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Killing makes me feel good.

Jeff Lindsay

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Jeff Lindsay
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: July 14
Novelist
Playwright
Writer
Miami
Florida
Jeffry P. Freundlich
Jeffry P. Lindsay
Feel
Feels
Good
Killing
Makes

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And as we should all know by now, anytime you predict failure you have an excellent chance of being right.
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Of course it was a terrible thing, and the world would be a much better place without someone in it who could do that, but did that mean we had to miss lunch?
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And once again I found myself wondering, as I drifted off to stunned and unbelieving sleep:How do these terrible things always happen to me?
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I nodded with genuine synthetic sympathy.
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They like to tell us that it is important to speak the truth, but it has been my experience that real happiness lies in having people tell you what you want to believe, usually not the same thing at all, and if you have to stub your toe on the truth later, so be it.
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I looked around the store and what I saw was not very encouraging. There were rows and rows of violent toys...aisle after aisle of training devices for recreational slaughter. No wonder our world was such a mean and violent place...if we teach children that killing is fun, can we really be surprised if now and then someone is smart enough to learn?
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This was just no fun. I wanted my brain back.
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Life's only obligation, afterall, was to be interesting.
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In its own way the kiss had been an act of murder.
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...being torn apart by far too many loyalties that could not possibly live together in the same brain.
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Our universe is ruled by random whim, inhabited by people who laugh at logic.
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She really did like me, the idiot.
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I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.
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What a terrible thing life can be.
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What to wear? I could think of no guidelines on what we were wearing this season to a party forced on you to celebrate an unwanted engagement that might turn into a violent confrontation with a vengeful maniac. Clearly brown shoes were out, but beyond that nothing really seemed de rigueur.
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I'm a very neat monster.
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Really now: If you can't get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?
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For the first time I could remember, I felt weak, woozy and stupid— like a human-being. Like a very small and helpless human-being.
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For my part, my interest in Paris had faded away completely long ago when I learned that it was in France.
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IN MY LIFELONG STUDY OF HUMAN BEINGS, I HAVE FOUND that no matter how hard they might try, they have found no way yet to prevent the arrival of Monday morning. And they do try, of course, but Monday always comes, and all the drones have to scuttle back to their dreary workaday lives of meaningless toil and suffering.
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