"You're pissed at everyone because you're gay."
I have a complex relationship with Jeffrey Dahmer. I hold him personally responsible for robbing me of my best slut years. While the kids nowadays can go to any bar or club or theatre festival or grindr app to find a gorgeous guy in high-waisted jeans and metallic frames, I stayed locked inside my room throughout twenties – absolutely certain that any clandestine affair with even the most devastatingly handsome investment banker was going to end with me face-down stapled to the floor of some Tribeca loft. I’m getting ahead of myself.
True story. In the middle of Jeffrey's Korean phase, a lobotomized Gasian managed to escape the manse. Mute and naked, this poor kid came stumbling across a couple of Banjee girls on their way home from walking their little brothers to school. These girls were concerned. The cops were not. Refusing to get involved in another faggoty domestic dispute, they brought that Gasian right back to Jeffrey's house where he was promptly dismembered.
No good can come from it.