"I'm engaged to a Serial Killer" or "Cleaning Day with Amanda"

When I was in high school we had yearly student planners and while I did use them as planners I also used them as diaries/doodle pads/swear word generators/incriminating evidence lockers. By this I mean I filled my student planners with things that expressed my really exacerbated teenage angst. To add to the gore (both written and drawn) I was going through a marvelous serial killer phase at the time. My choice books were the A-Z serial killer reference books as well as detailed accounts of Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy. So of course my quotes and doodles were almost always grotesque. 

Tonight, while cleaning out the Bowie room (our library/spare bedroom) I decided it was time to get rid of these old student planners that I've been carting around with me all this time. But first I needed to flip through them to see who I was and reflect on who I've become. With Hannah beside me I thumbed through my high school year. All the calendar days were marked off so violently that the exes and scribbles left indents in about five of the following pages. At the beginning of each mother there was a doodle depicting something being eaten, vivisected, or exuding some sort of mucous. I drew guillotines and warped mermaid-centaurs, I wrote sonnets of nothing but four letter words worthy of a Quentin Tarantino film, I stuck several pages together with gum chewed by my classmates, and used red pen to make almost everything bleed.

As I went through these planners, marveling and giggling at how "fucked up" I was, Hannah's expression turned from concern to actual unease. She looked a bit shaken. "You're a fucking serial killer," she said and I assured her I wasn't. I told that these journals were from a time when I was dealing with teenage drama and suffering from a lack of proper medication. "But look how far I've come from that time," I told her. "Not that far," was her response. In my desperation to prove to her that I wasn't really that bad back then, I picked up a notebook from late high school/early college and scanned the fading pencil marks. "Hmm, let's see," I said and then, "Oh! That's right, these are the notes for my serial killer screenplay." At this point Hannah fled the room. 

I cornered her in the bedroom. "Hannah, you're still going to marry me though, right?" Because that's not a creepy thing to say to a woman who thinks you're a psychopath. "Amanda," she said, "I'm not sure I even want to sleep in the same bed as you!" Me: "But I swear I've never killed anyone!" Hannah: "Yet!" The moral of this story, wait the full ten years before you show your mate how truly fucked up you are; nine years is still too soon. 

I'm happy report we're sleeping in the same bed. The old student planners are gone now (or at least in the trash waiting removal) but I figure the trauma they've caused will last for a long time. Chaos, panic, and suspicion that one's mate might be a serial killer.... my work here is done. Excuse me as I giggle myself to sleep.