Maz Reviews Being Hypnotized

It took me an inordinate amount of time to stop believing in magic. Unlike most children who find out that Santa and the Easter Bunny are not real and come over to the side of rationality and logic, I loitered on the side of the mystical for an extended period of time. And by “extended period of time” I mean that I was doing magic spells well into my 20s. I would collect rose petals and write incantations on blue lined paper and place them in envelopes in graveyards. I would stand in the dark in my bedroom on the Friday night of a full moon and glance over my shoulder hoping to see the reflection of my future husband standing behind me. I watched The Craft at least three times. I even spelt magick with a ‘k’ at the end. I was a total, full-blown witch guys! I even did a spell on Nick to make him like me when he didn’t seem that interested and would just sit and watch the cricket when we started going out. We’ve been married two years though, so no one can say for sure that that one was a bust.

I know this seems like an odd confession and recounting it makes it sound even more ridiculous than it was, but perhaps it goes some way to explaining why I consented to be hypnotized at work one morning. (I mean, it was probably 30% my search for the fantastical and 70% the possibility of a completely legitimate reason to take the morning off work.) Working at a television network means I receive strange all-staff emails most days of the week. These emails often include requests like “Does anyone have a bale of hay that we could use in a story?” “Is anyone allergic to bees and wanting to talk about it on the 6’o’clock news?” So it wasn’t that strange when the email went around asking “Is anyone interested in being hypnotized live on air today?” Of course I responded immediately with a hearty “Yes PLEASE!”

Five minutes later and I was in a conference room with six other diligent employees waiting to meet the famed Peter Powers (surely this isn’t his original name, but a thorough google refused to reveal anything other than this weird fansite). I had to admit I was a little nervous. I’d always wanted to know what it was like to be hypnotized. If it was really a thing, why weren’t hypnotists the rulers of the entire world? Why instead, did they mostly perform this wondrous feat on cruise ships and at RSLs in Rooty Hill to drunken 70 year olds for $15 a pop? Mr. Powers finally arrived and I knew, by the end of the morning, I would have the answers to all these questions.

First things first, he made sure that we were hypnotizable. Apparently, not everyone is prone to being hypnotized. Lucky for me I am incredibly gullible and willing to be hypnotized which are the only qualities you need to succumb to the old “you are getting very sleeeepy”. After the first test (imagining our hands were held together by glue and then trying to separate them) I was top of the class with the stickiest of hands that refused to part. I also breezed through the next test (imagining one arm was tied to a bucket of sand and the other to a balloon) and made it into the group who would be making their television debut shortly.

Peter kept us in the room for the next 45 minutes taking us deeper and deeper into a hypnotic state with his dulcet tones and lots of finger snapping. He never stopped speaking the entire time he was with us. He told us to imagine we were melting into the carpet, then to point out any flaws in his appearance. I told him his teeth were crooked and that he had quite a nose on him and then laughed hysterically. There was lots of tapping on the head and being told to “sleep!” Eventually it was time to wander in an orderly line over to the studio. Now this is the part where I find hypnosis to be the most legit – I’m pretty sure that I would usually be nervous going on live television on a day when I hadn’t washed my hair. This particular morning however, I was completely cool with it. Although, it also helped that for the duration of the time that we were waiting to go on set we got to nap on a couch.

Finally we were led on stage, sat in stools and then tasked with doing a bunch of crap; acting like we were petulant children, protecting the Prime Minister from an assassination attempt, you know, the usual. You can watch every moment of my phantasmagorical experience here (note the 4 minute mark where I nail David Campbell with a cushion.)

It was an enjoyable experience where I felt totally relaxed and had no qualms about doing whatever I was told. The question remains though, does hypnosis really work and was I really hypnotized? And here’s the upshot of it; I’m not so sure it’s a real thing as much as it’s an excuse to act like a dick. It’s the sober version of “sorry I peed on your front lawn, I was drunk.” People always ask me if I was aware of what was happening and the answer is yes, I was. I had a complete grasp of everything that was going on around me. I remember every second of it and did nothing against my will. The only difference between being in a trance and normal life was that I didn’t care if I looked like an idiot. I just felt a sort of happy obligation to do whatever Peter told me to do. But to this day I’m unsure whether or not this was because I didn’t want to make him look like a fool on the tele or if I just love an excuse to be a trick monkey. I guess we’ll never know. I never felt any after effects of the hypnosis, Peter de-hypnotized us after the segment ended and sent us on our way. I went back to the office and acted sluggish all day and everyone was fine with it because I’d just come out of a trance. As an experience I give it an 8/10.

