What I thought to be hella sweet was when Alli and Dominique thought of me when they found a book about psychopaths at Barnes & Noble.  They lovies me even when I talk about my favorite serial killers. Some favorites:

• Albert Fish
  The man of which the "Boogeyman" was based off of.  In my honest opinion, shit was fucked up.  Parental units used a serial killer in order to scare their children from being potentially "bad."  Anywho, Albert Fish was a sadist, paedophile, child molestor, and cannibal.  Notoriously known for eating children.  He had a grandfather-esque vibe to him which he used to his advantage to lure in children.  Not only did he eat and molest his victims, he then sent a few letters to the parents of the children, telling them how good their son or daughter was.
• Jeffrey Dahmer
  Om nom nom!  Disturbingly referenced in the movie, The Ringer, Jeffrey Dahmer too was a cannibal, child molestor and sadist, what makes him different though is his taste in sexual partners.  His sexual demographic leaned towards more to the dead, making him a necrophiliac.  He tended to dismember his victims and keep souvenirs such as skulls or what not.  Ate bodies as well.  Has a known body count of 17.
• Ed Gein
  A classic.   The movies, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Silence of the Lambs and various other movies are based off of him.  He skinned off the faces of his victims and wore them as masks.  Also in his possession was nine vulvas in a shoe fucking box, a couple of heads and various other body parts.  He loved his mum so.  After his mum's death, he would dig up women's graves who resembled his mother.  He then would take the bodies home, tan them, and keep them.  

Top three favorites.  What I found to be interesting was a list that generalized the characteristics of a potential serial killers.

1. The majority are single, white males.
2. They are often intelligent, with IQs in the "above normal" range.
3. Despite their high IQs, they have trouble holding down jobs, and often work menial jobs.
4. They tend to come from unstable families.
5. As children, they are typically abandoned by their fathers and raised by domineering mothers.
6. Their families often have criminal, psychiatric and alcoholic histories.
7. They were often abused — emotionally, physically and/or sexually — by a family member.
8. They have high rates of suicide attempts.
9. From an early age, many are intensely interested in voyeurism, fetishism, and sadomasochistic pornography.
10. More than 60 percent wet their beds beyond the age of 12.
11. Many are fascinated with fire starting.
12. They are involved in sadistic activity or torturing small animals.

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"I can help you. Pornography. Kiddy porn, I can get you kiddy porn."
~ Dennis Ferguson to police.

Dennis Raymond Ferguson is an Australian convicted paedophile. In 1988, he kidnapped and sexually abused three children, and was sentenced to 14 years' imprisonment. Ferguson was forced on numerous occasions to relocate his residence from various locations around Australia, due to public hostility and news media attention.

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Have you ever had that feeling where you feel as though someone is still stuck inside you?  Remnants of their saliva and their being are being embedded to the farthest corners of your stomach.  No matter what you do you can’t get rid of that sharp, sweet taste.  Trying to induce vomiting but all you’re left with is tainted bitterness wishing you hadn’t in the first place.  Then you sort of miss them being inside because you realize how alone you are.  From there you go on this rigorous journey to fill that void with anything you put your greasy hands on.  For example, the closest person within arms length.  You know you two aren’t compatible but you force them inside of you regardless.  Kind of like forcing a puzzle piece into a mold it doesn’t belong.  Thus causing pains that could have been avoided in the first place.  From the inside they hurt you, and from being inside of you the acid surrounds them, and you hurt them.  Or it could be mindless entertainment.  Movies, television sets and video games to stop yourself from thinking, forgetting you even had the void to begin to with.  But each time you feel the corners of your stomach aching, wanting something then you remember that dark abyss you tried to forget.  Entertainment only lasts for so long.  Or maybe perhaps it’s the substance abuse.  For a few hours you can live with your void in peace, accepting it’s existence and believing that you don’t even mind it’s there in the first place.  But as you know, we all come down and the barrier you were held in falls, but doesn’t always shatter, but falls into the places reality holds them.
All of this because you let someone inside for the first time.  Before you were hurt, or knew how to hurt someone else.  When times were innocent and sweet.  Even as much as the void burns, it reminds you that you are alive.  And that you are looking.  Looking and thriving for completeness that could either be in your back pocket but cease to take it out, between the legs of a whore, or perhaps in the twinkle of someone else’s eyes.

