A “friend” of mine was so pitifully ordinary that he knew the only way he’d be remembered by humanity would be by murdering a vulnerable woman. He claimed he had eaten parts of the body, collected serial killer literature and wrote plenty of excruciatingly bad poetry. He still refuses to say where the rest of the remains are knowing full well that every anniversary the grieving family will be trotted out by the Echo to plead with him to release the information.
But why would he? Everyone would stop talking about him he did that.
(via Tim Ireland)
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