And don’t forget, if any of you wants help with some incantations or magick spells; feel free to hit me up. Please be aware that I will charge you and results are definitely not guaranteed. Also, you’ll have to bring your own map of the world, black candle and strange personal item pilfered from the person you’re interested in bewitching.  

The Day Taylor Hanson Finally Got To Meet Me

Taylor Hanson was the first person I ever imagined having sex with. Before Taylor, my fantasies about boys (captain planet and the red power ranger in particular) encompassed them being injured in some way and me taking care of them. In my weird little daydreams I would make them soup and serve it to them in the single bed where they lay in the spare room of my house. But the ultra-effeminate Taylor Hanson changed all that. He was the perfect pre-teen crush. His girliness was non-threatening and it didn’t hurt at all that he sang stirring songs about girls whose names sounded similar to mine (hello Madeleine!). You could close your eyes when listening to that breathy voice of his and imagine those songs were about you. And I never quite got over him.

So you can imagine my excitement when a month ago I was awakened by a text from my parents that read:

Hi Marion. Dad says “down with Bruce, Hanson forever”.

It turns out, Hanson were going to be playing live in the studio AT MY PLACE OF WORK. Bless my mum and dad, they know how excited I get about Hanson and thoroughly encourage me. I think I actually heard tears in my mum’s voice when I called her to tell her about the Hanson experience which ensued.

When I arrived at work the following week, I had a skip in my step. Other people were excited that Hanson were going to be in the studio, but they were excited about seeing a band they perceived to be one hit wonders from 1997. I was Maz seeing the first boy she ever loved excited. I was frothing with excitement. I was over the moon. I ripped my closet apart. I washed my hair and agonized over the flyaways that wouldn’t lie flat. I couldn’t eat my dinner. I felt weepy. I woke up at five and lay in the dark, rehearsing what I was going to say. I wanted them to know that I was a long time fan, but not a weird obsessed fan. I had devised a series of witty, yet endearing stories, which would demonstrate both my charm and sense of humour. Stories that would resonate with them to the point where they would undoubtedly ask me about where they should go out tonight and would I care to join them. Taylor would realize that we actually belonged together and beg me to leave Nick for him. I would decline but not before we shared a lingering kiss.

To be honest the only story I had come up with was that someone stole one of my Hanson CDs from my car once. But I was sure I could spin it somehow.

Finally the moment arrived, and at 7.30am on a Friday morning I went down the rabbit hole – also known as the little side door of studio 22. And there he stood. Shrouded in a halo of light, his perfectly quaffed hair framing that divine face, just as I’d seen in so many adolescent daydreams. There were other people around, but all I could see was him and me, forever and forever. By the time the first notes of Mmmbop washed over me, I was in a state of what can only be described as mild hysteria. My chin was quivering as I sang along and did my best not to cry. And when the song drew to a close and the show cut to an ad break, it became apparent that this could well be the moment I had waited for all these years. It was zero hour. Taylor time.

After a few awkward, shuffling moments of lurking and loitering at an uncomfortably close distance he turned in my direction. I requested a photo. He introduced himself and I ignored him, forgetting to tell him my name. All intriguing and titillating stories left me and I was a simpering mess.

“I’m coming to see you tonight” I said twice. And then oh god oh GOD, he had his arm around me as we took a picture.

“I’ll see you tonight then” he told me, and strode off.

