Love in the Time of Serial Killers

by Alicia Thompson

Secrecy was a practical necessity if you had something to hide; politeness was social chloroform.

Lately it felt like my entire life was one big AITA thread and the answer was always yes, it’s me, I’m the asshole.

“Equating an occupation’s projected societal ethos with an individual’s personal morality is one reason why our police force is so fucked in this country.”

Sam looked like he gave great hugs, and I’d wanted one so bad. Disgusting.

He’d earned his moniker by mostly attacking women on their morning jogs—this, of course, being the reason why you’d never catch me pounding pavement, my earbuds blasting Paramore so loud I couldn’t hear the inevitable threat. Also, because jogging sucked.

Things got so much more complicated when you actually cared if someone sent you a text, or accepted an invitation, or wanted to hang out.

“Is this a satanic ritual?” Sam asked. “Because I like to be asked for affirmative consent before I participate in one of those.”

I didn’t want to have a fling with my neighbor. Just like I didn’t want a cat, I didn’t want to be friends with Alison again, I didn’t want to stay here any longer than I had to. It was exhausting, not wanting things.

I don’t regret giving you my heart, Phoebe. I just wish you’d taken more care with it.”

“I’m not afraid of that word anymore,” I said. “I’m still afraid of a lot of things, most of them very specific scenarios involving being taken to a second location. But I’m not afraid of this, of loving you or being loved by you.”