Next: The Weeknd crooning over fan edits of Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy.
Next: I think my fight or flight is malfunctioning.
Next: the way i would beg him to disrespect me.
Next: unhinged and unhinging me.
A screenshot of my For You could easily be inserted into the DSM-V. This s**t is diagnosable.
None of it is for me. Thanks but no thanks. I’m a reporter; I rip masks off for a living. That’s the whole job: Find the masked creep, figure out what they’re hiding, drag it into the light, and write it up in twelve-point Times New Roman so a million people can read it over their morning coffee.
The mystery isn’t the appeal for me. After what I went through five years ago—what my best friend Rae calls “The Year That Jillian Went Missing and Refuses to Explain”—neither is the fear factor.