Taylor Hanson touching me

And that was it for me. I dissolved. I had to leave the studio post haste to cry in the car park. Wracked with sobs I ran into one of the children from the Voice Kids. For some reason he thought I was super excited to see him and wrapped his pudgy little arms around me. I brushed him off; horrified that someone could ruin the fact that the last person with his arms around me was Taylor Hanson.  But I had to suck it up, because they were playing another song in two minutes, and I’d be damned if I was going to miss an opportunity to stand in the front row of my own private Hanson concert and pretend Taylor was singing and banging that tambourine just for me. I scuttled back into the dark, wiping the joyous tears from my eyes.

After a stirring rendition of Get The Girl Back (I was the only person in the studio who knew all the words, other than my boy Tay) more photo opportunities arose. So again, I approached the holy trinity. This time Isaac introduced himself to me and shook my hand. And again, I forgot what my name was because his hands were SO SOFT! However, I did have my wits about me enough to tell him

“You are my husband’s favourite Hanson brother. Whenever your parts come on in the car, he always says ‘sing it Isaac’ hehe”

Isaac looked at me, nodded and responded “ok”. We took a photo and I walked away satisfied, knowing I had to leave the studio before I ruined this perfect moment. I didn’t quite pull off the mystique I had been aiming for, but fuck it, Taylor had put his arm around me and he’d smelt even better than I’d always imagined.

A very flattering photo of me in a Hanson sandwich

The rest of the day people were laughing about the queue of girls who had lined up outside the studio hoping to get a glimpse of Hanson.

“As if we’d let those crazy obsessed girls in!” someone proclaimed.

Little did they know, one had slipped through the net.

Don't Drink and Drive. But Also, Don't Get High and Dye.

I love making new friends. It’s great to expand your network, hear some new points of view, but MOSTLY because then I can tell them all my old stories and they will laugh at them like they are new. So I made a new friend recently, let’s call her J for sake of ease. Cue all my worn out anecdotes and pre-used puns. And then I remembered an extra reason why I like new friends - their hilarious anecdotes. So J arrived in Sydney (after living on the Gold Coast for her whole life) and immediately met up with some friends-of-friends to experience Sydney’s world-renowned nightlife (lol jokes). 

Not long into the outing one of her new friends enquired “Do you want to get a cab? I’ll need $40 if you do.” 

“Of course!” J responded. 

“How else would we get to the city?" She pondered. "And how expensive are taxis here?!”

Little did J know, what she’d actually been asked was “Do you want to get some caps?”

Caps, mum, (and everyone else who is as naive as little J), are a drug. I think they are like ecstasy. But I don’t know because I haven’t done them... No one has ever offered them to me - just another sad reminder that I’m getting older.

Upon arrival at the club J hopped out of the cab (undoubtedly, ironically, alongside friends who thought she was a tight ass for not putting money in to pay for the transportation) and once inside at the bar was handed the drugs she had agreed to buy. She feigned excitement, poured them into her drink and promptly visited the bathroom to flush them away. I know - what a waste of good money (and good drugs)!

Anyway, this all got me thinking about the time I was given some drugs by a friend. But was apparently not as savvy as J because I ingested them and consequently had a very weird day at university.

Rewind six years and you would find a very different version of Maz. I was 19, plagued by the requisite boy and family dramas that come with being teenager in their second year at uni. I would trudge into class every morning, sullen and dressed in oversized clothes. I felt this way I looked smaller and more vulnerable, therefore people would pity me more. What an attention seeker. Apparently I was successful though, because a good friend recognised I was going through a bit of a rough patch and brought me a gift. One juicy, plump brownie in a plastic takeaway container. 

He placed it on my desk and winked at me. Retrospectively, it was pretty damn obvious what was in it (marijuana, mum). At the time I apparently didn’t realise and promptly consumed it in its entirety. Five minutes later my friend swiveled in his chair and gasped 

“You didn’t eat that whole thing, did you?” 

“Um... yeah?” I replied.

Half an hour later, I was off my nut. I sat in my chair, knowing I had to go to the bathroom but completely unsure whether or not I was supposed to ask permission. Keep in mind that I was sitting in a lecture. That was completely full. I sat there debating whether or not to raise my hand and ask permission to pee. After about fifteen minutes I figured out that I was allowed to take myself off to the bathroom without approval (thank god), and left. 

