Alcohol is a depressant. We all know that. There are shows on Netflix about demented killers.
Why mix the two?
Drunk and curious, I guess. Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity makes us take that first sip of poison in the first place. Curiosity makes us want to know the gruesome details.
Watching killers get their fifteen minutes of fame on Netflix gives us a strange perspective of society that has never before been experienced in history.
We see a horde of points of view of those affected in a one hour program: the accused, the family of the accused, the family of the victim, the prosecution, the community.
Everyone except the victim.
If the victim is a beleiver in God, then he is safely chilling upstairs with his sunglasses on (to protect his eyes from the glare of all the diamonds and sapphires). He’s the lucky one.
Everyone else involved down here on the flat earth is suffering in their own personal hell.
I can’t make sense out of this. I won’t even try.
These Netflix programs have taught me one thing: If you associate with people who have tattoos on their neck, your chance of getting murdered increases exponentially.