One time I wrote a 43,000 word novel (estimated, of course. but was at least that).

I have an excellent time and passion for killing and raping characters. I don't know what it is. The most innocent ones, too. It's not like, challenging issues to overcome approach and depart from a character and he/she walks a way a better person in a different universe, rather, challenging issues approach my characters (especially the good ones) then when the time is set, usually after friends become friends, I rape one and the other goes missing or dies.

And man do I love describing rape scenes. It's so bad, sometimes I stop so I don't get too overwhelmed afterwards. I don't know what it is, raping innocent characters is fucking fabulous. The only problem is, I can't just whip 'em out in the storyline whenever I want (even though I sometimes do and delete them later); the character has to be just right. He/She has to feel strongly about something or nothing at all to get raped. Otherwise my books would just be innocent people trying to find a way but instead get raped by the Man time and time again. That's tedious and insane. Shit is Stephen King crazy (that's not good).

Now here's the thing: I can't rape my victims like I used to. I can't just kill people anymore, I can't. I accidently deleted my book when my computer got a virus and I had to wipe it out. It blew directly into my idiocy line. I'll write about some self-respecting person with a cigarette and maybe a douche bag line here and there, but it never goes anywhere. I'm like a tease to a guy I know really needs some. And I've been pushing it so far, it's like I'm a tease staring at a massive boner and giggling out the door.

*teehehe*