Thursday, January 12, 2012

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Psychopath

Here's a little passage from my files. I wrote it when I was ten, in response to god-knows-what assignment. Probably something about a guy receiving a mysterious package, since that detail has nothing to do with anything else. All spelling/grammatical issues are courtesy of my young self, as is the question of how I wrote this without being institutionalized.

Lethal Injection

Once upon a time, there was a handsome college student, who one day, received a package. Inside was a six pack of hypodermic needles. He would have wondered what it was for, but he had more important things to worry about. His wife was acting weird. She was always receiving math papers, doing them, and mailing them out, along with valentines. This got the handsome college student so angry that he went to Little white cat’s highly addictive alcohol and asked for a bottle of the strongest licour he had. At home, he got his wife so drunk, that he could inject arsenic into her vains, killing her. Then dusted off his own fingerprints and put hers on it, so when the police came, they thout she had comitted suicide!

Fun anecdote: the most useful class I ever had in high school was Typing. That shit really stuck and has been a boon to me ever since. But it was kind of easy, really, and I would usually get done with the lessons far ahead of time--at which point I would be bored and start writing random idiotic little stories and other assorted gibberish. Anyway, one day I got called to the counselor's office. The counselor (Mr. Stackhouse, who was a pretty good guy as I recall; give him credit) kept asking me all these questions about how I was doing and how my life was and I really had no idea of what the deal was until he showed me the sheet of paper that I'd done the previous day's typing exercise on (we were using electric typewriters), on which I had written, among other things, "life is meaningless," which is no doubt how I felt as I waited for that damned bell to ring. Fair enough; I probably would have reported such a thing to the counselor too. I suppose the above isn't as obvious a cry for help as this was, but still. It 's certainly something. You wonder what sort of themes Dexter Morgan wrote when he was small.


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