A very long confused wander around the halls of university later, I decided it would probably be best to go home. I managed to locate my car and drove at about 30kms/hr back to Hornsby, where I parked at the shopping centre. But my adventure didn’t end there sober reader. How I wish it had.

For some reason I felt that a total makeover was in order. I purchased a new dress, after a very garbled conversation with a bewildered shop assistant, and decided that the next logical step would be to go to the hairdresser and get them to colour my hair. I opted for a very blonde blonde and settled in in the chair. Two hours later I was sober and had the most hideously brassy hair money could buy. I went home out of pocket $200, but having learnt an invaluable lesson - all my life I’d thought it was don’t take candy from strangers, turns out you’re not supposed to take candy from friends. No candy from friends. Got it.

People Who Wear Crocs Are Not Your Friends

Last week’s story about living with boys got me thinking about my one experience living alone, and how vastly different it was to the whimsy and delight of living with a bunch of hoodlums. During a particularly rocky time in my relationship I decided it was best that I move out of our home and live alone. Images of Carrie Bradshaw’s Upper East Side bachelorette pad danced through my mind. How incorrect these fantasies were…

I found a one bedroom apartment in Stanmore that was a mere $200 a week rent. It was actually very sweet, with a kitchen that overlooked the street and a bright, high-ceilinged bedroom. I even had a wacky neighbour who asked (and subsequently didn’t take) my opinion on her outfits. Once she spent twenty minutes gushing to me about these new Crocs high heels she’d bought, I didn’t even know that was a thing, and they were hideous. The only problem with my apartment was that the bathroom was separate. I didn’t have to share with anyone (thank god!) but the bathroom was out the door, down two flights of stairs, a short walk along a hallway and out in the backyard. Mmm… convenient.  There were four bathrooms in a row, one for each apartment in the block, consisting of a toilet and a shower. I set about furnishing mine, installing a pretty blue shower curtain and stocking up with a lifetime supply of toilet paper – because I was a classy, independent woman and no truly classy, independent woman should ever be forced to do a Mariah Carey and “Shake it Off” after a trip to the bathroom.

As time passed I found the most difficult part of living alone was the late night trips to the bathroom. They say people are most scared of public speaking, personally my two biggest fears are ghosts and monsters, so that pitch black trip down all the stairs and out into the dark backyard was a killer. I tried not drinking water for hours before bed, I tried holding it and waiting until it was light – but it was all in vain, I would eventually have to get up and run downstairs in my pyjamas. The way I saw it I had two options – I could move or I could be inventive. I am bone idle and DID NOT want to have to move again, so I bought a little step stool from Ikea and I peed in my sink. It was a blessing really. It meant that I always kept my dishes clean and put away, so my house was always neat and tidy.

After I had solved this little dilemma I started noticing other strange bathroom happenings. It seemed that my aforementioned “lifetime supply” of toilet paper was being used up at an alarming rate. No sooner would I buy a sixteen pack of sorbent, than it would be gone. Other things started to go astray too. My deodorant, my razor one day. I began to wonder if it was some strange retribution from the building, unhappy about my unsavoury nocturnal sink habits, perhaps it had started to eat my possessions as penance. The Case of the Missing Bathroom Items came to a climax one day when I trekked down to the bathroom for my morning shower to find my shower curtain was gone. I don’t think I’ve ever been so confused in my life. The fact that I’d been living alone didn’t help either, I hadn’t mentioned my little bathroom mystery to anyone, simply because there was no one around to talk to. I was beginning to wonder if these things were actually happening or if I’d gone mad and was just moving my own shit and not noticing. I exited the bathroom, the floor soaking wet, the clean dry clothes I’d brought down to change into still clean but not so dry.

And that’s when I noticed my neighbour’s bathroom door, ever so slightly ajar. I nudged it as I walked past and lo and behold it was a veritable Aladdin’s Cave of MY stuff. She had been sneaking into my bathroom and stealing my furnishings.  The crazy bitch had been shaving with my razor and soaping herself up with my bar of soap (while wearing her crocs heels no doubt). So I high-tailed it out of there before I was caught and made into a loofa; because let’s be honest, someone who will steal your shower curtain and then barely try to hide it would probably have no qualms about killing you and washing themselves with your skin.

