Darkly Dreaming Dexter

Weren't we all crazy in our sleep? What was sleep, after all, but the process by which we dumped our insanity into a dark subconscious pit and came out on the other side ready to eat cereal instead of our neighbor's children?

I'm not sure what I am. I just know there's something dark in me. I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it, but it's there always, this Dark Passenger. And when he's driving, I feel alive, half sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don't fight him, I don't want to. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me, not even... especially not me. Or is that just a lie the Dark Passenger tells me? Because lately there are these moments when I feel connected to something else... someone. It's like the mask is slipping and things... people... who never mattered before are suddenly starting to matter. It scares the hell out of me.

Whatever made me the way I am left me hollow, empty inside, unable to feel. It doesn't seem like a big deal. I'm quite sure most people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake it all. I fake it very well, and the feelings are never there.

I'm a very neat monster." ~Dexter Morgan

I did not like this feeling of having feelings.

Life's only obligation, afterall, was to be interesting.

Anybody can be charming if they don't mind faking it, saying all the stupid, obvious, nauseating things that a conscience keeps most people from saying. Happily, I don't have a conscience. I say them.

Really now: If you can't get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?

Perhaps because I'll never be one, humans are interesting to me.

I am unlovable...I have tried to involve myself in other people, in relationships, and even - in my sillier moments - in love. But it doesn't work. Something in me is broken or missing and sooner or later the other person catches me Acting or one of Those Nights comes along.

Why do so many people start their messages with, "It's me"? Of course it is you. We all know that. But who the hell ARE you?

I think people understand things different when they get older. It’s not a question of getting soft, or seeing things in the gray areas instead of black and white. I really believe I’m just understanding things different. Better.

I'm quite sure more people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake all of it." --Dexter

It’s like, everything really is two ways, the way we all pretend it is and the way it really is

After a long moment I closed the freezer door. I wanted to lie down and press my cheek against the cool linoleum. Instead I reached out with my little finger and flipped the Barbie's head. It went thack thack against the door. I flipped it again. Thack thack. Whee. I had a new hobby.

Another beautiful Miami day. Mutilated corpses with a chance of afternoon showers. I got dressed and went to work.

The mind picks some very bad times to take a walk doesn't it?

And then more quiet, silence so deep it almost drowned out the roar of the night music that pounded away in my secret self.

For the first time I could remember, I felt weak, woozy and stupid— like a human-being. Like a very small and helpless human-being.

And here I always thought morality was useless

Another dream. Another long-distance call on my phantom party line. No wonder i had steadfastly refused to have dreams for most of my life. So stupid; such pointless, obvious symbols. Totally uncontrollable anxiety soup, hateful, blatant nonsense.

I let it ring. I wanted to breathe for a few minutes, and I could think of nothing that couldn't wait. Besides, I had paid almost $50 for an answering machine. Let it earn its keep.

Was insanity really easier to accept than unconsciousness?

I was filled with dread at the thought my mind had skipped town and left me behind to pay the rent." --Dexter

That's why I liked him, I think. Another guy pretending to be human, just like me.

In its own way the kiss had been an act of murder.

It happens; incompetence is rewarded more often than not.

It was almost enough to make me feel emotion.

I had killed our careful relationship by driving my tongue through its heart and pushing it off a cliff.