Almost.

I don't know why I'm like this, mother never drank, father never hit me. They both had the jobs they've always wanted, maybe not so for mom, she was a chamberlain, dad, well he did get his dream job; to stay home all day drunk.

It's true, dad never hit me, he choked, strangled and wrangled my neck. Mom never drank, she injected heroin.

We lived in a mobile home; just like a snail. Breathing in cigarette smoke, car exhaust and yesterday's (or sometimes the day before that) rotting leftovers.

Let us describe us all physically; all 3 of us are scrawny twats; dad had a dead hamster of dirty white and blond dangling from his chin he calls a beard, mom was going from 32-B to 32-LONG; soon she'll be wearing socks instead of bras. And I was a walking lab skeleton wearing a skin jumpsuit.

This was all of us, dad, mom and I.

Inbred monstrosities contaminating with the filth of civilization. The rejects of the underpants of society.
It all begun when I turned 13, by then, mom left the house, dad was doing what he did best, sometimes it feels as if he's already dead. As for me, I had to choose another place to do the same; to follow in my father's footsteps.

I began to plot my death, by the time I reached 14, I had already left home; I became a long elephant searching for his own grave.

So there I was, stranded, strolling across the highway in ragged clothes; cold, hungry, thirsty and hopeless. This is the part I met my first chapter, Trejo.

Trejo was a trucker, and for almost a long while, he was my guardian; he clothed me, fed me, sheltered me, basically provided for me, and raped me.

I didn't care that he made me do weird things, took pictures of me and sodomised me.

Then one day, I couldn't pry open my ass crack, when I did, I saw that my shit had white gooey stuff in it. I went to the hospital and ended up having my intestines pumped from the kilogram of sperm in it.

This is where my second chapter begins; after Trejo was arrested and all, I went there on the high way again. Still cold, hungry, thirsty, hopeless and my ass hurt a lot.

A fucked up life rekindled.

Then came Denny, he was a broker. He was rich, good-looking and perhaps, the most unsuspecting psychopath ever.

He was the hobo killer the papers mentioned every 3 or 4 days. Nobody knows except for me and him.

I promised to serve under him provided he didn't kill me.

So here I am, 19, killing, raping and living life according to Denny's strict rules.

The two of us would go on for lifetimes just slaughtering people, but Denny could never deal with the stress, he never could deal with the killing.

He became impotent, I had to kill him, the legacy must go on; rape and murder.

One night, my bloodthirsty eyes danced across the solemn vicinity, a prey hunting for food. Of all my victims, and I don't know how many, I've only eaten one. But enough of that. I spotted a drunk, yum-yum.

I took my icepick out to bludgeon him with, just to see his brains ooze, just to see blood splattered.

I took my icepick out, awaiting the perfect time, fighting my anxiety, fighting delirium, controlling my breath.

I get sexually aroused whenever I kill a person, sometimes I return to the crime scene to masturbate while envisioning my murders, remembering the taste of blood.

This one motherfucker, however, screwed all that up. My beautiful plans, my work, my art, he was my canvas but he, he, that fucking piece of shit fucked everything up.

Why did he turn around, why the fuck did he turn around???

Why did I panic? If I had not, I could have killed him, but no.

I rushed off and tripped, the icepick got driven right up my left nostril so deep, I suffered severe brain hemorrhage.

So here I am, talking to myself, making friends with the voices in my head. Talking to familiar people I never knew. Trying to kill myself with a plastic spoon.