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It’s Villain Week here at Mashable. In honor of the release of Venom,eroticism in two dimensions carole cavanaugh pdf we’re celebrating all our favorite evildoers from film and TV all week long. Spooky, scary!

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Dear friends, foes, and investigators into my background check:

I have a confession to make. No, this isn’t about that last Halloween Oreo. (But, yes, I did eat it. And I’m not sorry, Denise.) This is an admission of far greater consequence.

Stricken with guilt and anxiety, I write this letter in an effort to publicly address my long-standing sexual attraction to Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Yes, Hannibal the cannibal: the most terrifying and unabashedly bangable villain to ever grace the big screen.

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Since I was a little girl, I have been an enthusiastic—albeit timid—fan of all things horror. Too often, my parents found me glued to the TV watching reruns of Fear Factor. During long car trips, I routinely convinced my well-read father to recount stories of true crime. And to this day, I find twisting my wrists so that my palms cover my eyes and my fingers plug my ears more comfortable than resting my hands in my lap.

Suddenly, Dr. Hannibal Lecter had become my first real crush. And there was no going back.

Growing up, my horror fixation was hardly a problem. All kids have weird interests. (For example, my sister had a big thing for community theater.)

But, at sixteen-years-old, I allowed my childish fascination to take a dark, influential turn—one that would eventually derail my life.

During high school, I had a habit of watching classic films as a way of procrastinating on homework. (Back then, I considered it a prioritization of my life education over a useless county-mandated curriculum. Today, I credit it as the misguided decision that robbed me of ever fully understanding mitosis.)

One October night, Silence of the Lambspopped up on my suggested iTunes movies list. I okayed the $6 rental fee and slammed play. I had no idea what was to come.

Things started fine. But, around minute 13, something came over me. Hannibal Lecter entered the view of Clarice Starling for the first time. He stood silently in his cell, posed like a store mannequin. The camera zoomed in as he goaded her into coming “closer.” The pair’s iconic exchange unfolded.

Unlike most viewers, I wasn’t repulsed or disturbed. My typically shielded eyes were wide open, transfixed on the encounter. I was enthralled, enticed, enchanted.

I was, to my considerable surprise, into it. Suddenly, Dr. Hannibal Lecter had become my first real crush. And there was no going back.

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While I recognize how disturbing that might seem upon first reading, I implore you to consider my perspective and understand the helplessness I have always felt towards this circumstance.

He puts butterflies in my stomach. And I don't mean in the Buffalo Bill way.

Absolutely, I recognize the horrors for which this supposed “monster” is responsible. Hannibal tormented Clarice. Murdered those poor guards. Heck, he even made a man swallow his own tongue. But, at the same time—in my heart—he remains a complicated and magnetic enigma. You know. Like a refrigerator.

Hannibal is simply unlike any other character in existence. He is a polite, well-educated, engaging, important psychiatrist as well as a true gentleman. And yet, somehow he remains a bad boy—unpredictable, dangerous, and protective.

It's important to me that I stress this is not simply an attraction to Anthony Hopkins, though I have that problem too. And it isn't just another case of archetypal opposites attract. This is an instant and lifelong connection between me, a girl from suburban Colorado, and this fictional guy who eats people as a hobby.

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It is more powerful than words can describe. He puts butterflies in my stomach. And I don't mean in the Buffalo Bill way. Plainly put: I did not choose this life. This life… it chose me.

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So, why come forward now? Why air this humiliating narrative and invite in the judgment it will inevitably bring? I choose to confess because this shameful secret is ruining my life.

I choose to confess because this shameful secret is ruining my life.

Every person I date pales in comparison to the esteemed doctor. "Thanks for the flowers, but who have you murdered for me lately?"

Each romantic movie I see never truly resonates. "So they learned that tap routine, pursued their dreams in Los Angeles, and floated through Griffith Observatory... but didn'tcatch a serial killer together?"

And any therapy appointment I have inevitably ends early. "Same time next week? Or are you going to send me on a scavenger hunt for a severed head between now and then?"

It is my sincere hope that by divulging my crush on Hannibal Lecter to the world I will finally be rid of it. I am confident that once it is out in the ether its intensity will fade and I will be free to get a crush on Chris Evans. Or a Skarsgård.

Thank you for reading my declaration of independence from the romantic tryst Hannibal and I have shared for so many years. Writing this has been more cathartic than I could have imagined. And its publication will finalize my commitment to a healthier love life. I believe now, I can finally move on and reclaim my identity.

All the best,

Mrs. Hannibal LecterShit. I meant "Alison"

P.S. Silence of the Lambs(1991) is available to stream on HBO Now.

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