First of all – you’re right, karma is a bitch. Despite the fact that 90% of the time I’m a bitch, too – that last post about that crazy serial killer fucked with my sleep for days (really just one) – which, for those of you that know my exhausting work schedule, can be extremely risky! It wasn’t that I wasn’t tired or anything – heavens knows working a 50 hour work week is draining as all get out, it was the dreams, or rather, the nightmares. Yes, you heard me. Looking back on that night, I’m pretty sure the P.D.R. would classify it as a night terror – let’s go with that.
Normally, being such a
good fucking amazing cold-case solver (currently writing to the L.A.P.D. about Biggie – wait for that one, readers . . .) things like Law & Order: SVU, Criminal Minds, a daily skimming of the CNN “Justice” section or “Deadly Women” on Discovery ID never affect me. However, something's different with that pesky “Grim Sleeper” – or whatever the fuck homeboy’s name is, alas, continuing on. Let's be honest, I didn’t really read the article in any depth or look at any of the pictures on CNN or Headline News of the G.S. and I guess my brilliant mind just was unable to put a name with that tackily clever moniker because the moment I fell asleep that evening, I had the worst possible dreams ever, ever, ever! And, to top it off, about Richard fucking Ramirez – the Nightstalker! What a jackass – ruining my 14 to 16 hours of refreshing shuteye. Damnit to hell!
Normally, being such a
Furthermore, who the fuck has night
mares terrors about serial killers? I immediately asked this exact question to several experts on the matter. Benson and Stabler got voicemails, and Ice-T was already on a case (natch). Thank God Agent Morgan and Dr. Spencer Reid had time for a nite-cap last night! Apparently, only serial killers dream about serial killers - well and people that blog right before an Ambien and bedtime. T-r-o-u-b-l-i-n-g. Just to clarify, and last time I checked (three seconds ago) I 've never tortured or killed any animals, don’t sneak around stealing ladies’ underpinnings (g-ross), don’t listen to shitty death metal (or whatever the fuck it’s called . . . ), don’t go by all three parts of my given name (let alone have any creepy aliases – or a cargo van, for that matter), nor do I live near any drainage ponds! And most importantly, I do not, and have never lived in California or Florida! I don’t get it. I guess it’s just my mind telling me to take a break from cases the fuzz has fucked. Ah, c’est la vie, I suppose.
So for now, with the exception of Biggie Smallz (R.I.P.) I’ve got to put my detecting activities on hold. I offer the sincerest of apologies to each of you, for I know that with my time off, the world is going to be even more treacherous. In my absence, however, I do offer you the resource below, in a strictly conciliatory manner. (And also a question of WTF happened to these Minnesotan prodigies?) Yes, you’re welcome in advance, for keeping you alive.