I have trust issues. That is, I don’t question people I trust. So if my best friend hands me a bomb, I’ll be all like, “Sure, yeah. I’ll hold on to this for you.”
Imaginary images conjured up by the Person in my head scare me greatly. So, I have great fear of flying snakes. And flying lizard tails.
I have a thing for charming BASKs – Badass Serial Killers.
I love sleeping. Apparently, I sleep even in my sleep. And then I sleep in my sleep sleep. It’s a sleep paradox.
And there is the dream paradox, where there is an earthquake in the dreams of my sleeps. But then I wake up, and realise that those earthquakes were actually mom snoring.
I despise cushy lovey-dovey stuff. But as I’m forbidden by the Person to kill anyone, I vent out my frustration in my stories. You’ll notice that whoever seems just a tiny bit happy, she/he/it gets blown up/chopped up/boiled/thrown off a cliff/chocked . . . You get the gist.
I have an urge to run away to the Himalayas to make my own cult. It involves frying one of your limbs for the initiation. What wants to join?
P.S. Hypothetically, if evidence against me killing people surfaces, this blog cannot be used against me. Reminding you again that this situation is a purely hypothetical.