Serial Murder Syndrome

The day I turned gay, and became a serial killer

Just last week I was reading a copy of a woman’s magazine and I’m pretty sure I don’t have the abola virus. To my knowledge my organs haven’t liquified and come hurtling out my arse at a rate of knots. In fact it was fallout from the latest night out.

We all do it, we read about some in-vogue disease and develop the symptoms mid-article. I’ve caught Tourette’s from from motherf*cking, dickphantic, nostil shagging brother.

Investing just 15 minutes to this one magazine I self-diagnosed measles, irritable bowel syndrome and the plague. Only 45 rational minutes passed before I was cured and realised that the last hour could really have been better spent.

It is testament to the insecurity of mankind that we rely on womankind’s base literature to enforce or nonsense our physical well-being. Every time I have a rash or a build up of dry, enlarged pores I get a glass and check for meningitis. Silly isn’t it.

Maybe I am the most insecure impressionable person around, but don’t these apprehensions we speak of relate to other zones in life no? I refer again to this same drab literature, the kind that rests on the table in the dentist’s waiting room.

At the feature section I read about a man married 34 years before realising he was gay and running away with a neighbour. As I read the article I became more and more convinced I too was gay and that his personality mirrored mine.

Sentences like: “he always loved cushions…I should have known”. I like cushions.

“He was great in the kitchen and always did the clearing up”… I’m great in the kitchen, and the bathroom, and the landing. And I don’t like mess.

“Sex was never a big part of our relationship”. Call me the slug.

By the end of this drivel I was not only infected with everything from arthritis to zoophelia but was gay into the bargain. That’s all I need when I’m soon to have an older man in my mouth.

Oh but the main point of this waste of valuable porn time was to tell you about the night I became a serial killer.

I came in from work late one Tuesday night fed up, cold and wet. My desire to be satisfied by garbage TV fulfilled with aplomb by an exciting episode of The FBI Files .