I read a lot when I was little. Meaning, more than I would tell my friends. And would secretly and unintentionally win the 'Book It' Pizza Hut reading challenges all the time. And I have to give it to my mom, she didn't give a shit WHAT I was reading, as long as I was. This led to borrowing her Stephen King and V.C. Andrews books by 3rd grade, realizing they were shit and quickly moving on. My dad's multiple fantasy series quickly followed suit and were also discarded. This left me up literary shit creek. The Book Mobile only came once every two weeks and I couldn't handle one more Anne of Green Gables or Judy Blume Book (besides 'Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret' - that book ruled the menstruation-learning school!). I digress. The moral of the story is, I somehow discovered young adult author Christopher Pike, and I'm positive I wouldn't be the woman I am today had I not done so.

Basically, I still adore the man because he somehow got away with writing on terrifically adult subject matter and getting it packaged as "young adult", thus satiating my fucked up elementary school mind in a socially acceptable manner. My 4th grade teacher was both a midget and a lesbian. That's neither here nor there, but I just realized how awesome that is. Anyway, I remember her picking up one of these novels during S.S.R. (silent sustained reading, for you laymen), reading the back, and putting it back in horror. That one was about a dude who wired his factory stolen VCR to his camera to take photos in the women's locker room, consequently capturing a murder. A complex web of violence and sex follows, until it ends with the main character being tied up by the head cheerleader and forced to snort a lethal amount of blow. But don't worry - his VCR/Camera invention caught his own murder on film. His two best friends were a shotgun toting alcoholic named Theo and an overweight, psychotic cliché dyke lesbian named Sammy. I mean. How much fun?

He covers it all; vampires with ancient religious Sanskrit ties and a strong power of seduction, cannibalistic monsters, ghosts that return to avenge their murder and spy on their friends having sex, a serial killer spiritually linked to Heinrich Himmler wielding a ball peen hammer, and witches addicted to infidelity. Basically, indulgent mayhem. He always just laid it out there unapologetically and everyone else seemed oblivious and continued reading The Boxcar Children. I remember trying R.L. Stine books on recommendation. God, what a pussy. It's like drinking a Michelob Ultra Light when you're used to moonshine cut with turpentine. When I was impressionable, I thought Pike was a genius. He's by no means a great writer. But he made a living spitting out bizarre, twisted shit that fueled his fire and talked someone in to marketing it towards kids. Forever in his debt.