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"oh god, she's punctual."

prof. blind greets me between thumps of my pulse, and i try not to breathe too quickly. a hurried bike ride and steady climb of three flights of stairs is the price for that punctuality, and i know that i'll start sweating soon and reveal my true self, the out-of-shape procrastinator.

interesting topic. very interesting. needs focus. i still get an A- for the research proposal/outline, despite the fact that there is no..."/outline." he says that its obvious i've spent some time on it, unless he's been duped, and i wrote it the day of...well, does starting it at 11 the night before, finishing most of it at 2.30 am, and really finishing it off at 10 am count? i'm not to tell him, so i don't. i smile the good-little-student smile, why i never! smile.

why serial killers?

um.

i don't know. me likes the serial killers. they are fuh-nee. not funny ha-ha, but funny strange. but since they are so gosh darned smart, they have the propensity to be funny ha-ha. witty. handsome. cold. brutal. methodological. invisible.

repetition, perfectly executed, flawless, and predictable is boring. they get caught when they stray from their pattern. get sloppy. show their face and leave their dna.

so that's what i want to research. somfin' about those killers, somfin' about their heads, somfin' about psychoanalytic theory.

slick sons of bitches.

i get up to leave. the sweat has dampened my back and my crotch. i feel like i've peed myself.