There comes a point in every woman’s life where she must face the inevitable.
“Oh, no,” you might argue, “that will never be me.”
Spoiler alert: yes, it will. If not today, then soon.
Maybe it hasn’t happened to you yet. Maybe all your friends have avoided it. Maybe it’s even bypassed your family members... or so you think. But if you dug around, really asked the questions, you’d realize that I’m right. It’s there, lurking on your horizon.
None of us are immune. No one can avoid it forever.
I’m talking, of course, about being addicted to true crime stories.
My devotion to all things true crime began the year I graduated from college, although my fascination started far earlier. My Sicilian grandmother trusted exactly zero motherfuckers and she’s the one who taught me the importance of constant vigilance. Whenever she’d discuss danger—her favorite subject—she’d make the motion of opening a doorknob with her hand, saying, “He comes in through the door.” This relates to a story of some shady man who once skulked around the side of her house and tried to open her back door, prompting her to empty the contents of her chamber pot on him, a move as elegant as it is grotesque. To this day, I use this saying and gesture, even though no one understands WTF I actually mean.
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