I never said anything and moved pretty soon after. I didn’t take anything from my bathroom, but left it all there as a parting gift, as well as an unworn pair of high heel shoes in her size.  I received a note from the estate agent, along with my bond, complimenting me on how neat and tidy the apartment and bathroom were. I guess it gave a whole new meaning to the expression “getting cleaned out”.

10 Ways To Catch A Cheating Boyfriend

Most of you will have had a bad relationship in your day. Some of you will have had a terrible relationship. And the smallest portion of you will have had what my friends and I call, a vortex relationship, in your time.  A Vortex Relationship is the WORST KIND OF RELATIONSHIP. It is that relationship that makes you feel bad, oh, 90% of the time and dizzyingly, amazingly brilliant the other 10% of the time. It is like a drug and sees you lose half your friends, betray the other half, and destroy all your self-esteem and good clothes with waterproof mascara. I am one of the super lucky people to have experienced this rare breed of relationship.

Of course each of these Vortex Relationships has its own unique characteristics, like the different Real Housewives series, they are all terrible – they are just each terrible in their own individual way. My VR had a bit of a cheaty boyfriend who would belittle me in varying and creative ways. For instance, I once collected him from work on a Friday (he was already drunk) and drove him to his friend’s housewarming/pot luck dinner. He hung his head out of the window for the whole trip, yelling at passers-by pretending that he had an intellectual disability. We stopped to buy a dish to take – he opted for a pre-cooked roast chicken. Upon arrival at the party he barely introduced me to the room of people I did not know, sat at the table and ate the skin off the chicken WITH HIS BARE HANDS. Then he told the host that I had my period and we had to leave (I didn’t have my period by I was certainly ready to leave). Ah, the good old days.

As the years passed I realised that this was not the relationship of my dreams; with each subsequent lie and suspicious, drunken return home, and so I compiled this list. It is born straight from the mind of a very delusional, half mad, young Maz – so it does kind of reek of someone who needs to be committed (to an asylum, not a relationship haha). In the end it was my ticket out of that crap-box I called a love affair. So read it and use it, read it and thank god for your wonderful partner (or lack of a terrible one) or stop reading now and go about your life of denial, you poor sucker.

1.       Cast aside any pride and/or sanity you have left. Dispense with that shit like Pez. If you are not willing to do this, do not read any further and do not use any of these (brilliant) tips, you are simply not prepared to do so.

2.       Have an amazing memory and be the research king. If your memory is not amazing, keep a journal. It is hard for liars to keep track of their lies, so chances are if you keep track of everything you find dubious you will eventually come across mistakes and incongruences. Take note of things which seem odd and research them later; people, places and things are so easily checked in this day and age of social networking. Remember – a Facebook profile with loose security settings is your best friend. Back in the day I used to ring bowling alleys and bars and ask them to page my unfaithful other half; you kids these days have it so easy! Also, skills gained during this research will look great on your resume, the investigating and cataloguing I did probably add up to the equivalent of a journalism degree with honours.

3.       Do away with the illusion of trust. In order to really get all Private Eye on someone’s ass, you have to admit that you don’t trust them anymore, for you own sanity and also for the sake of your investigation. Once they know that you don’t believe anything that comes out of their mouth your Q & A sessions become a heck of a lot more fun and you can often corner them into telling you the truth. For example: I once called Mr Pot Luck and asked him where he was, I was told that he was at the newsagency, on his way home. I knew he was lying. I also knew that the devil was in the detail. I innocently asked what he was buying and was told he was purchasing the ever engaging and thought-provoking ZOO Magazine. “What’s on page 64?” I enquired further; I could hear his dry mouth through the phone along with some very long “ummmm”s and “ahhhh”s. It was so easy to catch him in that lie – he wasn’t at the newsagency, he was not buying a magazine and with three simple questions I caught him in the lie.

