On Interests
If one were to glance at my interests without actually knowing me, I'd expect nothing short of a startled and slightly disturbed reaction. And if one were to glance at the communities I've joined without actually knowing my academic pursuits, I'd expect to be reported to the RCMP, who'd then give me a good red-flagging.
I'd never in a million years friend myself. Indeed, people who tend to share my interests and aren't involved in academic study freak me right the fuck out. This isn't to imply that I find the average, everyday reader of True Crime inherently deviant or potentially dangerous. Rather, it's meant to imply that there's some fucked-up individuals out there who take their interests just a little too far.
On one of the communities I've joined, they're hawking items that belonged to a variety of serial killers. Seems a standard event. "Hey, Ted Bundy touched this possibly blood-stained pair of trousers! Who's up for a little competitive bidding?"
I'm exaggerating, of course, but you get my drift.
That I'm vehemently against the glorification of sexual violence -- or violence of any sort -- isn't exactly obvious if one judges by my interests alone. Granted, I'm a proponent of the study of such things, particularly as they pertain to our understanding of identity, subjectivity, and the cultural production of both through discourse. And I'm all for looking at the ways in which such communities as the one's I've joined perpetuate the violence embedded within said discursive productions of identity.
But generally speaking, I'm not in it for fun, enjoyment, or anything remotely close to pleasure. I'm in it for a degree. My interests just happen to involve the representation of the serial killer, the figure who, in my estimation, best exemplifies a number of problems inherent in discursive modes of representation.
On that note, I shall vacate the premesis and head on off to bed.
Or maybe I'll play Tony Hawk for awhile.
Bed. Or Hawk.
Now there's a quandry.
I'd never in a million years friend myself. Indeed, people who tend to share my interests and aren't involved in academic study freak me right the fuck out. This isn't to imply that I find the average, everyday reader of True Crime inherently deviant or potentially dangerous. Rather, it's meant to imply that there's some fucked-up individuals out there who take their interests just a little too far.
On one of the communities I've joined, they're hawking items that belonged to a variety of serial killers. Seems a standard event. "Hey, Ted Bundy touched this possibly blood-stained pair of trousers! Who's up for a little competitive bidding?"
I'm exaggerating, of course, but you get my drift.
That I'm vehemently against the glorification of sexual violence -- or violence of any sort -- isn't exactly obvious if one judges by my interests alone. Granted, I'm a proponent of the study of such things, particularly as they pertain to our understanding of identity, subjectivity, and the cultural production of both through discourse. And I'm all for looking at the ways in which such communities as the one's I've joined perpetuate the violence embedded within said discursive productions of identity.
But generally speaking, I'm not in it for fun, enjoyment, or anything remotely close to pleasure. I'm in it for a degree. My interests just happen to involve the representation of the serial killer, the figure who, in my estimation, best exemplifies a number of problems inherent in discursive modes of representation.
On that note, I shall vacate the premesis and head on off to bed.
Or maybe I'll play Tony Hawk for awhile.
Bed. Or Hawk.
Now there's a quandry.