I’ve potentially done something very stupid.
It started when my cleaning lady and I were sorting books. I was going to take them to a second hand buyer, to see if I could scramble up some cash (spoiler: I did, and we now have actual food in the house because of it! Huzzah!).
While clearing one particular bag, I found my DVD of the first series of Dexter. To this day, I still can’t quite figure out why I bought that DVD. I think it was a moment of sheer cockiness. I mean, I can sit through a televised gastric bypass op without blinking. Surely this is a piece of piss?
I should probably mention that until yesterday, I hadn’t even removed the plastic from the box. So much for bravura.
Somewhere yesterday, between reading a huge chunk of “Join Me” and dinner, I bit through the bullet. With slight trepidation, I loaded up the DVD.
I am torn. On the one hand, it’s a fucking good show. And on the other hand, I will never get the image of Michael C. Hall garotting a choir master in the first scene out of my head for the rest of my days on Earth.
Here’s a little Boyd-tidbit you may not know. I am enormously interested in the human psyche. If it wasn’t for the potential emotional strain it would put on my life, I would have become a psychiatrist. I want to know why people do things. What motivates a person to walk through his or her life in a certain way?
And in that way, Dexter is a fascinating show to watch. Part of me is willing to sit it through just to figure out what drove Dexter to his one man vigilante against the scum of Miami. But the part of me that values the little sleep she gets really wants to not watch it anymore, just because Michael C. Hall plays Dexter so convincingly that he scares the living shit out of me.
It’s scary when something gets under your skin like that. It’s even scarier when someONE gets under your skin. When, without even realizing it, this person makes you scared and excited and haves you fascinated in a way you can’t quite understand. You are affected by this person in a way that you’ve never been affected by anyone before.
Just a thought I had.
In the end, my fears for a repeat of the 2004 Freddie/Jason tag team dream debacle did not come true. Mainly because I stayed up till six in the morning unloading to my mum about everything I was feeling. After that, it was pretty easy to fall asleep and not dream about finding the chopped up body of a prostitute in my swimming pool.
(author’s note: my hypothetical, non-existent swimming pool. In my imagination, it’s actually filled with cash. Or jello. Whichever one tickles my fancy. In this dream, I’m also an eccentric billionaire, by the way. One who cackles evilly, and has monkey butlers keeping her supplied with many many macarons. I also own the lost episodes of Doctor Who, and am married to Prince William, who likes giving in to my whimsical personality. Plus, he’s banging in bed. Either that, or I’m married to Will. I. Am, who sees through my tactics and provides me with tic-tacs “cos I’m fresh.”
I’ll get me coat.)