"I could tell you that I do this because I'm insane, because God is in my head, because I go about my business with a thousand avenging angels conducting a symphony of holy amorality, directing my every move. Because organized crime killed my father, raped my mother, and tortured my sister, and that they had all this coming to them. That I do this because I like it; because I like to kill, and that I'm no more alive than when I stand there looking down on them, willing the light to go out of their life, staring down at their eyes so that I can watch--so that I can feel them die. Because I revel in it. Because I’m lost. Because I wasn't breast-fed or because society wouldn't have me or that I was abused, scorned and hated. That life was cruel and God disowned me.

That I never watched a violent movie in my life and that my parents protected me and nurtured me too much, and when I saw
Bambi’s mom get murdered in cold blood, it unhinged my mind. That Disney walked away with my soul and that Michael Eisner isn’t a saint, he’s a killer and a creep and a CEO. That this was a freak occurrence. My chemical formation was flawed and God frowned on the day of my creation and low-and-behold, I’m missing an X chromosome and it turns out that I’m not quite real.

That I do it to die.  I throw myself at the jaws of death day in and day out in the hopes that he claims me and makes me whole and abolishes my sins in some darkly lit flash of white heat. Or I do it to understand death. Isn’t that what we all want? To understand death? To master our fear of that greatest unknown…To know if it’s hell we go to as our life is ripped away, or if it’s virgins and grapes and palm fronds on a fucking Sunday night at the Villa. That’s it—that quest for knowing what comes after: if anything comes after, that’s what must drive me. To know if the teasing trauma of our day to day lives has some payoff in the end—if the two hour commutes that end up back at some chemically browned wine-imbibing-Desperate Housewives-watching sorry excuse for a rent-a-mom that wishes she could make like a movie star—waste a paycheck on a bag of coke and shed some weight, but she doesn’t have the courage.

Some unfortunate, misguided quest to understand what lies at the end of our existence—that might be re-assuring to you, yes? To be able to blame it on a book taken too seriously, a delusional relative that commanded some fucked up kind of idol worship.
Better yet, blame it on some chemical imbalance that has twisted me, made me evil, destroyed my inherent love of life, whatever it may be—anything, ANYTHING that would make me fundamentally different from you. That would make what I do possible. Make it so that this is a direct result of me being insane or confused or infested. That you aren’t capable of this. That I am terrifyingly unusual; that I possess this ability to kill, to take life, not because I’m human but because I’m alien—different, strange, foreign—and that it’s the by-product of natural wrong. Fuck off philosophy. Fuck off your accusations. Your “know-how.” Your high and mighty. Your morals. Your fucking humanity.

Anything to qualify it—to make it an anomaly. An impossibility to you. To make me not be you.
Fuck. Off. I don't do it for anything. I do it because it's my job."