As a writer, I truly want to make sure I get my story straight, and that means – research! However, in my quest for correctness, I occasionally find myself chasing my tail, falling into the deep end, making a swift dive into the rabbit’s hole, yes you know the one. You’ve probably done it, too.
Research on ‘death by exsanguination’ leads to some article on ‘strange deaths around the world’ and from there you’re off on some trail about ‘women necrophiliacs.’ A sick twisted curiosity won’t let you stop reading, but then you hit the wall; the one built as a forum, replete with women discussing how it’s possible for women to be necrophiliacs, how it’s physically possible. Let me say now that I could live my whole life without this knowledge. Yet, the synaptic fibers burst into existence, forming the neural pathway that will forever hold this memory, probably into my years of senility so that one day my great-grandchildren will think I’m confessing to some sick past while dribbling soup from my toothless mouth onto my cotton nightshirt.
I just couldn’t stop reading it – disgusting, sick, and depraved. There is so little that shocks these days, but women admitting they could be sexually stimulated by a dead body just floored me. I’m not sure what’s worse, the fact that I kept reading it or that I ended up writing a flash piece about a female necrophiliac. Sometimes…I disgust myself.