Serial with your cereal?

So there I was, sat in my kitchen, listening to my Rice Crispies snap, crackle, and pop as all good Rice Crispies should, when I realised I was staring vaguely at a book of short stories, about to get enthralled and be late for work. On serial killers. Now, while I am the first to admit that I’m not a very good morning person on school mornings, I did give myself a double-take (can you do that? I did, somehow, this morning).

Let’s track back a bit, I’m getting ahead of myself. I am a bit of a girly-girl when it comes to books, movies and TV series’. I’m not a huge crime genre fan. At all. And show me a horror movie and you’ll see me curling into the foetal position and grabbing onto whoever is closest’s hand, eyes wide with fear. My friends call me a ninny. I like to think of myself as discerning. I did once try to ween myself into scary movies by starting with one of those silly teen scream horrors but half an hour in I thought my heart rate was reaching dangerous highs so I had to stop. It was for health reasons.

Anyway, I have been known to get hooked on any silly, giggling-teen filled trash series and I’m proud (look at me, I even have a BFF for heaven's sake, although I do stop short of thinking anything to do with Paris Hilton is even vaguely watchable. Standards. I have them, I do). I have, with age, become able to get hooked on pretty much any series if I am to be completely honest, but not the crime/detective/skop skiet en donner kind. Until Dexter. My BFF brought Season 1 over. He said he thought I’d like it.

We didn’t move from the TV for 12 solid hours (ok, so I’m prone to a bit of exaggeration). I was enthralled. I fell in love with him in the “I will stalk you and find you” way. He’s a serial killer cop. But he only kills baddies so it’s okay. Really, it is. My friend, The Pond, has much to say about this – TV enticing violence, romanticising murder… blah blah. I refuse to see her point. He’s gorgeous and funny and dark. So he kills a few people on the way…

It was an addiction like no other. We searched out Season 2, lapped it up, but more slowly this time, knowing we were in for a Dexter desert once we reached the end. We began talking of retractable saws, my mind wandered to thoughts of him when I woke up in the mornings. And then it was done. Our world's were empty shells.

But, I found Season 3 on the internet and, like heroin junkies, we got them weekly, savouring each one. My addiction had led me to a life of crime. I donned my peg leg and eye patch and started calling people "Matey". Ok, I'll stop, this story is getting ridiculous.

Needless to say, my Dexter addiction has led to me and the BFF finding all sorts of other (addictive, but not Dexter-class addictive) series'. And to me reading short stories on serial killers while eating my breakfast. I blame him. Completely. He brought the book over last night. I'd never have picked it myself. I swear.

Is it really so bad to have serial killers with your cereal?