"I was at a party one evening, bored, with a few of my friends, or really acquaintances at the time. Shortly into being there I realized I just wanted to be at home. A girl there, she smiled at me, asked me if she's seen be before. It was a little sad, how willing she looked. She was the type of girl that was ready to do anything, with anyone that would let her. She looked sticky… physically. Like if I touched her arm, she'd stick to my fingers. It was strange. She looked like she wanted to be wanted. Wanted, to feel someone hold her, to touch her, she looked like she needed a hug, but she looked sticky, who would want to hug a sticky girl? Maybe that's what my problem was, maybe I looked sticky. Maybe I looked like something was the matter with me. I didn't know. I tried not to think about it much. It was just something that crossed my mind now and again. There were even times I would reach one of my hands to touch my other arm, just to see if I felt sticky to myself. It wasn't until way later on after that, a few months, that I realized what was actually wrong with me. "
"What was wrong with you?"
"I was a murderer."
"Surely that couldn't have been what was wrong with you."
"Well it was, I didn't know it at the time, I didn't even know me at the time, but I figured it out. And I think I speak for everyone when I say, I liked me better when no one knew I existed."
"You don't like the fame you're receiving for all of this? Some would say that you do."
"My whole entire life has been peeled open, my parents get no rest, my family is ashamed, and I am here, talking with you, not that you're not nice, but, I have just become two extremes. I went from non-existent, to infamous. I don't think that's how I wanted my life to go."
"Then why didn't you just stop?"
"That proved to be about as useful as telling the rain not to make the sidewalk wet."