Dear diary,
My teen angst bullshit now has a body count. I've wrote a song about killing people. I've been in the news about killing people.
I think it's seven... going on eight. There are people, lying in a pool of their own blood.
Eyes gouged out... some of them... by the works of my thumbs.
Others, have a bullet through the throat. One jock I killed by shooting his shoulder and then in the ear.
Why? I'm young. Bored.
People are going to look at this and blame the films I've seen, the music I listen to. A Clockwork Orange, Heathers, and Psycho are fiction, I'm sure. I can tell the difference. If I had followed them, I would have a pretty girl trying to murder me by my side.
I'm a little callous, I know, but hey. I got time.
Hiding in the shadows, strangling people and dumping them in my car. Driving to the lake.
It's a neat thing, you gotta say.
Anyway, must go.
Some guy from the BBC is keeping his eye on my house. I'll make sure that I get the other one.
