I Think There’s Something Wrong With Me

Really. I mean it. I really think there’s something wrong with me.

I see people writing about the nicest things, telling the sweetest, most compelling stories. And then I realize that I only want to write things that are twisted and strange.

Someone writes about a love relationship. I want to write about a love relationship that ends with a body and a bloody butcher’s knife.

Another writes about a placid pond in an idyllic setting. I want there to be a vile creature just under the surface, waiting to suck the innocent into the murky depths.

Where one person sees angels and fairies, I see vampires and werewolves.

I married my high school sweetheart. During those school years, I forgot to give her a card celebrating the anniversary of our steadiness, but I remembered to get her a card for Halloween. Surely she knew what she was getting into when she married me.

The weird thing (among all the others) is that I’m also a religious person. I believe in things redeeming and hopeful. But there’s still this dark side . . .

Yes, there’s probably something wrong with me. But I’ve got this new idea for a story . . .