4.       Check their phone. People who have nothing to hide, hide nothing. But those who have something to hide will keep their phone away from you. This may sound like an obvious start, but here’s the twist – check it IN FRONT OF THEM. Wait until they are playing sport and you are watching, pretend it’s your phone in the car (if you have the same make of phone) and check it while they’re driving or sneak it out of their hand if they fall asleep on the couch. Maybe even connect your OWN iPhone to their computer and download all their information onto it – get creative! This way there is no element of surprise, and no possibility of being caught red handed, because when you are looking at someone while checking their phone you can see them coming. Also, be sensible with what you check – look in their notes or in their Words With Friends chat. The key is thinking outside the box if your partner’s looking to get inside someone else’s.

5.       Check their GPS. If they have a GPS in their car check their history, see where they have been and compare this with where they have told you they have been. Once I came across a discrepancy between the two and drove to the address listed in the history. It was someone’s house, so I waited outside (if you have read my previous posts you will know that my propensity to stalk is not a recent advent). A little old lady came out eventually and I found I had driven from Hornsby to Forestville for no reason. I hoped.

6.       Use sleepiness to your advantage. I think this actually a legit torture technique, but whatever, desperate times… If you feel that your partner is holding something back from you and will not share, wait until they are sleepy. Choose the one question you want to ask, and as they fall asleep consistently wake them up, asking repeatedly what you want to know. Works like a charm once they are desperate enough to sleep and they will pretty much tell you anything.

7.       Bluff. Make shit up. Once I found a foreign pair of shoes in the boot of the car. After my boyfriend tried to convince me they were mine (hahaha, seriously) he then told me they belonged to a friend of ours. I immediately fired back that she wore the same size shoe as me and these were huge (and hideous). Another time when he was out of the room I grabbed his phone and started mumbling, as he came back in I put the phone down and pretended a girl had just called. The terrified look on his face said it all, I nearly felt sorry for him.

8.       Be a master of minute details. I called Mr Pot Luck one morning to see where he was; supposedly he was at the beach. In the background I could hear the distinct call of an Indian myna bird. I told him that I had never seen a myna at the beach as they were generally urban creatures and didn’t really have feet that were accustomed to walking on sand. He tried to make some paedophilic, racist joke about an Indian minor. Retrospectively, I was much too intelligent for this dude. But then again, I stayed with him for years like a schmuck, so we were probably about even.

9.       Check the car seat position. I have ridiculously short legs, so anyone who is taller than Willow will likely have to change the passenger seat position. The driver will never be in the passenger seat, so this is a clever little trick if you’ve been told no one has been in the car. If you are more of a normal sized person simply move the seat forward before you get out. I’m a genius, I know.

10.   Break into their house. Keep in mind this fictional (ahem). Out at a friend’s party one night I was all pepped up on vodka red bull and had a fight with good ol’ Pot Luck on the phone. He was in the city and told me he was on the way home, but I wasn’t to see him because he was mad at me. So I did what any sensible 19 year old would do. I ran to his house and crawled in through his window, waiting for him in his bedroom. He did not show up that night. I really advise against this technique of catching someone out in a lie though. While I did trap him in an untruth, the sneaking OUT of his house the next morning was the most awkward manoeuvre I think I have ever pulled off.

This is all the wisdom I have to impart on this topic however; I honestly hope none of you are ever in the position to need it. Special thanks to my old boyfriend for the inspiration, you know who you are, I honestly couldn’t have written it without you – feel free to tag yourself in this post J

 

Australian Psycho

The idea of psychopathy interests me immensely. After reading John Ronson’s The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through The Madness Industry^*, a narrative-style non-fictional romp into the inner workings of dangerous and corporate psychopaths, I was further intrigued. After finishing the book, and equipped with Hare’s checklist of what constitutes the cold and senseless condition, I actually went around diagnosing many people I know as psychopaths. I thought I was an amateur psychiatrist (I like to appoint myself different vocations from week to week, it shakes things up – more than once I’ve decided I was a private eye, but I’ll get to that in another post). Inevitably though, I turned on myself and began to wonder if I were a psychopath. Although Ronson clearly states that if one ever worries that they are a psychopath then they are not one (this feels like a delightful riddle) I still look back at my life and think that I definitely had a lot of psychopathic promise.

