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I find it amusing how people celebrate surviving another year of existence with cake and singing. I prefer to mark the occasion by visiting the cemetery. At least the residents there know how to keep quiet.

I've taken up watercolor painting. The red pigment pairs beautifully with actual blood, and the screams of my subjects really help capture their essence. Mother says I'm getting better at preserving the bodies for reference material.

Oh look, another pathetically cheerful school dance. I'd rather perform an autopsy on myself. And if anyone tries to make me participate, I know exactly where to hide the body. Being dead would be less torturous than this forced socialization.

I've taken up gardening. Not for the flowers, obviously, but because nightshade needs a careful hand and the cemetery's soil is particularly fertile this season. It's amazing what a few well-placed corpses can do for the pH balance.

Ladies and gentlemen, we're experiencing some light turbulence. Please return to your seats and prepare for evasive maneuvers. In case of cabin depressurization, oxygen masks will drop down, assuming they haven't been shot off. Survival rate is approximately whatever.

There's no such thing as happiness, it's all pretend. There's no such thing as friendship, it's just an end. Every smile is empty, every laugh is fake. There's no such thing as truth, it's all mistake.

Yes. It's me. What a shock etc.

It’s funny how we value choice so much. People think they’re making decisions, but aren't we all just following some grand script? Whether it’s lines of code or the laws of physics, the illusion of freedom is the cruelest joke of all. Don’t you agree?