “you pussy, you have nothing to cry about. I have a cannibalistic serial killer as an ex. Shut the fuck up.” And he’s like, say whaaaa?!? So, I told him the story. I’ve told several people the story. What? It’s a conversation piece. A CHUNK. Evidently we taste like pork and Satan loves me.

See? Nooooooooooooooo. I’m sitting here laughing because I can laugh at it now. Now. When he told me, I immediately threw up and hit the door. It was one hell of a story, full of plastic bags and body parts and pure insanity. Voices he heard and what they told him to do (kill me). The thing was, why I believed him, because what the fuck, if you heard this story, his story, you’d be like, no fucking way. Nope. I believe everything he said to me because he cried. He sat there and sobbed and begged my forgiveness for what he had done because he was in love with me and wanted to marry me.


His name was Chris and that’s all I will say. But he tricked me. See, I have this name superstition (this will so go into the novel because it’s just so quirky). I have a name superstition and there are certain names I don’t like the sound of, or too many serial killers had the name, or my abusive ex husband has the name (as well as two other exes that were ridiculously toolish). If the name rhymes with something that’s off, it’s a no. Well, Chris is a good name. I thought I was safe. So I dated him… for six months of horribleness. Then, I saw his driver’s license. Gary Christopher. GARY? GARY?!? Check the Green River Kille: Gary. Gary: rhymes with Scary. It. Added. Up. This superstition works every time, I swear to God.

So, third novel will be a lot of elements of truth with a lot of elements of fiction and hopefully, you’ll not know which is which. Maybe I’ll post the truth up here one day but I don’t think so. I’m still scared of that motherfucker and I don’t know if he stalks me online. He’s a big guy; 6’4″ with a long stride and one hell, I mean, one hell of a tight bowstring temper. Don’t make the guy angry. Just don’t. My guess is this: Paranoid Schizophrenia (voices, hallucinations) mixed with OCD (that one was obvious, really) plus Antisocial Personality Disorder (no pity, the guy had no pity and no heart, really, except for himself). Yeah, don’t make him angry. He’s done it 86 or something, I forget, times, he’ll do it again. Oh yeah. I just said that. Happy Halloween.

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