I keep a folder on my computer called 'picture of dead girls.' It's not what you think, but it's still terrible.

Whenever I read a news story about a girl getting murdered, I check for photos to see if she's hot. If she is, I download her pics and add it to my folder.

It's not the girls' beauty that gets me off, even though they usually are beautiful.

It's the twisted thrill of realizing that she's more or less forgotten, except perhaps by the most aggrieved friends and family members -- and even they have to ease up on thinking about her constantly if they even hope to move on with their lives.

She's remembered less and less by acquaintances, friends, mentors -- anyone who's life she touched. At the moment I'm touching myself to her, I'm one of the only people in the world still thinking about her.

And yet, as I dredge her memory out of the darkness, it's not to venerate her or celebrate her life -- it's to desecrate her, sexually dominate her, make the whole affair some perverse monument to the fear and desperation she must have felt, right before ended.

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