On Cutting

Well, tonight’s the first time in years that I’ve cut. I was never much of a cutter, to be honest. I’m really not sure what prompted it. But for whatever reason I decided to cut.

I knew I had these disposable razors. I figured there was some way to get to the individual razor blades. I was right. So I tore the razor apart, and pulled one blade off. And I started. I chose my leg because it’s much easier to hide legs than arms. I can wear pants all summer, but I can’t wear long sleeves all summer.

Since I’ve never really had a habit of cutting, especially with razors, I have no idea how the scarring/healing process works. It’s kind of unnerving. I’ve pretty much always used my nails or my earrings in the past. Earrings that you originally get your ears pierced with are fairly effective. And they leave scars that last awhile, but they don’t really leave scabs.

Well, shit. Now I have some stuff on my leg that I’m not sure I want. And I have no idea how long it’s going to last.

Fuck.

(Side note-I think it’s really pretty the way the blood blossoms up from the cuts. It’s like little beads. Yeah, I have issues. I’m aware.)

On Horror Movies

I find some fascinating, others I find terrifying, and I find many are just plain horrible.

The truly terrible movies are the slasher films. Sure, maybe some people get off on the random nudity paired with mass amounts of blood and meaningless murder, but I, on the other hand, have nightmares about it. No, seriously. I had nightmares after seeing Scary Movie. Stupid + meaningless = scary as s*** to me.

Without regard to my late night reaction to slasher films, I still find them terrible. The murderers have no pattern of victims, except that they are typically women. There’s no pattern in motivation. It’s not even based on opportunity. The utter lack of organization is what I find so unrealistic. Weirdly enough, that fact is the basis of my fear.

Very few non-horror movies have scared me like that. The most prominent one I can think of is The Dark Knight. It was fantastic and fascinating. The villain himself was interesting. However, his complete lack of pattern with regards to his crimes (which, as far as I can tell, is unusual in most criminals) is what frightened me the most. The idea that he could blow up a hospital simply because he felt like it for no apparent reason whatsoever…I couldn’t stop myself from continuously thinking about being in that situation.

On the other hand, I adore well-made movies that delve into the psyche of serial killers. Silence of the Lambs didn’t even give me nightmares. Well, I guess it helped that my friend who had read all the books explained to me the reason behind Hannibal’s murders.

I also loved Case 39 (I think that’s what it’s called; check Netflix). It was bizarre in a completely different way than Silence, but it was interesting. And there was a vague pattern.

So I guess my underlying fear is a lack of pattern. But I’m only human. Our thought processes are based on patterns and categorizing. When I can at least comprehend to a degree the thought pattern of a serial killer, I’m not scared. Actually, that’s probably the reason why I delve into researching any heinous murder/rape case I hear about. To understand it, so that I minimize my chances of being a victim.

I’m f***ing paranoid when it comes to rapists and murderers, and I’m quite sure that’s not a bad thing. Most will go after easy targets, and I make a point to not seem like one. When I would walk home from class in college, I always thought about how I could hurt someone who assaulted me. It always came down to hitting them as hard as I could using my bag with my laptop in it. I can’t live without my laptop. But I still was so paranoid that I planned to kill my laptop if it meant saving myself.

I guess what that really means is that I had thought about exactly how to f*** someone up using my resources at hand even though I had no particular indication that I needed to be concerned. So maybe I’m slightly paranoid, but certainly not unreasonably…right?

On Shot Glasses and Shoes

It was the end of summer. Fall classes hadn’t started yet, but almost everyone was back in town. I had moved into my new place with three of my best friends. I had turned 21 earlier that summer, and, as it turns out, I was entering into a couple very formative years. I spent most of it taking a couple classes, doing random art projects, and partying with new and old friends.

We went to a party that was about a two minute drive from our house that was hosted by some of my newer friends, but a lot of our friends were there. I brought some of my unbreakable shot glasses to the party so they had some extra supplies. At this time, I had a sort of crush on this guy. And I’d been going through a very impulsive period. I guess you could call it hypomania.

Anyway, they had a hot tub and a pool in their complex. So of course he and I, and a couple minutes later, some other guy decided to go hottubbing. And of course, I didn’t have a swimsuit. Second time that summer I went swimming in my bra and shorts after having a bit to drink.

Well, my roommates ‘lost’ me. They had no idea where I was. I hadn’t bothered mentioning to anyone where we were going. But they found me and brought me home.

The next day, it turns out I’d left my shot glasses and my shoes at their apartment. It took me quite some time to get them back.