I can’t stop thinking about drinking blood. Call me depraved. Call me anything you want. Be
mean to me, even. I told the person fucking me last night that and she laughed. I want to live
inside her laugh forever. I want to be young and anemic and hysteric forever.
I want to stop thinking about drinking blood.

I don’t think other people think this much. I was doing lines of meth coke and the person giving
it to me asked me if my brain was always full. Isn’t yours? I said. No. It’s usually pretty empty.
I kept doing the meth coke. He told me he liked the short story I sent him. I had sent him a short
story about a guy jumping into an industrial meat grinder. It was the most beautiful thing I had
ever read. I don’t think most people would still talk to me if I sent them short stories like that, but
he does. At another party, we’ll do more meth coke and I’ll tell him how hard it is for me to
make friends. He looked at me with only pity. I don’t think we’re friends now.

How many girls did Elizabeth kill? I call her by her first name, like she’s my friend. Maybe she
is. Wikipedia tells me that she killed hundreds of girls. Maybe more. I love Wikipedia. Wikipedia
is my friend. Wikipedia tells me about serial killers and stalkers and reasons to lock my door at
night. Wikipedia tells me that if I keep checking my door to make sure it’s locked that it’s a
compulsion. Wikipedia tells me that normal people don’t spend this much time trying to figure
out what’s wrong with them. I hate Wikipedia. But I love serial killers. Not really. I just like
reading about them. I want to understand what would cause someone to hurt people like that. I
want to understand everything.

John Wayne Gacy. Jr, is my favorite serial killer. I think I understand him the best. And my
favorite Sufjan song is the John Wayne Gacy, Jr. one. I like to hum the melody at work while I
steam milk and queue espresso shots. I am afraid one day someone will find out that I am
humming the John Wayne Gacy, Jr. song and tell everyone I am a freak. I am afraid one day
everyone will find out I am a freak. I don’t think most people are this afraid.

I asked if you were afraid. I want to remember exactly what you said back. I close my eyes and
pinch my arm and I still can’t remember. I just remember how it felt when you told me. It felt
like meth coke. My friends ask me why I roam around you, like a sad dog that won’t run away
from the sick man who beats him. Because I like to be on your leash. Because we are the same
type of sick. I remember that, at least. The only difference is that your name isn’t on the collar. I
would wear a collar if you asked. I’d wear whatever you want, if you just asked.

I’d wear whatever. I hate having to pick out my own clothes. I just want someone to tell me what
to do. Is that freak shit? My friends and I went thrift shopping the other day, and I accidentally
let out some freak shit. I knew the moment I said it that it was freak shit. I can’t remember
anything anymore. I think alcohol is ruining my memory. I kept my eyes on the purple paisley
nightdress because I knew if I looked up I’d see how scared they were. I laughed it off and said
I’m just being dramatic. Sorry. I did not buy the nightdress.

This is not an apology. This is not a confession. This is not an essay. This is not a story. This is
not a letter. This is not a cry for help. This is a compulsion.

I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t, usually. If anything, people usually hurt me. I love it when
people hurt me. I deserve it. I text my friend that I know I don’t deserve it but it feels like it has
to be my fault if it keeps happening. He doesn’t respond. I tell the person I’m hooking up with,
when I’m drunk and can’t remember, that it’s my fault it keeps happening. He looks at me with
sad puppy eyes and tells me he doesn’t want to be a person who hurts me. I don’t know how to
respond. I don’t actually love it when people hurt me.

Everything hurts me all the time. I’m afraid I’m wasting my youth on pain. I’m afraid I’m going
to be sick forever. I’m afraid I’m wasting my youth on being a sick, sad dog. Someone please put
me down. I don’t want to think about drinking blood anymore. I don’t want to think about
anything anymore.