Let me make my whole M.O. extremely fucking clear.

I didn't really know any To Catch a Predator history, never watched an episode, etc.

When I tell you that I am locked in on my shit, understand this:

I LIVED in Denton, TX when that DA blew his head off because he knew he was about to get caught. I knew nothing about it. No memories at the time; no memories returning now that I know about it.

I was listening to Bitches Brew. I was discovering Shawn Lane. I was continually astonished at my daily discoveries that Catholic rules are fake. I was uncovering the horrible phenomenon of 19-year-olds who are in the dorm lobby all the time, playing Apples to Apples, having Cuddle Puddles, and among those truly cursed wretches, there was one guy who was like 23, wasn't in school, had a lip ring, looked like he should be in Alice in Chains, but nobody made him leave.

Later that school year I met a girl who was already a real professional model, and she made some reference to Model Mayhem, so I asked what that meant, and she said "Oh, Jesus," got out her laptop, and showed me the site. All the Cuddle Puddle lobby girls were also on there as "amateur/semi-amateur" "fetish models" "looking for industry experience."

Shoutout, Rhia. I'm not gonna throw your whole name on here, in case someone else knows you, but you seemed like the kind of person who'd be doing what you wanted at age 39, because you had your shit entirely together by 19. I'll never forget the day when I grasped the dimensions of your fluency in Tejano-specific slang, even though you are scientifically one of the whitest hoes in history: you listed all the ways you could call me a faggot, and how each was subtly shaded and poised. And then you called me one of them. I believe it was joto.

And To Be a Predator looked out the window, Jacked his fuckin' Skellington, and I didn't even HEAR, because I was the only place, doing the only thing –

I was IN THE TRENCHES, MOVING ONE DIRECTION: THE ONLY DIRECTION.