When life gives you a serial killer, make lemonade

There are days when I wonder if my parents were paying attention when I was a kid. I say this because I had the clear markers of a serial killer, but nobody ever seemed very concerned. Maybe they did notice, but when you have as many kids as they had, I suppose it's fair to expect that at least one of them will come out to be a lemon. They had clearly accepted that.

I just want to go ahead and point out that I haven't killed anybody yet. But I'm a ticking time bomb. 

When I was little, I systematically maimed and tortured flies, and then condemned them for being stupid. My mom would watch me through the screen door, and I think she probably thought it was funny, but that shit ain't right. She laughs a little too fucking hard when she mimics how I used to talk to the flies.

“Now see, that’s what you get when you don’t mind me”, I would whisper before taking another whack at my tiny incapacitated victims. "I bet next time you listen though", whack!  I could do this for hours. I single-handedly controlled the fly population in my neighborhood. That's why the DEET truck quit coming by. They sent out a flyer once saying, "Looks like that crazy little bitch on Walnut has this covered." I was a hero. By the time it was all said and done, I would be responsible for the deaths of thousands of flies, some still struggling to get the hell away from me. "Stupid ass", I'd whisper. Whack!

I don’t entirely recall why I did this, only that I did, and I enjoyed it deeply. I guess back in pre-Jeffrey Daumer 1978, this particular offense didn't present any red flags because I was free to continue my reign of terror on the daily, unencumbered by the laws of man or mom.

Brutalizing flies was just one of many fun hobbies I had. After all, I didn't have any friends so I had to find ways to keep myself busy. Most of my sisters and my brother were older and entirely too cool to hang out with their sociopathic little sibling.

One of the other ways I passed time was sit around and draw naked people. One page after another of naked people. Wieners and boobs, all day long. My mother was good enough to save some of these drawings for me. Special moments, you know. But again, no one seemed worried in the least, even when I would stand on a saw horse outside the bathroom window and watch people take pees. By the way, that saw horse would later become a special friend of mine, along with Robbie, my imaginary boy twin.

I had to create Robbie to have a friend, and it was also a way I could dress like a boy, since I fully believed God would turn me into one someday soon. But he never did, which only increased my anger toward the flies, and also snails. When my sister didn't have anything better to do, we'd collect snails, assemble them on the front porch, and then stomp the shit out of them. The crack and squish sounds they made were delightful, and when they'd try to get away, we'd just laugh and laugh because they were so slow. We'd even let them get to the edge of the porch, thinking they'd made it home free, only to pull the rug out from under them, which was very rewarding to the blossoming psychopath. Ah, good times.

OK, so my sister was a little off her rocker too. When I mentioned we should try to set fire to the bamboo field next door, she sure didn't attempt to be the voice of reason. "Okay. You go steal dad's matches and I'll be the lookout", she offered, always helpful. Did you know it's hard as hell to burn down a bamboo patch with the criminal skillset of a five year old? Our attempts were never successful, but we dreamed of being the great bamboo arsonists of the community, too clever for the authorities, who would sit around rubbing their foreheads wondering what masterminds had committed these crimes. We'd just kick back with our candy cigarettes and the clever smirks of badass ninja mother fuckers.

When I wasn't being a badass ninja mother fucker, I was peeing the bed. We all know what that means. Bed wetters later grow up to chop people into little pieces. I tried to shake it. I really did. But when you're having sweet dreams of death and destruction, who can be bothered with bodily functions? I don't know how my parents didn't give me away, but they hung in there and made the best of it. Maybe deep inside they knew I'd grow up to be famous. Perhaps not in the good way, but famous.

I'm sure, relatively speaking, my parents are delighted with the way I turned out. But it's not really because I ended up to be good. It's that I'd be a bad criminal. I couldn't even lift or drag a body if I had to and that's Serial Killer 101. That's why my husband feels safe around me, but does get a little concerned when I do push ups.

I don't even want to step on snails anymore because that's messy and they don't really have a fair shot. I like the hunt. So yes, I do still enjoy a good fly massacre, but I try not to talk to them anymore because I see now that people take notice of that shit, and I need to be a little more incognito.

But listen up. Just because it worked out for my parents doesn't mean shit about your crazy little kid. What if you daughter ends up with the upper body strength of a Yeti? Well then you're screwed. When your kid murders, exhibits multiple personalities, pees the bed, tries to set fires, and participates in voyeurism, you just shouldn't bank on the fact that it'll all work out in the end, because we see how that worked out for Daumer's parents. And nobody wants that kind of over-achiever in the family. The good news is, even if you do end up with a lemon, it's not too late for lemonade.