XIV

A quick moment to welcome the newest addition to a growing contingent of bodily glitches: my left wrist. Motherfucker. Whatever. If it expects to be accommodated, it’s mistaken. I call the shots and if I tell it to pick up that dumbbell—it’s going to pick up that fucking dumbbell. I don’t care how much it protests. I’m done letting things get in the way of what I want, whether it be bodily hiccups, or lack of relative work experience, or ogre-looking motherfuckers on Facebook. If I ever see that man in person, I won’t even bother balling up my fist—I’ma slap the taste out his mouth. And it’ll be solely for me, for being a goddamn pest and annoying me. What do you do when you see a roach? Ok.

Moving on. The Stranger Beside Me. Amazing read. It’s a chunky little fucker—over 600 pages—but fascinating. The definitive story of Ted Bundy told by Ann Rule, a true crime writer who wrote books and hundreds of articles, and just so happened to be Ted’s personal friend. They were coworkers at a suicide hotline in 1972. Isn’t it interesting that Bundy actually saved lives, too? Ann was working on a book about an active investigation into mysterious disappearances around Seattle—never knowing that she worked with the killer the whole time! It’s a real life movie plot. While Ted was in prison, and throughout his trials, they maintained correspondence. She was torn between believing he wasn’t capable of serial murder and suspecting him, given the odd coincidences and circumstantial evidence. I’m on a tear right now reading the book, and watching interviews, and listening to hours’ worth of taped confessions. It’s what I do when I get into something I find interesting—I become obsessed and research as much as I can for weeks.