I don’t want to talk about it. I know you are curious by the gleam in your eye anticipating gory details. Your look makes my stomach churn. You don’t care about me. You just want a gruesome tale to relate to friends and relatives. Most likely in your retelling, you will pretend we are friends. To set the record straight, we are acquaintances – at best. It’s as if making yourself closer to a murder makes you more real, more interesting, more human. It does not. It makes you prying and insensitive. We are a very sick society. I refuse to spread the disease. Go prey upon someone else’s tragedy.