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How strange. I've always found accounts of vicious serial killers -- and I say this without irony -- incredibly relaxing at bedtime. No matter how stressful or unrewarding my life might be at some given moment, I at least know I possess a fully functioning conscience. I might occasionally blast Venetian Snares or Brighter Death Now at work, but at least I've never had the irresistable urge to deflesh someone's skeleton and bake the remains on a cookie tray or keep a collection of severed heads in my fridge.
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