THE PSYCHOKILLER IN ME

I used to watch those kind of films labelled as physchothriller, or thriller, or serial killers films... those where there’s a muderer, a serial killer, who loves to kill young, blonde girls who stydy phylology at the University. There is also a policeman or detective or professor of criminololy from some University in North America who tries to catch him because the serial killer sends him encrypted signals, or leaves notes at the crime scene for the detective/policeman/professor to find him. I used to love also those films about people who are at the death row, waiting to be executed with a lethal inyection, and then there’s a journalist, a young lawyer or a nun who is forced to help him because nobody wants to do it, discovers that he (it’s always “he”) is innocent, tries to free him and has to act against the clock. Finally, he or she doesn’t achieve it and the innocent dies (yeah, some other times he’s not innocent).
Then, one fine day, I realised that my mind was being consumed by those films but it was to late for me... I couldn’t do anything to prevent me from my dramatic ending...
I started to think that I wanted to kill young, blonde girls who study biology at the University. First of all, I though for two whole days, 11 hours, 7 minutes and 39 seconds, what my hallmark would be. I decided I would force her to write the following sentence in her right leg: “a bloodthristy serial killer killed me, and it was fucking painful”. I’d take a scalpel and write the same sentence at her left leg. Then, I’d paint her toenails with a klein blue varnish. The next step would be to drive coloured knitting needles under her fingernails. And finally, I’d behead her with an axe.





As I was a young, blonde girl who studied biology at the University, I killed myself to start spectacularly my series of muders.



Yeah, it was pretty painful.