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I suppose it’s the way I spend my showers. The way my showers turn into baths. I yearn for something warm to envelop every crevice of my body, a sense of security. All the while I dunk my head low enough to stop all sound from coming in, only the roaring pulses of blood making its way through my veins. But high enough to have clear view of my obscure ceiling. It’s not flat nor simple, but an array of cracks and crooked lines that dance across the surface with such grace of that of a ballerina. I speculate what these cracks should become if it had life. Lives unfold before my eyes and scenes so spectacular I almost lose myself for a minute. For a minute so divine.
Instead, reality taps my shoulder and incessantly reminds me that he’s still here. As much as I love him, time apart is so clean and renewing. But he doesn’t mind. He supports my journey through the unknown and the imaginative.
Fantasy is ever so fleeting, alluding my grasp on her. So beautiful and cruel yet twisted and kind. She fits in the palm of my hand, molding herself to the outlines of my interests. But like all, she expects freedom and whisks away back into the depths of the exotic.
As I feel disappoint rush in, reality holds my hand to remind me that he will always be here for me.  Always.

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I feel as though I'm malleable.  A hard piece of metal being shaped into the most pleasurable form.  Someone whom I'm affiliated with made a comment that I tend to change who I am depending on my environment.  My first initial reaction was that I was very offended.  Haven't the slightest idea as to why.  As I began to contemplate my feelings on this subject, I realized that the comment offended me because it felt as if I wasn't being true to myself.  I can spurt some random bullshit like people tend to adapt to their atmosphere in order to survive.  Honestly though, that isn't the case.  It won't ever be.  But I'm still discovering myself.  I'm glad that I can take up so many forms.  Each bend and break, sliver of metal that takes my grace, I am kind.

Currently Torrenting: Saw (2004)

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Hm.  Not necessarily what I expected, but I guess that's how it is.  Muy disappointed.

"You cannot play God then wash your hands of the things that you've created. Sooner or later, the day comes when you can't hide from the things that you've done anymore."
~ William Adama, Battlestar Galactica

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Moved off from one place to another, in hopes of finding some kind of fucking "comfortability." Not a word, totally aware. Or in the words of another, "totes" aware. If it is, then brownie points for me. Anyways, blogging in several different places kind of makes me feel out of the place, same way with moving. Having to rebuild, recruit, and reconquer shit that I've already done one too many times. Started first blogging around... Let's say 2004/5? Fourth, fifth grade, mind you. Line of blogs starts with Xanga, moves onto LiveJournal, then to Tumblr, (not so sure Tumblr counts due to the constant reblogging which equals =/= OC), and now wonderful blogspot. Harharharharhahraraa.

I wish I could say something more than just this once more heard incoherent babbles that could be lumped in the rest of the pile of self-absorbed blogs. But in reality, I just don't see how that's feasible. I take a blog like this in order to help organize thoughts and express myself in order to amuse myself. I write when I cry, when I'm and mad rarely when I'm happy. However, I'll try to keep this as active as possible without giving away too much, impossible, I know. Blogs like this, which I know can fit into some sort of category, I believe help one to find oneself. Or something along the lines of that.

Will continue or edit this excuse for a post later because I am off to watch Battlestar Galactica. Shit better be cash or sadface will ensue. Took about a week, mas or menos, just to torrent 61gigs of the first four seasons in 720p. Herp a derp.

Also, currently torrenting: Serenity (2005), (500) Days of Summer (2009).
SHIT IS REAL, BROSKI. No. Kinda. Maybe.

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A new beginning, a fresh new start.  Kind of like a new secret that you'd like to tell everyone, but you bask in its divinity.  I suppose this is how this is going to be.  A secret.  No boundaries or any of that nonsensical bullshit.  Or walls I have to put up.

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let me be yr personal jesus.
lauren ann, ♥, insubordinate.

仲良し(*`∀`)／♡＼(･∀･*)だよ

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