I don’t watch movies for the heroes — I watch for the chaos.
The crunch of bone under bad lighting, the shriek of metal digging where it doesn’t belong, the endless red dripping across the lens… that’s where cinema lives.

I love slashers for their creativity, gore-fests for their honesty, and violent films for how they strip away the safe walls of fiction. While others cover their eyes, I lean forward. While they flinch, I laugh. Every torn frame, every grotesque cut, every scene that lingers too long on the aftermath — that’s the good stuff.

I don’t want romance or happy endings. I want to see the director paint in crimson, the actors scream until the sound cracks, the screen dripping with the kind of imagery that makes the weak walk out of theaters. Those are the movies I collect, the scenes I replay, the nightmares I welcome.

Violence isn’t the background noise to me — it’s the main character. Gore isn’t shocking — it’s beautiful. I don’t chase comfort. I chase the feeling of a film that dares to go too far, a movie that leaves you staring at the credits in stunned silence, asking yourself why you kept watching… and why you loved every second of it.

So yeah, call me disturbed. That’s fine. The more blood on screen, the bigger the smile on my face.