I believe there are three precursors to psychopathy which can be observed in children including:  wetting the bed, having a fascination with fire and being cruel to small children and animals. During my life I had exhibit all these concerning symptoms at one time or another. I am going to immediately dismiss the first and focus just on the second two because, let’s be honest, who didn’t wet the bed as a child? To me, this one seems completely arbitrary (and I would know, as I did one unit of psychiatry in my science degree, so am pretty much the authority on all things to do with it).  

Firstly, let’s discuss my fascination with fire. Apart from having the winter chore of lighting the fire in our slow combustion stove (which is more about my parents’ fascination with being warm than my fascination with fire) I was always interested in burning things, lighting candles and playing with matches. Mostly I remember always wanting to burn the edges of my homework and stain it with tea to make it look old. I still don’t know why I would want my homework to look old, I was 8, how old could it possibly be?  This whole practice seems retrospectively hilarious; how on earth does burning the edges of a page make it seem antique? Have all documents which have reached at least one hundred years in age survived some sort of fire only to be singed around the edges, the fire miraculously stopping just before the text? And what was the cause of all of these olden day fires from which important papers where being saved just in the nick of time? Heaven knows. But there you have it, fascination with fire, check!

Secondly, cruelty to small animals is a big red flag when attempting to identify a future psychopath, and this I had in spades. When I was small (six to ten years of age) I engaged in the following activities:

ü  I once squeezed a slug to death

ü  I pulled wings off flies (but who hasn’t done this, so it doesn’t really count)

ü  I squeezed my cat George so hard and he made such a terrible smell that my dad made me ring the vet and explain what I had done (HAHA, my parents were so creative with their punishments, maybe that was why I was so creative with my torture?)

ü  I left my guinea pig in the sun and he died of heat stroke after an amazing amount of yellow stuff came out of his mouth

ü  I left another guinea pig on a chair and someone sat on him, he also died, see previous point about yellow stuff

ü  I put a lizard in a fry pan (which was on)

ü  I tied my rabbit to the kitchen table and left him there for an hour (he was eventually hit by a car in a separate incident. Obviously.)

All of these I feel horrible about now, although I feel less bad about the guinea pigs because I don’t like guinea pigs that much. What are they? Are they a really long, hairy neck with legs? Or do they have no neck at all? And just when you think they are all warm you realise they have pissed on you. Yep. I don’t like guinea pigs. Anyway, I digress.

So I have covered the fire and the cruelty to small animals, but there is the one reason which trumps all previous nut-bag behaviour and makes me feel pretty sure I was on a psychopathic trajectory as a child. Take a deep breath, constant reader, because this is bad.

When I was about eight or nine we would go to the house of a family friend who had a small child. For some reason this child irked me, I don’t know what it was about it, but it followed me around and it just had an arrogance to it that I DID NOT LIKE. The child was old enough to stand up and walk, but not old enough to speak. And so I used to pinch it. And when I say pinch, I mean hard, as hard as I could in fact – I would grab what I could between my thumb and forefinger and squeeze, if I could incorporate some fingernail action into this I was stoked. The worst part about this is that I used to pinch the kid because I knew it was not old enough to tell anyone what had happened, it would suddenly start to cry and I would look innocently and quizzically to the parents – “what on earth has happened to your darling child to make it shriek so?” my butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth face said. While really I was thinking “what a nifty game!” Unfortunately, I have never felt remorse about this (lack of remorse: another point on the psychopath checklist. TICK.)

I still don’t know if something happened in my life to stop me from evolving into the psychopath I was destined to be, or maybe I did become one – who knows. Go ahead and judge me if you want, but just know that I will come over to your house, pinch your kids and squeeze your cat until it farts.

 

*Ronson, Jon. 2011, The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through The Madness Industry. Riverhead Books. USA Buy it here - http://www.amazon.co.uk/Psychopath-Test-Jon-Ronson/dp/0330492276