In hot blood.

Reading books about murder, even crime in any sense, has always sort of freaked me out.

It's not that I'm afraid of being murdered – I actually think it'd be the best way to die.

But that's part of the problem. See, these murderers – these anti-social, these psychotic and these reasoned, malicious murderers – always remind me a little too much of myself. I can see a little too much of myself in them for my own comfort, and, all too likely, for the unsuspecting mass of strangers, who should prepare for their impending murder, bloody murder every time they pass me on the street.

Overreacting, you say? That's what paranoid, cluster-symptom schizophrenics do, when they're not busy bloodying themselves and others. According to the Merck Manual of Medical Information, which I unfortunately do not have with me, they 're often of above-average intelligence, and in their late teens and early twenties begin to manifest symptoms of malicious premeditation, say, of inviting people over for birthday cake laced with arsenic (or some yummier-tasting poison; I don't understand how you can "lace" something as bitterly obvious as death by arsenic).

In related news, I've decided that Vacation-Tessa needs to go on vacation. I've been seeing entirely too much of her lately: I sleep in, I never know what time it is, I'm chill – which is good – but unsettled and unsettling, which is bad. And messy and lazy and generally things that one shouldn't be allowed to get away with having lived somewhere for a month – a whole month! – now.

So, with one less of my multiple personalities cavorting in the limited real estate inside my brain, perhaps I'll be less inclined to randomly assasinate people and more inclined, I don't know, to work.

Meh.

Here's to murder month! (August).

Rocking: the hypothesist -- novillero.