There's many ways you can love people, not all are conventional, and not all are accepted by Society. Peter Sutcliffe may have loved the 13 women he killed and we regard him as a bad person, but am I any better, having only killed 5? It bears consideration.

This day marks yet another Valentines day without love and, for every year longer that passes, an increasing sense that it will always be this way. And maybe that's for the best. As the grandson of Peter Sutcliffe, I have to wonder whether my life is punishment for his sins. It would certainly explain why my life hasn't peaked since 2018, and that was more like a speed bump not seen that sent me veering off into a ditch, and a few years ago that ditch turned into a sinkhole and now I am plunging into untraversed depths deep in a pit that nobody will ever find. I've long since fallen far enough that no shout will ever be heard.

What is a man with no soul to do but fill the void with grease and chicken? I carry a sort of disgusting doomer world view and rotund form that dries up women exactly the way a handsome and worldly Spaniard on a horse doesn't, and there's nothing I can do to change that. I'm destined to be the festering sore of my lineage, ending in grotesque bubonic lumps that explode and spread and I intend on taking as many down with me as I can.